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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.

Abu Siddik

It's all about the unsung , nameless men and women around us. I try to portray them through my tales. I praise their undying suffering and immaculate beauty. And their resilience to life's vicissitudes, oddities, and crudities I admire. They are my soulmates who inspire me to look beyond the visible, the known, the common facade of the educated and the intellectuals.

A HOUSEMAID

WHEN CHILDREN CRY

আমি কান্না করি

ASK NOT MY COUNTRY OR STATE

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

BILKIS YAKUB RASOOL

One comment

Darrel Mulcahy

10th March 2020 / 12:23 pm Reply

thanx my bro

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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.

Praise for my writing

“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”

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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