100 Poems from Bangladesh (Edition Delta, Stuttgart 2017) by Edition Delta

100 Poems from

Bangladesh

edited by Dr. Peter Horn & Dr. Anette Horn

Edition Delta

Stuttgart| Germany

Edition Delta

www.edition-delta.de office@edition-delta.de

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews

ISBN 978-3-927648-60-9

Typeset in Garamond 11 pts

First Edition in 2017

100 Poems from

Bangladesh

edited by Dr. Peter Horn & Dr. Anette Horn

Edition Delta

Stuttgart| Germany

CONTENT PUBLISHER'S NOTE

SHAMSUR RAHMAN

ALAUDDIN AL AZAD

SYED SHAMSUL HUQ

AL MAHMUD

FAZAL SHAHABUDDIN

SHAHEED QUADRI

SIKDER AMINUL HUQUE

HAYAT SAIF

RAFIQ AZAD

ASAD CHOWDHURY

AL MUJAHEEDY

MAHADEV SAHA

RABIUL HUSAIN

NIRMALENDU GOON

ABUL HASAN

HABIBULLAH SIRAJEE

100

MOHAMMAD NURUL HUDA

107

JAHIDUL HUQ

115

ABID AZAD

122

NASIR AHMED

126

JAHANGIR FEROZE

130

MUHAMMAD SAMAD

136

KAMAL CHOWDHURY

142

TARIK SUJAT

149

AMINUR RAHMAN

156

PUBLISHER'S NOTE The modern Bangla poetry began with poet Michael Madhusudan Dutta who was born in Bangladesh. However, the main stream of Bangla poetry surfaces with Nobel laureate Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. He has created an enormous world of creativity in poetry as well as stories, novels, prose, art and memorable songs. The people of West Bengal of India and Bangladesh are still following the paths of creativity in line with his works. Another great poet of Bangla literature was Kazi Nazrul Islam, who has also left behind a treasure of creativity in the field of writing poetry, prose, novels, short stories and memorable songs. After them five great poets have evolved in the thirties. These poets were Jibanananda Das, Shudhindranath Dutta, Buddhadev Bose, Vishnu Dey and Amiya Chakkravarty. Each of them created and established their own different style and their specific literary world. The main contribution they made was to bring foreign literature into the country by translating into Bangla particularly European literature. Among those five poets Jibanananda Das opened a new door of modern poetry depicting nature. Jibanananda Das was arguably the most important Bengali poet after Rabindranath Tagore, undoubtedly one of the leading modern poets of Bengal, and certainly one of the greatest Bengali poets of all times. Nevertheless, he is a poet who is hardly known outside the West Bengal and Bangladesh. Poet Jasimuddin and Poet Farruque Ahmed had created a different dimension in modern Bangla poetry. Poet Jasimuddin had taken the theme from his native land, on the other hand, poet Farruque Ahmed embraced the Islamic heritage as a subject in his poetry. Poets of the fifties of Bangladesh introduced elements of modernity as conceived in the West in Bangla poetry in Bangladesh. It is through the masterly rendering of the French poet Baudelaire's poetry in Bangla by Buddhadev Bose that Bangladeshi poets of fifties have been venured into the realm of modern European

poetry. They are also profoundly influenced by the works of the German poet Rilke, the English poets W B Yeats and T S Eliot, without compromising their own originality and individual characteristics. Bangla poetry has been nurtured more in Bangladesh than in West Bengal of India. This is because their first language being Bangla and the valiant Bangalees sacrificed their lives for their mother tongue during the language movement in 1952. The commemoration of 21st February as the Bangla Language Day is one of the most solemn and honourable occasions in Bangladesh. The liberation war in 1971, where three million people gave their lives for the country, was the most significant period for Bangla literature. The new literature with new voices from a newly emerged country flourished only from then on. New Bangla poetry is moving forward along with its traditionalism and modernism although many have practiced post modernism styles. In this anthology only twenty five contemporary poets are represented with 100 poems. A good number of poets could not be included mainly due to non-availability of proper translations. Hopefully, in the next edition we will try to include them. We are indebted to the literary scholars Dr Peter Horn and Dr Anette Horn who edited this book in their busy schedule. We are also grateful to Poet Tobias Burghardt and Poet Jona Burghardt to help us publish this anthology in Stuttgart, Germany.

100 Poems from

Bangladesh

SHAMSUR RAHMAN

The poet Shamsur Rahman was born on 23 October 1929 and died on 17 August 2006. He was one of the most prominent poets of Bangladesh. Shamsur Rahman, who emerged as a poet in the early fifties, wrote more than sixty books of poetry and is considered a key figure in Bengali literature. Shamsur Rahman's first book of poetry, 'Prothom Gaan Dwityo Mrittyur Agey' (First Song before the Second Death) was published in 1960. He has written a few Novels, Short stories and Autobiography, he translated Robert Frost's poem, etc. The titles of his poetry books are: Roudro Korotite, Biddhosto Nilima, Neej Bashbhumay, Bondi Shibir Theke, Ekaruser Akash, Deshodrohi Hote Icchay Kore, etc. He had a long career as a journalist and served as the Editor of a national daily, Dainik Bangla. He was awarded the Adamjee Award (1962), the Bangla Academy Award (1969), the Ekushey Padak (1977), the Swadhinata Padak (1991), the Mitshubishi Award Japan (1992), and the Ananda Purosker India (1994), etc.

ELECTRA'S SONG Rain clouds crowd the sky, And weird lightning keeps flashing. No friend or ally close by, no peace of mind; Cruel memory plays on in? a thousand human skulls. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. So long since I picked roses in dream forests, Listened all day to the wild robin call. This infant Chrysothemis joined me in merry play, Sometimes playfully tugging at my pig-tail. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. I've heard tunes, exotic, intoxicating, Echoing in my heart. Many a jester counted himself blessed To receive largesse here, and left flowers of gratitude in the hall. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. The butterfly of joy has turned fugitive, melancholy Holds sway; a sinister fog shrouds everything. The cry of the slain makes me wander distraught, Tears leave their nightly signature in my bed. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. The day still glows in memory, when the great hero, Returned victorious from a distant land. There were victory drums and clamouring multitudes, Songs in his praise in town and country, for he was the apostle of liberty. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave.

