Friend,
Where were you
for so long?
Choices
In the wilderness
of my muddled mind,
demons of everyday problems,
hound the poor poem.
Wrapped in her tattered rags
the poem comes to me,
panting and dazed,
asking for shelter.
Ah!
the demons of everyday problems,
and the honour of a poor poem.
Earrings
In the azure
dome of the night,
someone is playing
on the tanpura.
The river
of translucent glass
clinks against the banks.
The reverberation
goes on forever.
As the lamps stare
with blinking eyes,
chandeliers hum
a heavenly tune.
I have plucked your voice
and worn it on my ears
like a pair of earrings.
Anjal
When the telephone rang
at midnight,
I tore myself
out of the coverlet of sleep.
From the hazy other end,
an unfamiliar voice
drifted down to ask,
Are you the poet
who writes poems for Sona?
What if my name be Sona, too?
After a long tenuous silence
she said,
Please write a poem for me.
Weave me into
a small verse of yours,
in the name of Anjal.
May be this is my last night,
and this, my last wish.
I put down the phone
and went back
to my tattered sleep.
After all these years,
when I remember that night,
my eyes cover with mist.
It was only much later
that I had discovered,
dear Anjal,
that you used to
sprinkle my poems on the fire
of your cancer.
You had hoped
pain would cure pain.
Sky at sunset
Standing on the seashore,
I have always seen
the molten red-gold hues
of the evening
dissolve in the dusty waters.
Standing on the seashore,
I have always thought
that sometimes
I'd collect in my palms
the glow of sunset,
and ever so stealthily
paint your cheeks with
the molten red-gold hue
of the evening.
Battle
Red blood drips
from the sun's wounds
and flows from the horizon
unto these silent shores.
The sun's rays take in the dust,
shadows flee.
In a while
the moon's flag of victory
will flutter in the sky.
Once again,
the night has
won the battle.
Once again,
I have lost today.
Barren woman
No sparks fly
in the frigid body.
Sighs emanate
from the throat
like snapped threads.
Bubbles congeal
in the ice-cold blood.
Sleep has frozen
in the stony eyes.
The numb night beside me
lies like a log of wood.
No sparks fly
in my frigid body.
It must have been
a barren woman
who gave birth to me.
House
In the rolling valley
beyond the empty spaces
where misty winds rule,
stands the rickety house
which I inherited.
Plaster peels off the walls
like scabs from healing wounds.
The pillars stand exhausted
on their ageing feet.
Bricks hang loose
like worn-out teeth.
Windows sit askance
like twisted limbs,
their glass panes
cracked and hazy.
Once they opened
into the skies.
into the stifling room.
Surrounded by soiled clouds
and tattered winds,
this is the house
my ancestors had built.
And I am destined
to live in it.
Eyes
It is in your eyes
that the morning
dawns on the horizon.
It is in your eyes
that the night
shuts like an oyster.
Your eyes—
are they two devotees
kneeling in prayer?
When you raise your eyes,
your look resonates
the wet sound of temple bells.
When you lower your eyes,
now sad and pensive,
the call for prayer ends.
Your eyes ——
are the genesis of creation.
Your eyes ——
are the absolute meaning of life.
Refuge
I have been wandering
in space,
among the stars and planets
like a beam of light
caught in dust and smoke.
I have been wandering
for ages
like a tumbling moment
torn out of time.
I found my homeland,
but continued to wander
looking for the alley.
When I found the alley,
I wandered around
looking for the house.
I have now lost myself
wandering the expanse
of your body and soul.
Hold me with your eyes,
Support me with a kiss.
If I am born of you,
may be,
I'll find a refuge.
The poet who was
He was a quiet soul.
He spoke incoherently.
With his eyes on his ears
he could hear the sound
of mute silences.
He would gather
the shadows of the moon
and drops of dewy light.
He rustled in his palms
dry leaves of the night.
He would pluck moments,
raw and ripe,
from the forest of time.
Yes, the strange poet
would wake up in the night
and crawl up to kiss the moon.
He fell off the moon
and died.
Some say,
he committed suicide.
Burial
How quietly
some people die here.
In their cold bodies,
curled up inside
dark, dingy graves!
There are no sighs,
no sobs, no movement.
How quietly
some people die here.
They spare others
the trouble of burying them!
Body
Cold islands of clouds
float in the sky.
The fire red horizon
melts into the stream.
Space stretches itself.
Sunk in your arms,
I float free.
A hundred bodies
have flown out of me.
I am unhooked
from the burden of the body.
Past
This was the bedchamber
of His Majesty the king,
said the guide.
Over here were beds
studded with gems.
On these windows
used to hang
curtains made of pearls.
Count the holes
on the ceiling;
From them hung
nine hundred and thirty-five
chandeliers
which shone throughout the
night.
And what nights!
There were festivities
of poetry, wine and dance,
on an expanse of
expensive carpets
brought from Iran, laden on
seven hundred and twelve camels.
The days and nights
of the palace resounded
with peals of laughter,
like melodious notes
from the tanpura.
