নতুন ডাক

আমি যখন ছোট, তখন

দেখেছি, বাড়ির দরজার

সামনে চটি আর জুতোর

ভিড়, বাড়িটা গমগম করত। 

এখন কলিং বেলটা প্রায় 

অকেজো, ওটা বাজিয়ে যে

কোন কাজ হয়, চাবি খুলে

ঢুকতে ঢুকতে সেটা ভুলেই

গেছি। ওয়েলকাম লেখা 

পাপসটা ফ্যালফ্যাল করে

চেয়েই থাকে। 

এ একাকিত্বের প্যান্ডেমিক, 

ঘরে ঘরে ছড়িয়ে পড়ছে, 

সহজে সারবেনা, এই ভেবে

একটা ছোট্ট বাগান করলাম, 

আস্তে আস্তে নতুন অতিথিরা 

আসতে আরম্ভ করলো, আমার 

কলিং বেল-এর সুর পাল্টালো, 

রকমারি পাখির কিচিরমিচির

ত আছেই, তার সাথে

ম্যাঁও-ম্যাঁও, ভৌ-ভৌ, এমনকি 

হাম্বা-হাম্বাও আছে। 

না, এরা কেউ চটি-জুতো পড়ে 

আসেনা, খালি পায়ে আসে, 

তাই পাপসের ওপর না, মনের

মধ্যে একটা ছাপ রেখে যায়। 

the far end (three small poems)

the sea,
the sand, the waves
return to the moon,
the stars, and the sun,
nights and days
in the infinite space,
volumes of stories
rewritten, washed away

at the beach

friends, families
spending time for
thousands of years

…

the sea roars
from end to end,
it consumes
look-alike
nights and days
year after year,
each wave,
a calendar

…

three-fourth water?
one-fourth land?
I went deep inside
to see where the
waters stand,
this could resurrect
the geographical belief
I thought of Galileo,
I saw a child who could
see an old woman as his 
wife, I thought of Ian
Stevenson, what'd happen
to the history of beliefs,
I bemused;
woke up in disbelief,
and, in a minute, went
back to settle down on
the bed of the sea

 

The best of times

I wake up. O why do I see
this suffering, this lie,
I go to sleep with the hope
of a different world, free of
wounded words,
treacherous thoughts,
arrogant actions,
but invariably I wake up to
the same world, I go back
to sleep again; with an
indomitable hope, I wake
up again, nothing happens,
nothing changes, I look at the
morning sun, the moon at
night, the disillusioned stars
like me, they give their lights
nevertheless, I sleep as I walk
through my lines, I rewrite my
poems, my bedtime, the best
of times.

being in silence

if words hadn't

taught me reticence,

I'd die in the books

looking for love

in the insipid pages

if education didn't

preach me wisdom,

I'd bring to book

the innocent world, 

in chains, no freedom

if abundance didn't

guide me to kindness

I'd cook the books with

poverty, scarcity, 

a sordid space

if I hadn't learned the 

feeling behind the words, 

I'd break the globe into

pieces, lost worlds, 

worrying wars, weapons

if I hadn't developed

the appetite for silence, 

words would starve 

in the tonsured world

with cruelty, without love

Another honeymoon

In my dream
I woke up in a
garden and walked
into a painting,
silver, golden
flowers dancing in
the trees, varied colors
shapes; with gifted
powers I invoked a quiet
fragrance in the breeze, 
I placed the sun
on the topmost branch,
from the other side
the soft moon was oozing
juice that melted like honey,
everything looked small,
perfect, I was big enough
not to get in

I wondered why I
wouldn't fit in, I felt a
pain in the eyes
that sensed the death of
this strange world,
they had to open,
I'm alive why,
a voice whispered,
to die again in the
womb of another
honeymoon

the presence

when we leave, 

we leave behind

our memories, 

the stories hang 

around as reveries

in all the branches

of the tree from where

the leaves had dropped

in hope or in despair, 

we aren't there in the scene

anymore, but we're to be 

seen all the more, 

the absence is consumed

by the presence that

forever grows, blooms

A reminder

Oftentimes

it needs effort to see

what's closest, 

could be a friend, 

a soulmate, or

an opportunity;

everyone knows

where the nose 

is, but it invariably 

escapes our gaze, 

our eyes don't realise 

its presence until we 

focus to experience 

its existence. 

Being together

No, I don't want to take part in any
competition, I don't want to win
any prize, no recognition impresses
me, no, not anymore, I'm fairly sure,
I don't want to be the best, please go
ahead, I want to keep my kindness
intact, I don't want the rudeness of
being the best by stampeding all
the rest; right in the middle of
rewards and accolades, I'd be left
alone on the throne, being lonely
for me is way too costly. 

I know leaders have to be apart
from the crowd should they want
their precious crown, but I want
to be a follower, for I have seen
what leaders do, what winners win. 

Excellence? No, it doesn't come
from winning a battle, it comes
from being in the pride, or in the
cattle doing your best, not being
the best. Yearning to be the best
often makes you a beast
wanting to kill, waiting to feast. 

The real achievement for me
comes from the pleasure of
being and doing things together. 

Criminals

Hey guys, those killers
with guns and revolvers
are criminals, they're judged,
put behind the bars; but
what do you do with words? 

You hurt, hit, bleed, curse
others beyond repair,
yet hide behind your
your kind gesture,
your fragile body, a little
under the weather,
your innocuous gait,
hey there, everyone
can notice your crime,
but none can litigate. 

Wait a minute, you're
also punished, sometimes
with sleeplessness, at times
with other diseases,
but in your case,
you're always on the loose
to shoot whosoever
you so lovingly choose. 

Strange

everyday
words, thoughts
and actions
are used to
hurt others,
rarely to heal,
yet, with these
merciless maladies
I remain perpetually
in awe,
I am flawless is the
most indulgent flaw