At the tug of inescapable fate the celebrated hero fell Like a mighty castle undermined, His blood wasn't shed On foreign soil; in his own homeland, his own home, Unarmed, without warning they ran him through. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. I skulk and mutter all to myself, it's an offence Even to mourn you in public, my murdered father. You are even banned from dreams, father; What unbearable torment for your daughter! Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. Storm clouds race through my mind I'm alone In my father's home, mine alone the duty to mourn. His assassins are all around, spies have their eyes Glued to me. I loiter helplessly. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. Sometimes in the middle of the night I wake to footfalls, the shriek of a horse in the stable. The hunting dog keeps pawing the door. Eager to dip nails and teeth in my blood. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. As long as mornings open my eyes, and I can see The ceaseless play of sunlight and shadow, as long as I'm kissed By the breeze, as long as I can watch the prancing Young deer, so long will I nurse my grief. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. My brother's in exile; who can reassure me in this land Of the blind, where's the partner to share my loss?

Under whose roof does my brother break bread? On which alien plain does Orestes' horse kick up dust? Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. I prick my ears for a vibrant voice, but can the call Of the eagle come from the nest of a crow? Chrysothemis Keeps aloof, an immature maiden, her nubile body Alive with the music of a lyre's string. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. I am like a doe roasted alive in forest fire; I look for a funeral procession all day, hide my face In darkness. Roses wither in my grasp, the jasmine drops From my grip; like a flaming Chin?? vengeance burns in my breast. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. I'll never be able to wield an angry sword, Though in my heart there's anger, the mantra of revenge. My attempts at self-purification suffer a setback If my eyes light on pair of storks Flying happily across the river at sunset. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. Am I a flute on which anyone can play any tune Anytime, any way they wish? I walk alone On a blood-thirsty thorn-strewn path; The future breathes in my throat, in my grave. Agamemnon, my slain father, sleeps in his grave. Translated By Kaiser Huq

A PROMISE I've given you my word, I shall go to you, having gone you will be very happy, opening up your calmness, purity and inner soul. Today do not look at me unnecessarily. Your coy intimacy has no heart to leave me. In city's garden, keep your doors open - your skin's soft scent I cannot bear it. When the time is right, I'll give my word, I'll worship you, your visage, and your soft colours. In our heart, the bright-red wound glowsmany dead, and gravely wounded, too many. Our love talk is unsuitable in this garden for us in these present times. Bee's drone - song listen with your ears to the ground-it is extremely odd these days. Army calls and canons cry aloud. After our wound has healed, some day on a calm evening I shall go to you, you my dearest rose I shall not fail you, or my promise to you. Translated By Sudeep Sen

ASAD'S SHIRT Like bunches of blood-red Oleander, Like flaming clouds at sunset Asad's shirt flutters In the gusty wind, in the limitless blue. To the brother's spotless shirt His sister had sown With the fine gold thread Of her heart's desire Buttons which shone like stars; How often had his ageing mother, With such tender care, Hung that shirt out to dry In her sunny courtyard. Now that self-same shirt Has deserted the mother's courtyard, Adorned by bright sunlight And the soft shadow Cast by the pomegranate tree, Now it flutters On the city's main street, On top of belching factory chimneys, In every nook and corner Of the echoing avenues, How it flutters With no respite In the sun-scorched stretches Of our parched hearts, At every muster of conscious people Uniting in a common purpose. Our weakness, our cowardice The stain of our guilt and shameAll are hidden from the public gaze By this pitiful piece of torn raiment Asad's shirt has become Our pulsating hearts' rebellious banner. Translated by Syed Najmuddin Hashim 18

FOR A FEW LINES OF POETRY I go to a tree and say: Dear tree, can you give me a poem? The tree says: If you can pierce My bark and merge into my marrow, Perhaps you will get a poem. I whisper into the ears Of a decaying wall: Can you give me a poem? The old wall whispers back In its moss-thickened voice: If you can grind yourself Into the brick and mortar of my body, Perhaps you will get a poem. I beg an old man Bending down on my knees: Please give me a poem. Breaking the veil of silence, The voice of wisdom says: If you can carve the wrinkles Of my face onto your own, Perhaps you will get a poem. Only for a few lines of poetry, How long must I wait before this tree, In front of the crumbling wall, And the old man? How long will I be bending down on my knees? Translated by Syed Najmuddin Hashim

ROAR, O FREEDOM What shall I do with the spring when I hear only the cuckoo moaning and cannot see gorgeous flowers blossom? What shall I do with the garden Where no bird ever pays a visit? Oh, how rough and stony is this earth! Skeletons of trees stand, row after row, like so many desolate ghosts. What shall I do with the love that places on my head a crown of thorns and hands me the cup of hemlock? What purpose serves the road On which no one treads, Where vendors of coloured ice-cream Or waves of city-inundating processions are never seen? I had called you, dearest When we started our journey With our face turned to the rising sun. When the back-pull of bourgeois charm Kept from your ears the soaring sound of the people singing. You are still a prisoner under the claws of a fierce eagle. you cannot yet walk on a road with the rainbow coloured carpet spread on it. Oh, how tough it is to keep going without you by my side! A horrid monster comes, casting dark shadows all around;

in a moment he crushes under his heels the foundation of the new civilization, he hangs the full moon on the scaffold, declares unlawful the blossoming of the lotus and the rose. He bans my poems, stanza by stanza, quietly, without any fanfare, he bans your breath, he bans the fragrance of your hair. By the bent body of the young girl sitting on the lonely porch of old age. waiting for the dawn of happy days. By the long days and nights of Nelson Mandela spent behind the bars. By the martyrdom of the heroic youth Noor Hossain, O Freedom, raise your head like Titan, give a sky shattering shout, tear off the chain around your wrists. Roar, Freedom, roar mightily! Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

ALAUDDIN AL AZAD

The poet Alauddin Al-Azad was born on 6 May 1932 and died on 3 July 2009. He was one of the renowned and versatile modern Bangladeshi Authors, Novelists, and Poets. He received his PhD. Degree from London University in 1970 and worked as a professor at the Chittagong University. He made a strong contribution to our language movement in 1952. The titles of his books of Poetry are: Bhorer Nodir Mohonay Jagoron, Manchitra, Surjo Jalar Swapan, etc. his novels: Teish Number Toilochitra , Shiter Sheshrat Basanter Prothom Din, Karnafuli, etc. His stories: Jege Aachi, Dhankannya, Mrigonavi, etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award (1965), the UNESCO Award (1965), the National Film Award (1977), the Ekushey Padak (1986), etc.

