Poverty

In this civilized world

How easy it has become

To move on…

Walking over violated women

A hand to the rapists,

Stampeding the poor

Affording the rich,

Running over innocence

Assisting the culprits.

In our civilized world

How easy it has become

To move on…

Talking of peace

Marketing violence,

Discussing acceptance

Nursing intolerance,

Eloquent strategies for the poor

But poverty begs from door to door.

Treat you well

Yes, I was once pushed into it,

But now I enjoy every bit

Of the sale,

Talking to the one who brings them

To me, and ah, talking to those lames

Who spread those sticky cells,

On and off the bed,

A mark of their indifferent trade.

But my dear,

You haven’t come into the affair

Still you have fear,

Want them to treat you well

Why’d you wait for it and wail,

Treat you well? What do you mean hey!

Underestimating self by giving them sway!

No, celebrate you victory

When you’re violated,

In the long trajectory

Of silence, you have overrated

The tools

Of those desperate fools.

Being there

I talk to the mountains,

I chat with the seas,

I sing with the breeze,

I dance with the trees.

I am called a loner,

By most all I know,

Some even find me a loser,

But wonder how I glow.

The cliffs call me all the time,

The seas never call me names,

With them, I never cease to rhyme,

We rock and roar in the game.

by design

hot, clear afternoon

spread in every corner

of the street

a hungry mom

buttering a slice of bread

for her child

the knife, the dollops, the slices

collected from places

the child’s stony eyes

looks at the sun

then stares at the actions

throws up

hunger has eaten his appetite

made him replete

takes the bread

throws up again

then chucks the piece in the sky

the slice falls

on the rooftop of an ngo

a crow

takes it in its paw

and flies

thanks to the butter, it slips

through the chimney

scrolls down in the cauldron

the surprised cook

preparing meal for poor children

tosses it from the window

it falls in the middle of two starving dogs

the stunning sun has stopped

the street looks like

a slice of buttered bread

twenty-four years ago
now
twenty-four years later
action stunned like the sun
poverty, starving, feeding

coexist, by design

The bond

A vagabond

            in exile

untraveled paths

no fear

                      of getting lost

déjà-vu crossroads…

christmas

crescent at night

rainbow in daylight

fresh trees

silvery hopes

au courant cheers

new linings, new ropes

the hobo has no yearning

for new years

in broad daylight

hiding from the sun

seclusion at night…

not in search of a name

in need of a land

nothing to claim

the limbs and the hands

agile

ears and eyes

moving

without ties
for a meeting

in a golden garden

by the silver pond

in the traveling

with the stars

relegated scars

only traveling

is the bond.

Sitting by a pond

I looked at the silver sun,

in a pond

I was busy feeding the fish

silver and golden;

the colours didn’t reflect

on the earth,

I was engrossed.

I thought of the moon,

of the night

as diurnal musings.

O what have we done

in this time!

Killed, butchered, slaughtered,

then blamed the night

as darkness?

We haven’t spared the daylight,

back-stabbed, betrayed, blew the whistle

but light, o light…

you are too bright for the stigma to sight.

I am still feeding the fish in contemplation

I echo without rue

the calm of this dew

the swimming souls without reflection.

ইতি হরিসাধন রায়

ব্যায়রাম

হরিসাধন রায়

একশো টাকা আয় হলে 

তার দুশোটাকা ব্যায়

বাজারে তাই ধার নিয়ে 

ভাই করে সে হায় হায়

মাঝে মাঝেই জেলে গিয়ে 

হরির গাজন গায়,

শাস্তি পেলে কেঁদে বলে

এ কি ঘোর অন্যায়!

আয়রাম

হরিসাধন রায়

দুশো টাকা আয় হলে 

তার একশো টাকা ব্যায়

দিনগুলো তার কাটে সুখে

টাকা জমায় স্টেট ব্যাঙ্কে 

চিন্তার লেশ নেই যে মুখে

নেই যে দেনার দায়

দানধ্যানও সে করে কিছু 

মুখটি যে তার সদাই উঁচু 

আনন্দেতে তার পরিবার

আছে যে বেজায়,

এই ভাবে সে 

তোমার আমার

প্রত্যেকদিন ভালো থাকার

দেখাচ্ছে উপায়!

আয়ের থেকেও জরুরি

তাই প্রতি মাসে নিয়মিত 

সামান্য সঞ্চয়।

Undying

My defeat is your victory,

I exist yet in your story.

My grief has covered your feet

With flowers, glorifying your seat.

My death is written in your play,

I live still, in your thought.

My tears are jewels in your way

Pearls you won, I lost.

One act play

Her sari,

Hanging in the balcony…

Was heavy a while ago

Its movement was pretty slow

A drunken stupor

The golden mate

caressed,

Transformed its demeanor

Slightly embraced

Wow

It’s feathery now

Light, soft

Flirting with the breeze

O jeez

Can’t steal away

Tied with a spoilsport  

No way

It can transport.

All the three mates

Writing stories

Trying their fate

With the sari,

Who’s writing hers

The owner who wears

Shh…doesn’t even know

The goings-on  

Of all the four.

And the seer

Trapped in time, a writer

Of hush-hush, is engrossed

At times lost

Now and then

With all of them.

Life like this

Alive in moments’ bliss

She comes and takes it away

Thank god doesn’t notice me

Caught in the act for free,

Trapped in the play.

Note:

Sari - a garment consisting of a length of cotton or silk elaborately draped around the body, traditionally worn by women from South Asia. [Source, Wikipedia]

Crucial

fruits

colored, hanging

in the garden --

no sin to have them

but critical

you are caught in between

trees, birds

simple words written here and there.

Prophets of the yore

sad ---

saints present

bad ---

per your benefits.

You are busy

to know the reason,

to pinpoint the misfit

confused, because

you had been acting too

with the same stars

on the same roof;

the sky, the wind

the seas, oceans, mountains

never fell of their planes

and important!

You were reading aloud the same words.

You lost your way

in the clutter of letters

you looked for clarity

you found scarcity in bounty

you hollowness is connected

overlooking a lot of warm sounds

of those performers

who became important,

and whom you wanted to impersonate;

but the travelers

wanted perhaps to trigger your minds

communicating prosperity

but you triggered guns

in their names imaged poverty.

You have done the impossible

credible, you must be

glad.