Atika Hasan | Saturday, 11 September 2021 | Print
In the strength of your strong muscles
found the refuge of my survival,
I got adhering without interacting with mind
on your chest, neck, forehead and peak,
Not in enormity
ascended to the fragrance of softness;
in safe and trust.
Entirely convinced by your patience,
personality and generosity, every day.
Always impressed by the depth of affection…
But when I see outsiders sheltered under your shadow.
It has pierced my heart, ribs and chest, stricken repeatedly
Still, my friend…
I have embraced you with hope and trust.
Then one day –
I have fallen victim to the lust of rapist
In the sharp claws of ten fingers-
I was bleeding, and the crumbled body was thrown into the dust.
A prayer for survival at the blurred vision;
eagerly appeal of eternity!
I looked at you again while crushed in underfoot…
I am golden dodder (golden vine).
Fifty-five years of life
The story is much bigger than life
The extend of action across the edge of life
A name, a history…!
The passage of struggle scattered within
the fragrance of his personality
whose raised index finger swaying freedom
In the words of 101 sentences uttered from his mouth
Immortal poetry has made,
A thousand years in the structure of that poem …
Nineteen minutes of thunderbolt recitation
Which is as still as a mountain
Huge as the sea
Rhythmic like a fountain.
The utterance of that name was the vibrating
power of liberating people
Millions of lives stood are at stake…
Destroyed the chest of enemies at the voice of that name.
Radioactivity of unarmed energy against exploitation
Many centuries of uncertain people shelter at marquee
People find their destination of compassionate soil
Whose heart is the love address of seven crore people,
With the last drop of that faith
He draws sketches on his own chest,
On the second floor stairs …
The body of the eternal map.
Yes, he is Bangabandhu; father of the nation
My map, my freedom.
The poem has dedicated to Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the father of the Nation of Bangladesh, a tribute on his 40th death anniversary.
Translated by Faruk Ahmed Roni
Profusely raining in my chest,
the city, port, afar wildflowers get wet,
but you never get wet!
the ignore has increased to thousands of sighs
Only despair lives in the grey wilderness of love,
I am sitting alone in a silent, desolate station
emptiness on my sight,
The last train carries a farewell letter in a blue envelope
the soft and lusty odour of camphor within.
Listen, earthen flower!
If the sky once made a mistake
and I become star afar …!
But can you find me in the dust?
The falling energy of the day hidden in the sun-setting
The elegance dew of the green being washed at noon
pale at the sunny.
The agony of seclusion in the broad horizon
The body of the poem grunting
infiltrated emotion being pierced by the arrow.
I unlearn the technique of forgetting that how it be forgotten!
That’s how deep affection of the twin starling
honeyeaters on the chest of purple grass flower.
The long tail of the carving kite feeling over the sight
sun and rain hides in the Keya-leaf.
Eventually, the day-long trouble of pain has increased at the end
The throat wrapped with pain which stored in the envelope of night
Shravan melts in the rhythm of the rain as Rai’s lament
The warm breath of eroded night touches the eyelids.
Mysterious queen Cleopatra to Adori of the slum
Between millennial interval
Yet the burning femininity is the same
The same eternity of labour-pain;
Who knows the depth of the inflammation?
Paint a picture of new life on the eyelids
Those who climbed the threshold at the door
The cherished morning dream burns in the bitter time,
Constant fatigue and downfall accumulate in the body.
The image of idol painted on the lips and cheeks
Sandalwood scented bed of couch or
behind the bushes …
Does anyone know how much wound it is; how much spirituous?
greyish colour of a woman’s existence never changes
Nor change of life;
The nomad snakes-charmer have to float in the abyss,
Sita’s chastity is tested by burning in the fire,
Anarkali’s cries pierce the wall of her weeded tomb.
Every time before I die, I look with surprised eyes
at the feathers of bloody wings.
I sacrifice myself again and again in the burning fire.
It is like the ultimate curse written by destiny.
The thousands of bleeding spill the history of the past.
Rafiq, Shafiq and Jabbar of 21st February,
In 71, the blood of millions of freedom fighters,
In 75, the walls of the 32 Dhanmondi,
the blood splits into the window panes, floors and ceilings,
The broken spectacles, cigars, Bangabandhu’s martyrdom blood splattered on the stairs.
The wind of Bengal is still blowing in highways, chests of relatives’ and the water of hundreds of rivers.
The excruciating pain suddenly awakens in the lonely night,
The hundred-year-old tree standing still as a witness to the future and sighs,
also, the treasures of pain in the roots too.
Bloody clad of the past sewn in the lap of the war heroines’ and their abstract life story,
Every step of the nominal existence, the
unlimited burning of absurd shame.
The so much sacrifice, so much freedom of pain,
Yet I hide my face in the sands of the hot desert,
Like an ostrich.
In the blackout night, in blown moonlight, in a lonely street or a crowd,
Until today, my freedom, our history is being raped.
The spirit of the Nation’s father is still turbulent,
yet bloody, lying on the arms of the mother of Bengal.
When I dive into the lake of the broken yard
The cruel river consumed existence.
At the dawn when melting broken window
the light touched the eyelids,
I suddenly woke up
The pain of an auspicious sleep,
When sunburned whirlpool
embraced me in the dust,
The sleepless night has embraced me,
curse of a dissatisfied soul.
Due to deceitful time
I neglected, defeated,
a small man.
(Translated by Faruk Ahmed Roni)
All rights reserve © Poet Atika Hasan
Posted 6:24 pm | Saturday, 11 September 2021
globalpoetandpoetry.com | Faruk Ahmed Roni
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