THE MONUMENT Have they destroyed your memorial monument? Don't you fear, comrade, We are still here, A family of ten millions, alert and wide awake. The base that no emperor could ever crush, At whose feet the diamond crown, the blue proclamation, The naked sabre and the tempestuous cavalry Crumbled into dust, We are that simple hero, that unique crowd, We who work in fields, row on rivers, labour in factories! Have they destroyed your brick monument? Well let them, Don't you fear, comrade, We, a family of ten millions are alert and wide awake. What kind of a death is this? Has anyone seen such a death Where no one weeps at the head of the departed? Where all sorrow and pain from Himalayas to the sea Only come together and blossom Into the colour of a single flag? What kind of death is this? Has anyone seen such a death Where no one laments aloud, Where only the Sitar turns into the Gorgeous stream of a mighty waterfall, Where the season of many words Leads the pen on to an era of poetry? 23

Have they destroyed your brick monument? Well, let them. We forty million masons Have built a monument with a violin' tune And the bright colours of our purple heart. The lives of the martyrs float like islands In the dark deep eyes of Rainbows and palash flowers. We have etched for you their names through the ages In the foamy stones of love. That is why comrade, On the granite peak of our thousand fists shines like the sun the sun of a mighty pledge. Translated By Kabir Chowdhury

AT THE MUSEUM In the mathematical leisure of a Sunday Citizens came and crowded at the main gate. We, the two of us, also stood In the midst of that crowd. There was a hint of wonder and new knowledge In your eyes. You went on asking dramatic questions, And, in the language of the wise, quickly reached Immature and childish conclusions. A Bengali gentleman came with his faded wrapper Neatly folded over his shoulder. His whole family accompanies him : The adolescent girl chewed a brown chocolate, With a solemn face, looking like a painting Of the Ajanta caves, While a young baby peacefully slept, In the arms of his mother, Negligently throwing his smooth tender arms Over her neck. And a modern young woman, With unmistakable evidence of careful make-up All over her face and body, Waited impatiently for her friend Who had promised to come and now was late. The tapping of her high-heeled shoes Betrayed her obvious annoyance. A young man with a shock of dishevelled hair On his head : A bag of thick burlap hangs from his right shoulder. He had an easel in his hand With a rough drawing paper stuck on it. 25

A first year student of the local Arts School, He had perhaps come to draw the anatomy Of some prehistoric animal. Many others had come and swelled the crowd. The evening sun fell aslant lazily. We were all anxious to get in. Soft impatient jingling of bangles Scraping of shoes And increasing criticism of the authorities Necessarily in a low voice. Suddenly a half-hour struck Announcing that it was four-thirty. The main gate was flung open And pushing and jostling each other We went in and stood on the stairs Of the museum building. Right beside the pillar stood the main obelisk Showing cruel gapping cracks On its blue stone was etched the image Of the fire-god And a sculpture of Buddha with a damaged wing. Many fine points of wonderful technique Were washed away by the strong currents of time, At my first sweeping glance I further saw : The natural awesomeness of the printing world In the fossils of many unnatural creatures, Innumerable shortcomings of a reckless creation In the shapes of many birds, beasts, And oceanic mammals, And, how amazing, Just beside them I saw The tragic faith of the much smaller man's supremacy In his sculpture and architectural ventures!

I was a professor of Science. Frustration and hopelessness was not for me. I clearly saw we too were moving along An inevitable staircase Exhaling our warm breath Into the air around us. I knew for certain that we too would become Inevitable victims of the museum of time And yet this knowledge struck no terror in our hearts Nor clouded our eyes with a melancholy shadow. And suddenly and idea sprang up in my mind. Perhaps it flashed in yours, too; We the sun-graced crowd of new age. In the confluence of a bright co-operative day, Will leave behind something so big So beautiful So noble That the citizens of tomorrow will stand still By the staircase struck with deep wonder. Translated By Kabir Chowdhury

SYED SHAMSUL HUQ

The poet Syed Shamsul Haq was born on 27 December 1935 and died in 2016, he writes poetry, fiction, plays- mostly in verse and essays. He is recognized as the leading Poet and Play-writer of Bangladesh. His experiments with forms and the language have given a new direction to Bangla literature. Some of his books of poetry are: Boishakhe Rochito Ponktimala, Birotihin Utsob, etc. His novels: Neel Dangshon, Brishti O Bidrohigon, Tumi Sei Tarbari, Nishiddha Loban, Khelaram Khele Ja, etc. His stories: Tash, Anander Mrittu, etc. His plays: Payer Awaj Paoa Jay Nuruldiner Shara Jibon, etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award (1966), the Adamjee Literary Award (1969), the Ekushey Padak (1984), the Swadhinata Padak (2000), etc.

TO THE PRESS REPORTER No, please don't give me the news the news of death any more. Don't publish in your paper In bold type any figure of the dead. And please tell them who scream as they run along the street That just now so many people fell, Please tell them to stop shouting. Someone close by me asks in a harsh broken voice, Tears streaming from his eyes: How many people were killed last night? Please forbid him to come on the street Again. No, please don't give me The news of any more death. For what do numbers matter? What shall we do with numbers? Is it not enough that a mother has lost a son, A brother has lost a brother, a beloved her lover? Is it not enough that when a single flower Is plucked, the whole garland heaves and sways, That a single hiatus disturbs The total security of the universe? Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

MARCH 1, 1971 See, I'm unarmed, but I have the kind of arms that are Never exhausted, which with every use Only grow sharper and sharper - my life. I don't have only one life, But millions and millions of lives. See, I do not have a flag In my hand, but the flag I possess Is not raised on the mast of some braggart My flag is my mother's face. I don't have only one mother, But millions and millions of mothers. See, I am in chains, But what chains are these, my arms, My millions and millions of arms. In this chain we are all linked each to each, I have been made in my mother's womb, Drop by drop with her blood; my heart is aquiver With the lighting sparks of her life; My body has arisen out of her intolerable grief. Mother, I am giving back today For you my blood, my life, So that at the end of all grief You can again become the mother Of millions and millions of children. Translated By Kabir Chowdhury

AL MAHMUD

The poet Al Mahmud was born in 1936 and is one of the important poets of Bangladesh. He has more than hundred books to his credit including Poetry, Short Stories, Novels etc. Some of these are Kaler Kalesh, Sonali Kabin, Pan Kaurir Rakto etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award, the Ekushey Padak etc.

