Category: Poetry

FOUR CORNERS

Four corners I have In one are buried my ancestors.   In the next There sleeps a cooking pot.   Over the third thatched roof has a hole through that rain and sun peep, There is also a plastic flower, brought from fair ages ago, now Sullied with soot.   And in the  darkest There is a cot, lousy Worm-infested, And when when we sit It creaks.

আমি কান্না করি

  আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি সহাস্যে  জঙ্গল বিনাশ করেন।   আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি হৃদয়ে দেওয়াল নির্মাণ করেন আর নিজের গণ্ডীকে আরও দুর্ভেদ্য করেন।   আমি কান্না করি যখন শিশুরা বিষাক্ত কালি মাখে গ্যারেজে অথবা কাদা মাখে ইঁটভাটায়।   আমি কান্না করি যখন বাহারি বাগানে ফুল মূর্ছায়।   আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি পুকুর ভরাট করেন ঠাণ্ডা মাথায় হাত বুলিয়ে, আর প্রাসাদ গড়েন দাদার দাপটে।   আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি ভগবানের নামে লড়াই করেন গলি গলি।   আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি গভীর শ্রদ্ধায় পূজা করেন ক্ষমতাকে ।   আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি গালাগালি করেন দুর্বলকে।

ASK NOT MY COUNTRY OR STATE

Ask not my country Or state.   Ask not my trade Or job.   Ask not my tongue Or region.   Ask not the colour Of my blood.   Ask not what i  like Or dislike.   Ask not what i dream Or pen.   Ask not if i have An orchard or a flower garden.   All are irrelevant!   Ask what i eat And what i not.   Ask what i wear And what i don’t.   Ask if i a visitor To holy lands.   And if not satisfied Ask the last important one, “What’s your name?”

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

Tagore! You are our poet, our identity, Our leader, our mentor, To whom we return At dark nights and in shining days.   Tagore! You  are a torch-bearer, A cool shade to trammeled millions.   Wo/man you celebrate And we are your avowed followers   Our land you inherit And make us tall Before the eyes of the world.   Thousand miles of woes and wounds You walk alone with calm and poise, And we wonder how!   You are a symbol of protest Against unreason, superstitions, Bordered minds, narrowed walls Of caste, creed, religion, language And we love you

BILKIS YAKUB RASOOL

  1 Bilkis! you are not  Lucrece you have no lily hand or rosy cheek and your eyes are not marigolds, hair not golden threads either or skin snow white. 2 and why not? you are harmless you are a pure woman. and you are marauded not in feather-bed but on a fleeing highway truck, not by king Tarquin but by a gang of lecherous, leprous poltroons and the site of sacrilege is not Ardea it is Dahod. 3 truck seized and gale of carnage begins. men murdered and children smashed to death. blood spilled over your frightened face, You

IF YOU LOVE

a poem on love, beauty,death.

AN AGED COUPLE

Sixty autumns together they walked, And how many more who knows? Side by side they stood on the forest fringe And admired shrivelled faces and scraggy necks.   How swiftly the halcyon days passed! Ah! The days of honey and milk and dew, Childlike mirth and translucent joy.   The deserted forest path, the flock of twilight parrots, The abandoned huts, the mist-laced trees, The cool sunrise, and the blazing sunset—all are same, Only dark patches below eyes blurred all. (First published in anthology, Rise to Higher Essence)

SANTALPARA

Bored being confined by four walls, I set out for Santalpara Where I hear rustics sit idle whole day And drink, brawl and do nothing.   A fine drizzle washed the forest path a while ago, And yonder the fairy trees all stand naked And sacred. I wish to be hugged But no rays enter there, no path laid.   Forest I cross, and come to Santalpara, But where are the Santal peasants? Heaps of tourists’ waste—plastic bottles, beer cans, dotted condoms, And painted, flashy faces, and civilized prattle.   Ten minutes stay I there, and convulsed, And again come

AMONG THE DRUNKARDS

  Twice a month I go to Hariahati and drink haria Among the drunkards, peasants and labourers all, Two pigs skinned and men have their heyday!   Round some fat women, haunch men nine or ten, The fire fall on rugged cheeks, eyes shine bright, And they drink and brawl, howl and growl.   The mango grove screened four sides by Swaying paddy fields stretched miles upon miles, And yonder on a huge treetop fifty white herons bask.   No tin shade, no tarpaulin over heads And when the rains fall, they drench open, And mad eyes glue to the

MY VILLAGERS

I love you, You are so good! You pledge your life For a square meal, Day you toil and night You sleep and populate, Evening you smoke, play cards, Drink tea, gossip, and pass Hay days!   Then suddenly comes Second childhood, and you Wait for the last day, And die.   Silently you come, And silently you go, No rupture, no ripple, You leave. Such a beautiful life, Ah! Such a marvellous life, You live!   I envy you, my villagers, You are too good, No storm, no wave, no wind, Rages your heart, So stagnant and sterile, So

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Subhash Chandra
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"A gifted writer"

A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
Santosh Bakaya
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Praise for my writing

“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
Louis Kasatkin
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Praise for my poem "Elderly Men Two"

"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."

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