Those were the days.
The guide moved on,
dragging behind him
the flock of tourists.
I stayed back.
All alone.
With only the screeching
of a lonely cricket
to keep me company.
Damp
It has been raining
since morning
in a monotone.
Sad and gloomy.
The sky drips,
drop by drop.
The spray hangs
like a soaked scarf.
Everything is heavy
with dense dampness.
Moist memories
of dejected moments
keep dripping
from the drenched mind.
It is only
in the fatigued body,
that my breath
stokes a flaming fire.
Another day
An empty carton—
opened and ripped,
slammed against the wall.
Frayed and frazzled,
beaten up', kicked about,
trashed and wrecked.
An empty carton.
Like an empty day—
useless, colourless,
meaningless, nameless.
The Moon
This music session
is long since over.
The instruments
have covered their faces
and gone to sleep.
Cobwebs of darkness
hang from the canopy.
The patch of moon clings
to the skirt of the night.
Hope
When the arid desert
gets a heavy downpour
from a cloudburst,
the sands quiver for long
in a tingling passion.
With a feeble hope
that the barren desert
might some day,
sprout a sapling
and bloom with motherhood.
Bonfire
A cold wind blew
throughout the night
as we kept
the bonfire alight.
All night long.
I collected dry branches
from the past.
You picked up the leaves
of spent moments.
I took out
my withered poems.
You opened
the faded letters.
I wiped off
worn out lines
from my palm.
You brushed away
the dried wetness
from your eyes.
Whatever emerged,
we consigned
to the flaming bonfire.
We blew into the flames
of our bodies.
All night long.
To keep the bonfire burning
.
All night long.
We warmed
our waning relationship.
Poem
A poem is entangled
in the heart.
Lines trapped on the lips,
words flit about
like butterflies—
they do not settle down
on the page.
I have been here
for a long time, my love,
having written your name
on the blank page.
Isn't the poem done?
Can there be
a better poem
than your name itself!
Permanence
Nothing, but nothing
is forever.
Days and nights
fall like dice
on the chausar.
Months and years,
slip through one's fingers
like sand.
All is but a play
of light and shade.
Nothing, but nothing
is permanent.
I am, the only one.
Permanent.
Who keeps changing,
every moment.
Last night
Last night
dewdrops fell
in a slow mist
on the closed lips
of the delicate buds.
In the intimate
bed of flowers,
under the scarf
of the blue night,
the dewdrops gave wings
to fairy tales.
A pair of twin souls
swimming in the gentle
chaos of the heart,
weighing the sky
on their delicate wings.
Last night,
it was a full moon.
Last night,
dreams were luminous.
Last night,
I was with you.
Ecstasy
When two balmy bodies
lay together in a close embrace;
When breath entangled
in whispers of eager lips;
When cold rain lashed
the far away shores;
When only souls
were awake;
Where was I?
Where were you?
Messiah
When my shoulders stoop
on this long journey;
When I grow weary
walking steep slopes;
When my breath falters
tangled in the heart;
When I am afraid
I will collapse;
My little poem
appears before me,
holds my hands
and says:
Poet dear,
come,
lean on my shoulders,
I'll carry your burden.
Bosky—1991
I did not see Time
come and go.
I did not see
Time passing by.
I did not see
Its revealing face.
I only saw It
piled on Itself.
Maybe, It had come
tiptoeing like dreams.
Even my thoughts
didn't realise Its presence.
When Its eyes dawned
I kissed It
without knowing who It was.
I had heard Its
hesitant footfalls
in the baby's prattle.
I had seen It when the baby
cut her milk teeth.
Lying there, wrapped in silk,
I did not realise
it was Time piling up.
When I took her
out of the cradle
and put her on the bed;
When I touched her
with a lullaby on my lips;
When bangles changed
continuously on her wrists;
When books passed
through her hands;
I did not know
Time was piling up.
I did not see Time
come and go,
I did not see
Time passing by.
I only saw It
p
iling up.
This year,
Bosky will be eighteen.
Untitled
I take the beatings of memory.
It lashes me
whenever it finds me alone.
When the sky shuts down in
the night,
merciless memories tie me
with chains of pain
and choke me
in the liquid darkness.
I did not know,
desire captures and auctions
slaves.
I am a slave of my own memories.
*I am an Urdu poet, but I do try and write in Bengali sometimes, since I love that language. The above is a translation of one of my Bengali poems. Perhaps, I could title it ... let it be.
Sunshine
A golden sun shines
on floating islands
in the cosmos.
The rarefied mist
has slipped aside.
Your face
quivers in my palms.
The morning cupped
in my hands.
A soft refulgence
courses through
my whole being.
I have drunk in
the drops of light,
which had slipped
from your radiant soul
and suffused your lips.
Space Travel
A million suns
strewn like fireflies
in the flood
of fumes.
A silent firmament
of cold quivering space.
Distances spanned
in light years.
The space traveller
of Pioneer-10
flits through the universe;