DO YOU REMEMBER Do you remember that forbidden night? Pointing at the inscrutable sky and the chick in the clouds you fixed your eyes on a divine clarity and said, 'There, look at God sitting on a prancing stallion.' Night birds, happy after mating, twittered and communicated to us their quiet contempt. You, too, unfastening the buttons of your blouse, passed on to me your soundless message: Make me, as well, utterly shameless. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

THE GOLDEN MARRIAGE CONTRACT By the rains, my darling, by the brown-coloured grains in the field, by the fish and meat we eat, by the blessed cow's heavy milk, by the plough, the scythe, the wind-blown full sail. I say, no poet ever toys with the heart. If I ever betray and besmear my tongue, please turn them into a lighting shaft and with the thunderbolt of divorce pierce my heart. My kisses will always caress your body, my dear, free and unabashed, like a fleet of waves breaking against the tender breast of a duck floating on the dark waters of a river at night. If I ever act contrary to this, then I swear by my passionate verse, let the fiercest curse of God befall me. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

CONSOLATION The more intolerant I get the more I sweat. The sidewalk burns under the sun the whole day. Battered, I return home at dusk. And an endless pain seems to burn up my blood. Then like a spoilt whore darkness calls me in husky consolation and whispers a tender welcome. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

ONE NIGHT IN THE DARK One night in the dark the favourite devil of my heart came to my room and blew out the candle on the table, His indifferent body enveloped in a dark cloak, he gave a pale smile and conveyed to me through his magic words that if I wished I could go to the city of the Lord, pass through the forbidden zone and, in a moment, take my stand under the miraculous fruitful tree! I said, lend divine power to my sharp blade that I can faultlessly pierce God's wonder fruit and share it with only one, my beloved. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

WHENEVER I GO Since I invited the river it strayed from its route and raised a storm of waves at my abode. When I lost my way in the wilderness I asked, just once, for a simple village girl called Tahera and innumerable young women left their home and thronged around me. I saw a flock of ducks in the sky. I called out of them, 'Birds, birds birds,' and like a garland all the ducks came down to me. With the froth of the river on my clothes, with the mark of kisses like the eyes of fishes on my chest, whenever I go there come rushing behind me angry waters of the river, saris soaked in blood, and a string of ducks scattered by the sound of sudden gun shots. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

FAZAL SHAHABUDDIN

The poet Fazal Shahabuddin was born on 4 February 1936 and died in 2013. He is one the prominent poets of the country. He is also a novelist, a short story writer, and a translator. As a journalist he founded and edited an influential weekly magazine Bichitra. He has been editing the poetry magazine "Kabikantha" since 1956. A few of his poetry books are: Trishnar Agnite Eka, Akhankito Osundar, Atotai Surjasto, Antarikhshe Arannya, etc. His novel: Dickchinnohin; His short story: Chinnobhinno Koekjon. He was awarded the Bangla Academy (1972), the Ekushey Padak (1988) etc. He had attended poetry festivals in Korea, Japan and many more countries.

MY DOORS It has been long since I closed my doors Nothing will ever be seen again through my windows. No one will ever stand again on my door-step. No sky studded with stars will shine again through my windows. My doors are closed, There is nothing beyond my windows. All the words that my river harboured had vanished long ago My mountain is no longer clothed in clusters of heavy clouds. My river is now like the blood of a corpse still cold and soundless Now my mountain range is nothing but a vast expanse of inert stone. I have barred all my ways. I have put a stop to all my sojourns. For a long time now I have fixed my eyes only on a dark impenetrable wall. Into my vision now will begin to sink continuously Sun-rise torrential rains moon-rays and kisses Now don't you come forward towards my closed doors don't you ever stand before my windows. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

FOOTPATH I like to walk on a footpath Across the cities-throughout the world. Everywhere the footpaths are lonely No wayfarer, nothing Even the wind is without a sound. Only the insects Millions of them, are scattered everywhere. Like a disease they are on earth. Wise, mad, vile and perverted Insects everywhere. No human being, no wayfarer Nothing. I like the loneliness of the footpath I walk across the cities. Throughout the world. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

I WANT TO GO I want to go that way Towards the sea over there, I want to go to the woods Hills flowers trees leaves. I want to go to the eyes Dreams lips tips of breasts, I want to go to the cave Between the thighs Hemmed in by flesh and blood. I want to go into the shade, Into the soul of light, I want to go into the body Of will and desire In a prolonged prayer, I want to go to the stars Sans sound sans smell, I want to go where there is no more Any beauty or taste or touch, I want to go where a vast emptiness Spans the whole earth and sky To a disembodied Vigorous colourful symphony, I want to go to a deep Thick darkness all alone To the shuttered door Of a huge sprawling nature. I want to go that way To those flowers trees leaves, To the burnt - out enchantment Resting in the eyes Of that ancient bird. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

WIND The wind is blowing incessantly On the seas inside the forests Over the ripples of the rivers Over the food plants on the fields In the wilderness Across the mountains along the habitation. The wind is blowing Inside our intellect Wisdom and knowledge In the darkness of our eyes. With the flush of desire In the hip of a woman On the tips of her breasts And with the erotic groans Of our lust. The wind is very lonely and desolate A kind of solitude is in there The solitude breathes and lives on With the wind. The wind is blowing incessantly. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

SUDDENLY Suddenly a leaf turns green, A flower blooms Suddenly the river's body gathers currents in the wind when did that bird fly away through my blood stream? Many dreams coalesce into a form With the green leaves With the river's turbulence with the bird in my blood's streamAnd suddenly, you stand before me Statuesque - in full flight and form. I know now, Spring is at my doorstep I have started trembling as I know this season will last only a winkbecause I know-you are spring and you will ultimately leave me annihilated. Translated by Sudeep Sen

SHAHEED QUADRI

Shaheed Quaderi was born in 1942 and died in 2016. He was an important poet of fifties. His published books are Uttaradhikar, Tomake Avibadon, Priyotoma, Kothao Kono Krandan Nai. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award for poetry in 1978.

