My day, like any other day

World poetry day
is perhaps my day, many
verses, most of them
told ordinarily, they
fell on the leaves;
patient words
eager to be heard,
did they enchant the world,
I'd always wondered;
but who am I to think
of that, when all I could
do, in darkness or in light
was write, and only write,
shades of unseen hues
in black and white,
who am I to judge any
of them, good, bad, they
were my thoughts, my poems;
stories of angst, worries
ecstasies, pouring from
my heart, daisies, daffodils,
poppies came, went, and came
like an addictive game
adorning an unnoticed garden;
on this day, like any other day,
when all those written lines,
no longer mine, some fragrant,
some decorating branches,
of a large tree that sheltered nests,
invited the bees, and, nourished,
went wandering with wings,
chirping, dancing, flying,
falling, rising, reaching out in places,
I see the traces in rigid bondage,
a tragic sight of a curious page,
but strange that I have to read
them over and over again
to set them free. 

পথভ্রষ্ট

চিন্তা, ছবি, বিদ্যা, ভাষা, 

দেহ, আলো, জল, হাওয়া, 

ঘটি, বাটি, ঘর, মাটি

সবই তো বরোড, চেয়ে কিম্বা

ফ্রিতে পাওয়া, তবে নিজের 

ব'লে কিসের এত কান্নাকাটি,

মাতামাতি, ঝগড়াঝাটি, 

এত কিসের বড়াই করা?

Love, at the helm of things

 

The intelligent mind, 

unable to comprehend

love, without lust;

opulence, not kind, 

a poverty-monger;

success, taking sides

professes failure;

in love's presence

existence experiences

abundance... 

from the depth of

a bombed earth, 

a green sapling, 

unconditional affection

announces birth;

love, at the helm of things

dancing, swinging, singing

in the middle of all 

human-made crises. 

হরিধ্বনি

সবাই ওরা জিতুক হরি
আমিই যেন হারি, যাতে 
তোমার বিশাল হৃদয়ে আমি 
হারিয়ে যেতে পারি।

যারা ধনের ঘোরে ঘুরে মরে 
তোমার ভাবনা ছেড়ে,
দেখি গাড়ি, বাড়ি, টাকা, কড়ি,
পেয়েও তারা আটকে থাকে 
হাহাকার আর লোভের বেড়াজালে, 
কেউ বা দেখি আর্তনাদ আর 
কান্নাকাটি করে, কেউ বা আবার 
অহংকারের অন্ধকারে ফেঁসে, 
এক্কেবারে দিগ্ভ্রান্ত, হরিভ্রষ্ট পুরো
তাই তো বলি দু হাত তুলে, 
তুমিই আমার আসল হিরে,
হরি, তুমিই আমার হিরো।

সংসারের ঐ যাঁতাকলে

সবাই চরকি কাটি,
হরির স্নেহ না পেলে যে
সকল ধনই মটি। 

যদি কর্মে-মুখে-মনে 
তোমার, শুধুই থাকে হরি,
তবে সদানন্দে নাচে গানে
ভাসবে জীবন তরী। 

এই ভাসাতেই আসল বিজয়,
বাকি ভাষায় হিংসা ও ভয়,
বোঝাই আছে ঘোর অন্যায়,
কেবল হরি পেলেই সব সংশয়
মিটবে তোমার এক নিমেষে,
তাই এস সবাই মিলে মিশে
জেতাহারার চিন্তা ভুলে,
হরিধ্বনি দিই সকলে।

the strange nature

...has a rose ever
competed with a tulip,
or with a lotus,
has the sun ever fought
with the moon or with
any other stars,
then what is preventing us
from learning the loving
lessons from the celestial
school;
nature is a good teacher,
sad, the supreme creature,
a group of unteachable pupils...

The image of an ordinary ag

I drew a picture
of a poet; the face,
an orchard, blooming
words, one strong chest,
a soft breast; one foot of
a beast, one of a dove,
struggling to balance
in a dancing posture;
one wing of an eagle
one of a Gabriel,
hair, half-forest
half neatly braided;
no hands, no eyes, no ears,
the lower portion, a tad
controversial, comfortably
covered with a black piece
of rag; on the whole, the
desperate brush tried to
capture the likeness of a creature
who’d sprung directly into adulthood,
of someone who’d converse in
verse, but forever peripheral, an
outcast, for the fear that the being
could cast a spell that’d end all sins;
therefore, thrown out as a sinful,
a strange outsider who would go
inside the human’s mind, in no
time

when the work was done,
it was difficult to make it lie
or stand, for a moment I
thought of not working on
its back, I discovered to have
ignored the interiors too, that's
how incomplete a reflection is,
I mused; however, the image
in time acquired a tag;
a far-out version of an
ordinary ag.

With you gone

When you went away,
the spring left from
my backyard, the sun was
pouring heat in my space,
burning the plants, from
the soft green to a pale
yellow. My house, transformed
into a pyre.

The crows had their beaks
open for a drop of water
from the exhausted heaven,
trees failed to offer
a comforting shade of love.

I knew, almost instantly,
that a year later,
when my space will
again be in full bloom,
nature will be on fire,
spring will not return
to me, I will have the sun
smoking my heart.
I will see the fuming star
drying my barn.

On a full moon night,
I will sense the inevitable
darkness, with you gone,
will I be forever forlorn,
despite the chirps of the birds,
the songs of the breeze, I will
be doomed in a deafening
silence; if I don’t hear your
moving steps in my courtyard,
your voice in the homestead,
of what use is the spring then,
if I do not caress your
touching presence.

The household reveries

Lively friends, families,
celebrating ceremonies;
vanished in time,
cleared from the space,
like a dry leaf withers
without a trace. 

Buried in the memory,
they remain forever,
with love and care,
treasured stories,
priceless, defeating
deaths for centuries;
some hidden, some
hang on the walls,
stored in the albums. 

Nothing matters

When I was beginning
my career, to get a good
job was a dream, thus
to get promotions, positions,
possessions mattered to me;
when I had them one after the
other, it was nothing.

A childless mother,
a motherless child,
what do they think?
Ask a mother with children,
and children with mother,
to them, it doesn’t matter,
it’s nothing.

When I wasn’t rich,
wasn’t able to express
myself in writing,
then, to own a car,
win accolades,
sign autographs,
mattered the world
to me, now when I
have them, it’s nothing.

When I was 10, I thought
of being in my prime
40s, but when I became
a forty-something, I missed
my childhood days; being
in my forties didn't matter,
it was again nothing.

O Budhha! Now, as I am
walking on the beach,
I see the sun rising from
the west, feel the waves
on the sea, in the air, in
the sky, I realise the duality
of nothing, with experience,
I know I have to repeat one thing
over and over again, like I
breathe, eat, walk, read, write,
like my organs inside, like the
stars outside; on being a practising
student of zen, I know that
nothing matters, and yet
nothing matters.

For you, O Budhha,
enlightenment is nothing.

A strange game

War, an indoor game,
played outside,
by the outsiders;
soldiers, warriors,
caregivers,not the
stakeholders,like
a herd,in a cattle-field,
who don't score any
points unless they
thrive to die outdoors,
for a greater cause,
for self-destructive havoc. 

War, a strange game,
misdirected by the
selfish, displayed by
the selfless.