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A clutch of poems

  • Published at 11:59 am October 8th, 2017
  • Last updated at 12:30 pm October 8th, 2017
A clutch of poems
  The dream episode Shamim Reza (Translated by Dulal Al Mansur) When the spring night turns silent, the spring lies with rain-wrapper, and so do the particles of memory with night birds’ feather. The mating-obsessed one hears prayer songs. The golden jingle river flows. The palpitating breaths of the particles of memory turn tired in mating, and the silt cloud turns thick. Then I float like a hyacinth on Dhanshai, a Kanchpur village, hoping to be adored by the bowing shadow. In forest-morning, desolate evening with breaking of bangles, I wake up in a dream. The particles of memory speak on with artistic perfection of silk. Amidst Sarah Tabassum Amidst the wind and the rain They lived in harmony Smeared with tiny holes of lies and hypocrisy Amidst the wind and the rain They pledged for humanity Layered with a fractured sense of pity Amidst the wind and the rain They created a vision for hope Strangled occasionally with gunshots and corpses Amidst the wind and the rain They survived it all on a piece of ‘promised land’ Hidden underneath the remains of the bygone. For a new home S M Shahrukh I walk the streets late in the evening The evening shower now a memory, Streets drying but holding the muddy feel; The clouds disperse as if to mock I look up and the stars flicker The starlight drowned in dirty yellow. What’s this place I call home? A place of dirt and mire Quiet now yet buzzing with the sounds of faith, I have no faith, I do despair. These long known streets look odd The bare trees, the city walls The teeming millions Don’t know me anymore. I look yonder Far far away Over to a land where it’s still day. And in the clear daylight walks a man, Dishevelled and morose, He looks for a new home While thinking the same thoughts. An ode to the goru (and chhagol too) Sayeeda T Ahmad I have always loved you, loved to chew on you, my dear goru, and on your fellow quadruped, the chhagol too. In curry, as a steak, sandwich meats sliced thin and smoked, thick patties on a cheeseburger, lopsided cubes in a biriyani. But since Eid-ul-Azha in 2013, since your insides bloodied the soles of my feet, since I’ve seen your soulful eyes, really seeing them this time, as you were crucified to end up as bhuna on someone’s supper plate, I have given up on you. given up partaking on you, and your fellow chhagol too. You were my favourites. You are red meat, my friend. The cholesterol hiking, heart attack causing terror doctors have warned me against. But also living, breathing quadrupeds that deserve my respect and love. So no longer will I partake of you. I will only take cowfies with you and goatfies with your fellow chhagol too. Trapped Siamul Islam Trapped in a hopeless dream I steer my soul all the way Syncing in Syncing in I lose myself all the same. Grey corridors, sleepy waters float Gravity less I see heads of loved moments Severed Trapped in the curse of holding in Cursed in a trap of not letting go This dream I didn't want Shows me things, sleepless things. Imagine a lost child His eyes still smell like freedom His breath a forest in the evening His touch eternity stitched on skin Imagine him You must Fumbling Scared The lamp in his heart Scatters Flickers Flutters This dream takes me back To being him. A form loved and escaped from. It's been too long without words A chord is broken somewhere Nothing seems to go right Luck has left me, boldness gone awry. Till I hear the voice Like cold streams in a hidden cave It whispers And lets the wind speak Time draw Space wonder Beyond this trap we'd go I promise These false pieces can't last much longer These fake smiles wither in my light I feel the brimming of the wide sky Contagious It will hit you too I feel the gasping of angels They shed tears at my agony My art will touch them too.