THE DELUGE Suddenly panic struck. The colourful evening crowd lazily strolling back home ran helter-skelter in all directions like a band of frightened red cockroaches. as if someone, ringing the city's familiar bell, had just announced in a cold steely awesome voice: there is an epidemic, the city will soon be wiped out. And then in a flash a flying spear of lightning pierced the belly of the sky, fat and rounded like a whale's. Rains, rains accompanied by thunder and hailstones: Deafening the ears the ceaseless wheels of a saw-mill roared and mingled with the piercing shrieks of a million crazily rotating lathes. With dusk came angry lightning and clouds, rains and wind, wind shrieking colourfully like a peacock; The whole house was caught in helpless disorder: the doors and windows wanted to fly away spreading their wings, and this ancient building shook like some antediluvian animal. The heavy showers poured down on the crowd, on the city's knee and on the shaken glittering gorgeous avenue. this evening, this stormy windy evening (the wind was like Israfil's Om*) rain fell aslant on the car bonnet while the passenger sat inside quite still with his head bowed down in fear and apprehension. 44

Suddenly startled, he raised his head and saw the rain incessant pouring pouring pouring mercilessly furiously ruthlessly and willingly or unwillingly he heard the anguished cries of his heart, heard them in the dry panegyric to the crazy rains. Tonight the vagabonds and the loafers were the unrestrained monarchs on the city roads. in the wet rains only the rootless refugee urchins, the eternal beggars, the thieves, and the half-demented reigned. The revenue collectors, who always carefully counted and pocketed the money. had fled away in fear and utter helplessness. Joined the hymn and happily sang, the gleeful dark auditoriums and the drunken placards on the walls and a twisted telephone pole at whose top precariously swung an old worn-out signboard lifted and fastened there by the crazy wind. And countless window-panes of the city kept up their mad clatter in time to the beat of the wind, for the guards and the policemen and the revenue collectors all had fled in panic.

The wise and the rich with their fawning sycophants had fled, vanished completely. The torrential waters of the rain had washed away, wiped out all contours of the road. Carrying the weight of only a few sad tender memories they now gaily rushed towards the gurgling drains like some procession of the municipal committee. Floated down the waters empty cigarette tins and pieces of broken glass singing like tiny ringing bells, evening papers and multi-coloured balloons, fine silken scarf, torn wires, envelopes, blue letters, yellow laundry bills, doctor's prescriptions, white medicine boxes, loose buttons from fashionable shirts, and sundry other mementoes of civilization and colourful dainty days. Now in the dark city I am the lord in the rains and lightning, with my bare feet and torn trousers all alone, like a shining bright new boat, only me, in my shirt fluttering like a sail in a sturdy breeze. In my loneliness and scarred flesh and blood the furious angry growling red soul of Noah burns, but there is no movement of men or beasts, though in the roaring torrential rains there is a sound of breath,

and, in the wind, of cries. Enriched by what eager expectation towards which city shall I now sail, all alone, along the gay gurgling waters? Translated by Kabir Chowdhury * The angel of music destined to announce the end of the world

I SALUTE YOU DARLING Have no fear, darling I'll have it all arranged. The army will carry rose-bunches on their shoulders, march past and salute only you darling. Have no fear, I'll have the armoured cars rumble across the bogs, barbed wires and barricades, scars of the war still written on them, and make them drive up to your door only your door, darling, with violins heaped on them. Have no fear, I'll have it all all arranged. The B 52s and Mig 21s will drone overhead and drop yes darling drop sweets, chocolates and toffees, like paratroopers on your yard. Have no fear, no fear at all. I'll have a poet command the naval fleet at the Bay and in an imminent election, a lover, running against a war-hawk, shall win all the votes. Possibilities of conflicts, rest assure, would come to an end and I'll have a singer as the leader of the opposition,

the trenches along the border will be guarded by red, blue, golden fishes and everything else would be strictly prohibited except smuggling of love. Have no fear, I'll have this inflation checked. Currency will gain strength and so will good poems increase everyday and I'll have it so arranged that instead of mass agitation mass kissing will unnerve the killer and make him drop his knife, darling. Have no fear, darling, I'll have it all arranged. Freedom-fighters will stream into the city. like the surprise attack of Spring on a wintry park, playing on accordions. Have no fear, darling, I'll have it so arranged that you can cash in, at the State Bank, at least a million takas for roses or chrysanthemums and four cardigans for a lilac. Have no fear, have no fear, I'll have the navy, the army and the air force stand around you darling, and make them present arms present arms Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

SIKDER AMINUL HUQUE

Sikder Aminul Huque was born in 1942 and died in 2003. He was a poet, journalist and author of juvenile literature. His poetry Book include: Durer Karnish, Tin Panprir Phool etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy award.

GRATITUDE Never do you dispel me from afar, rains The sun though hides away. When flowers smile on the turf - clad a slim lawn, You do feel sleepy as well ! I look beside the cafeteria only to see A painted motif of a damsel's chest, These aren't mine I know My fearless hands are in the hands of Mother Teresa. May they remain so ! Translated by Alfaz Tarafder

MARK OF WATER There was a time When you were promise-bound to hate. Now there were servants and maids for everybody, that was the change. the sun seemed to be no bigger than a large insect. We came through fountains, we left behind clusters of trees, we crossed hillocks of shrubs, tooâ&#x20AC;Śâ&#x20AC;Ś Now there is man before us. I know the names of a few thousand birds that you do not know. They fly toward the domes, their ridicule and curses always petering out in the phosphorus of the sea. My sea voyage is possibly because of that. I'll go towards the sea till I die. The fresh rays of the sun over blue plates of lead look like indifferent women. Through the frolicking wind they show the path of tears and leave the mark of water on one's hand. Back in the metropolis one could display that hand to one's friends like the beloved's handkerchief. Only thus can cruelty be subdued, and not by walls. The mark of water lives only in the discovery of man, which always gives birth to love in my five fingers. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury 52

HAYAT SAIF

He is one of the major poets of Bangladesh belonging to the generation of sixties. Born in 1942, he has been a career bureaucrat since the early sixties. He retired from active service in 1999 and since then is engaged in the corporate private sector and divides his time between World Scouting and literary and artistic pursuits. His publications in Bengali include twelve collections of poems apart from two collections of essays and a huge number of poems and articles published in various periodicals. He has been translated into English and Spanish. He is generally accepted as a poet of high modernism both cerebral and lyrical in expressions and has a sharp critical talent.

ANOTHER CIRCLE Grazing life's horizon I voyage Towards another circle Endlessly impulsive place Love around tortured wrists Store well-loved fragrances In chests and boxes And in my pocket a stamp For an unaddressed envelope Where is the destination Of life's breathless journey? Right ahead the bus stop beckons, milling crowds around hawkers and touts The bright merchandise of popular bliss Is this then the destination, This lit-up General Store? A cripple on the sidewalk invokes the grace of God Is He asleep in a wave less silence On Heaven's minaret? So, let us go elsewhere Do a demented dance get roaring drunk, Dive in a tailspin like a giant kite? Go placidly grazing life's horizon Sometimes as needed, playing the trumpet.

ENTWINED Life entwines like a vine On the fence, around the tree On the hard brick of a derelict building. This life slowly moves Entwining anything in its wake, skywards. Out of a great void Out of the cavity of darkness Out of the knot of an atom Out of an embryo, sorrowful and soft Out of the Alluvium Life jerks up, Fast in skyward expansion, Out of a seed embedded in moist clay, Blazing upward Power stuffed, and warm like a flame. Sometimes like a vine Life moves towards heaven, unperturbed Sometimes twists Around the fences in the gaps of building's bricks Something entwined moving upward And at last life once again in some great pulls Droops on the clay On water and on the plain earth.

INSIDE ALL CREATION Inside my very birth my death exists. Within my distance sleeps My innocent nearness. In my desire to be reborn I continuously embrace death My revenge-seeking regenerated-cells Get vitiated as a new day approaches. At times I wonder about the one and His ways to reverse the continuity after my exhausted liberated end. Yet it is completely true that amongst us, none is responsible for our present indifferent restless birth. Inside this exciting and fearful nothingness Lies our bounded existence. The essence of which we cannot know Yet we plan, we dream, and we live our lives. Everyday brings about uncountable deaths. Death from the closeness of my child Death as I was disjointed from my mother's womb. Death when I was separated from a loving embrace. My timid world surrounds me with dreams and death as they keep holding hands with creation and birth, unceasingly

LIGHT AND SHADE When darkness falls And night deepens, you are far away I can no longer see you But then distances disappear All the objects lose their identity And become one My thought then embraces everything Far and near It seems that wherever you may be I can still touch your body, its fragrance Feel its pulsating life, Then in the silent unity of darkness My ecstasy flower as a flickering flame Of desire in a dream It seems as if nothing has disappeared in darkness They have mingled themselves in it It seems as if with the first break of dawn Your lips, your eyes, your voice Will find their objectsAnother voice, another sensibility The throb of another heart. And yet the first light of day Takes you away from me And I can no longer touch you. I can no longer remain in you line of sight Because the light defines all the objects Only some fresh loneliness, some pains and Some distractions remain

MAN AND EARTH All around one can witness Many high-ranking and garrulous asses Occasionally worthy, but always affecting wisdom Here, these clamorous men live. Yet in the blood-stained centre of this small planet, What a multiplicity of frightening Relationship exist, Stained and stung by mud sand-stone parasite, Roots, branches, insects, and men, Get hit by atomic explosion, reduced To muddy heaps of flesh. In all directions lie, scattered social contrarieties. The centre falls and there is a marked Lack of cohesion, For men are powerless in the grip of mutual malice. In marshes, briars, and untended fields As though creeping out of a large dust-bin Congregate all the world's noisome waste Those who propitiate the lords With dissembling bows Themselves use their fellow human-beings to attain to affluence A fake man of God, graves covered with blazing red cloth The waving green flag amid an epidemic or scorched by a heat-wave. And yet man is always in need of faith Not so birds or animals. Therefore one can hope one day faith reality The visible and the invisible insects worms mud and sand-stone Will all co-mingle in an ultimate understanding between man and earth And from the blood-stained red earth under the cosmic sky Will emerge the bud of a huge dazzling white water lily. 58

RAFIQ AZAD

The poet Rafiq Azad was born in 1943 and died in 2016 and was a prominent poet of Bengali literature and the author of 25 collections of poetry including his Collected Poems. He was a freedom fighter in 1971. His poetry reflected his experience of the war. A few of his poetry books are: Asombhaber Payae, Chunia Amar Arcadia, Semabadha Jalae, Shimito Shobuja, Haturier Nichae Jibon, Pagolar Thekay Pramikar Chiti, Apar Arannya, Moulobir Mon Bhalo Nay etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award (1984) and the Ekushey Padak.

GIVE ME FOOD, BASTARD I am terribly hungry : in the depth of my belly, throughout the length and breath of my body I feel, every moment, fierce pangs of an all-devouring hunger Like summer corn-fields seared by drought my body is ablaze with the fire of hunger. I am content if I get two square meals a day. I have absolutely no other demand. Many persons ask for many things. Everyone wants a house, a car, money; some hunger for fame. But my wants are few. What I ask for is little. I want food. I feel a burning fire in the pit of my stomach. What I want is plain and simple: I want rice. I don't care if it is cold or hot, Or if the grains are fine or red and coarse like the rice doled out by ration shops. I don't care as long as I get my plate-full of rice. If I get two square meals a day, I tell you, I'll give up all other demands of mine. No unfair demands have I, I don't have even sex-hunger. I don't want a sari draped around an inviting body showing an exposed navel, Or even the owner of that sari. Let whoever wants it, take her. Give her away to whoever you like. I have no need, I tell you, of any of those things. 60

But if you can't satisfy this demand of mine, things will go very wrong in your kingdom. The hungry one does not know what is right or wrong, what is good or bad, he does not know laws, rules or statutes. I'll unhesitatingly devour all that I'll find in front of me. I tell you, nothing will be spared. Everything will rush into my jaws. And perchance if I find you before me you will surely be transformed into a tasty morsel before my giant hunger. This simple hunger for food, if allowed to grow and encompass everything, can surely bring about a disastrous end. Devouring everything from the sight to the seer I shall at last eat up one by one shrubs and trees, lakes and rivers, villages and cities, sidewalks, the flowing waters of the drain, streams of people walking on the streets. women all bottom and hips, the Food Minister and his flag-flying limousine nothing, absolutely, nothing today will be unacceptable to me. Give me food, you bastard, or I'll eat up the very map. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

THOSE ARMED HANDSOME MEN Some day it would all start stinking, meat, fish, fruits, sweets and all, kept in refrigerators of these gay civilized gentlemen. Some day they would come, they sure would, I can hear them already, beware gentlemen, I've been waiting for them for a long time. They would come barefoot and then your smooth stupid faces lit up by the glare of a selfish civilization would turn pale and wan a sacred hatred would flay your shiny skin; sworn enemies, those handsome armed men would crush your made up faces in anger. Your contemptuous, lumpy bodies would be trampled underfoot. Redolent with youth, those faces with their big chest and hefty thighs would dance a dance of death and destruction, raze your sham lives to dust. Your sophisticated warbling would be muffled by a sacred barbarous shout. Those buttery perfumed women of yours would be ravished under their hairy breasts. O you softy, weak, lean, frustrated stupid gentlemen, listen carefully, from the crown to the kitchenware all your property would go under their control. They would come, 62

sure they would, I can hear them already, beware gentlemen, I've been waiting for them for a long time. The womb of civilization waits eagerly for the thrust of the primordial sun, semen of different sorts would evoke wonder. These handsome armed men would bring about your downfall. Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

ASAD CHOWDHURY

The poet Asad Chowdhury was born on 11 February 1943. He is a Poet, Writer, Translator and Anchor. Chowdhury was a former director at the Bangla Academy, Dhaka, and worked as an editor at the Bengali service of Deutsche Welle after his retirement. During the liberation war of Bangladesh, Chowdhury was a contributor and broadcaster of Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra. A few of his poetry books are Tabak Deya Pan, Bitto Nai Besat Nai, Joler Madhye Lekhajokha, Je Pare Paruk, Modhya Math Theke, Nadio Bibastro Hoi, Batash Jemon Parchito, Brishtir Sansare Ami Keo Noi etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award and the National Award Ekushey Padak.

WHENEVER I TALK Whenever I talk, you brand it shouting Don't forget your own excesses. Whenever I talk, you brand it protest. But can you deny the injustice and repression You are indulging in? One-eyed monsters like cruelty, corruption and greed Have added to your vices. I talk of dreams I talk of beauty I talk of a future more beautiful than dreams. Otherwise how will the golden days be ushered in quickly? What miraculous illusion will help us organise? Our afflicted men recount stories of shrewd jackals and ghosts. I tell stories of men, only men. I go on sowing seeds of protest On the most fertile soil of yours, Within you are hidden the real workers, Perhaps you are the one We are looking for so long. Translated by Saidur Rahman

THE TAJ GETTING SOACKED IN RAIN The Taj is getting soaked in rain I have no umbrella with me what can I do now I look at the Taj from near the gate At least I have to tell my folks back home something The telephones are not working The hotel lobby is crowded. Dining tables are full of customers Friends from other troupes are already here And the Taj is getting soaked alone Certainly the Taj is used to this But the bad luck is mine The two poets from the Maldives ask me over and take my picture Will the picture tell everything Will the picture sing the words of my heart Exactly as they sing now. Translated by Syed Manjoorul Islam

SOME WORDS STILL LINGER ON A few words still linger on between your lips. Having cursed and having called names to the utmost, and after salivating Sycophancy for selfish ends, there still persists the thought - something more yes, there was something more to be said. Lengthy discursive lecture over, you look upon the drowsy faces of a yawning audience, and still feel-nothing had really been said. The written lines hold some of the words. Colours bind some together, and so does melody; and then some fall off with your kisses and your punches. And still when all is over, there between your lips some words still linger on. Translated by Mohamed Mijarul Quayes

PLANTS A green fire licks up A virgin womb will bend low with the weight of harvest have patience, patience, patience. The skylark soaring high will dive down with a mild sun baking its feathers; with the sun on her crimson beak the bird will dive low. Green fire removes the soil hoping the sun would kiss her. Translated by Mohammad Nurul Huda

OBSERVATION The blazing sun Tired of soliciting the candle's compassion Has just set. Rivers, vast stretches of water of once upon a time, Ripped of all by-gone dignity Now long for a gulp of water. Free sky, free air Free economy, free breast All have settled on my shoulder. Even the kingly body of a rose Borrows the luster of a silken dress. Fresh and hot youth Walks away in bold and quick steps Within sight of the homosexuals. Translated by Suresh Ranjan Basak

AL MUJAHEEDY

Al Mujaheedy was born in 1943. He is a poet, editor. Important Poetry books: Hemlocker Peyala, Drupabat O Terakata , Duth Parabat, etc. He was awarded the Ekeshey Padak.

SILHOUETTE I have found eternity Who will warmly receive this rare vessel? Who stays besides me - Look unto me, Listen to its echoes as the vessel sounds repeatedly. In the cool verdurous shadows of the prairie Wander I - I touch your body, I look at the reflection and In the silhouette I hear the impatient sonata. In the temple of your heart, build domes, O priestess, and sing your sensuous song in harmony. 9.8.98

THE CLEFT MOON Divide me tonight Like a slice of the moon Tomorrow night, hold me close in your solitude: Like the uncleft moon. Whatever your nearness wishes to offer, obey Give to me... Whatever my nearness makes you want, obey Take all... Come, let us satisfy this world tonight Pervade it with our expressions, our desires. Undivided... Uncleft... Come, let us blind the world's eye. Let the world become speechless At our nudity. 13.6.98

IN YOUR WORLD I was born Possibly Like a very ordinary Person In a very ordinary home. Then I grew Past the earth's verdurous grassroots, barks Under the avenue of stars. Then Past all attics I sailed into an unearthly wilderness To come Back Down Into your world My love. 29.10.98

SAY, LEAVE ME NOT You have come to say goodbye, my love. Do not say goodbye. But Say, 'Don't say I'm going'. Where am I to go And how can you even let me go Like this? Where shall I go now Leaving your eyes, the avenues of your body And the compass of your soul? There is No other sanctuary for me.

THIS EARTH IS NO SHINAR'S DOME Ours is only one earth Our mansion of memories Never Shinar's dome. Ours is only one azure sky And a small shadowy path. Ours is only one moonlit night And one nebular grove. Ours is only one age And one sundial. We can never be parted From the limits of our closeness. 2.11.98

MAHADEV SAHA

The poet Mahadev Saha was born on 5 August 1944 and is one of the renowned poets of Bangladesh. He is a well-known journalist too. He has more than fifty poetry books to his credit. These are Ei Griha Ei Sanyas, Chai Bish Amrita, Ki Sundor Andha, Dhulo Matir Manush, etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award (1983), the Ekushey Padak (2001), etc. He has participated in the Afro Asian writers Conference Taskhand, the Writers Conferences in Delhi, Berlin, London and Paris.

NATIONALIZATION I shall nationalize all the roses for children, otherwise they won't get a single flower I shall, likewise, nationalize the land for the peasants or they too like the children won't be assured of food. Like banks, insurance, textile mills and factories I shall nationalize all baby food. I shall nationalize moonlight and happiness, because, like sorrow, happiness too cannot be claimed solely by an individual. I believe in the certain victory of equality, I shall nationalize light against darkness otherwise, how will light get into the dreary slums. Only through nationalization can one be assured of food and flowers. Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

LIFE Who could I go to with this notice about something I have lost ? Who would I detain for a minute And say : look, Sirs, I am very upset. Back in my room from a late night film I can no longer find my map anywhere. Could any of you, kind gentlemen, tell me anything about the whereabouts of my map ? The world was like the terribly busy passengers of a local train : Getting up and getting down at each station, While keeping a shape eye on the accompanying baggage. Here in this world there was no one with whom you could stop a moment. All the world seemed to be rushing by on a bicycle. No one had a moments' leisure day and night went on buying and selling, speeches and statements, and endless talk on the state of politics. Who in this world would look for my map and restore it to me ? So with my Lost Notice stuck on my heart I roamed the streets all alone. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

RABIUL HUSAIN

The poet Rabiul Husain was born on 31 January 1944 and is one of the renowned poets of Bangladesh. He is the famous architect of the country too. He has contributed significantly as an Art Critic. Rabiul is a poetry activist and involved in the poetry movement of Bangladesh. A few of his books of poetry are: Sundari Fona, Kothay Amar Navojan, Endradhonite Beje Othe, etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award (2009), etc.

RAPE AND REMEMBRANCE The health-stone is on the ring on my finger, The cotton-buttons are on the silvery shirt, The jug of water is full of liquid glass, The grave is born after the body stops and Slides into the deep deep earth. There is no one except man Who is so mournful and deaf like a river. The abstract art of cloud is in the sky, The trees and the little deer are helpless, In the waterfall. The dew-turban of durba-glass Kindles the evening-lamp. In the early morning, The family of fishes Lies in the deep pond, and The cruel and dumb nature stands Outside the room, independent. The proud semen and tenderness of man Are on the mountain-top, Their foreheads touch its snow-white blanket, Up and above, spread a net of air Or a ladder along the road of life To reach the emptiness. The world keeps everything recorded in Architecture, books, fossils Only it does not keep the signature, whatsoever, Of rape and remembrance in the Living bodies of women and rivers.

OH ! THE WAR ! A. Swiss scholar Jean Jacques Babel reported The last 5959 years had 14.513 wars Since then 3640 million were killed In the 1st World War 10 million and In the 2nd World War 50.48 million were killed Russia has 4700 Atom Bombs America 4500, France 300, China 260, the UK 215 Pakistan 120, India 110, Israel 60 North Korea 10 and the total of 10275 bombs Exist in the whole world and It is sufficient to destroy the world 33 times over America dropped an Atom Bomb, Little Boy On Hiroshima, 6th August 1945 And 0.17 million were killed Another Atom Bomb, Fat Boy was dropped On Nagasaki. 9th August 1945 And 0.129 million were killed If there is a 3rd World War in future It will have to be with horses, elephants, swords, spears, lances, knives, shields etc. with arrows and bows So if any war is inevitable The above weapons are to be used only And it is to be decided now by UN Because that is the only way To save the world at present

B. From 25 March to 16 December, 1971 There are 267 days in total According to Pravda, the Pak Army killed 3 million Bengalis during the Liberation War It was a war against unarmed people By killers and rapists of the Pak Army And they killed 3 million รท 267 = 11,236 people per day Oh ! the War !

AND THE EARTH OCCUPIES 50 MOON-SPACES Distance from the Earth to the Sun 90 million 3.2 million 25 thousand 6 hundred and 5.97 miles And the Earth occupies 50 Moon-spaces The Sun consists of 60 million 5 million of Moons Equals to 1.3 million Earth-spaces The VY Canis Majuris a stupendous planet accommodates 9 hundred 260 million and 1 million Suns ! The Earth lives in the Milky way part of the Universe Nearer to Andromeda next to Perseus The Earth's periphery is 25 thousand miles And the area of the earth's surface 190 million 7 millions square miles Of which the land area - 50 million 2.5 million And the rest 140 Million 4.5 Million is of water and water Following this information Bangladesh has 1300 living rivers and the total length of all rivers is 13 thousand 770 miles and the Forest occupies 9 thousand 633 square miles of the land area The temperature of the Sun's surface 9 thousand 941 degree (F) Fahrenheit - 4690 (c) Centigrade The Big Bang happened 15 billion years ago since then The universe has been expanding in all directions continuously And we don't know when it will stop but One day it will begin to contract and Come to tiny point again as it was before It is presumed that the Earth the living Gaia so far with Those 110 billion of dead men already she did have Who knows may come back into being again in the course of time So perhaps these mysteries may only be solved by the inevitable Power

To escape from the agnostic impossibilities of realisation And beyond the human knowledge and imagination or Expectation of dark and deep-fathomed intolerable Piercing agonies and sufferings and anguishes Man wants to be free from the tension by transferring All those pains of unknowing to the shoulder Of the Super Power in good faith and automatic consciousness Thus the Man the escapist ultimately succeeded To create the Creator in their own interest And got tranquillity of mind

IN TODAY'S NEWSPAPER After a long time all of a sudden I saw her hazy photograph in today's newspaper In the procession of Mahila Parishad It is strange that one day how, Why and for what reason I become so inquisitive and mad for her? The golden past does not call me Nowadays as before today In the midst of strange mechanism Of life she is not remembered, no, not at all Yet by chance if we ever meet anywhere We say only "hello" or "how do you do", but Do not feel that passion for each other But there was a time when If we could not meet every day Sit side by side Touch each other We both could not sleep at night Once both of us Wanted each other so ardently But today, with the change of time We are lost forever From each other so amicably.

THE POET Does poetry live in the sky On green land or the blue sea From the human abode Poetry has left long ago May never be encountered again in this polluted environment Poetry is the symbol of pain and loneliness Poets are unfortunate psycho-journalists Poetry born out of helplessness A happy and fulfilled man Can never be a poet It turns back with ease And careless expression Poetry likes to fly like a pigeon in her own sky Those who write poetry, only they are poets This is not correct All are poets whosoever s/he may be But of different kinds Many have been writing many poetries How many poetries are there Out of that How many poets are born Even without writing poetry One can be a poet - this is true And one has to be a poet in any way It is not at all necessary

But it is very very hard To become a true poet Some become one naturally Some can never be one In spite of thousand efforts This is applicable to all arts It is an unknown mystery A matter unsolved forever Have been writing poetry For a long time Yet I could not establish myself As a poet till now When I will be able to do so Even my God does not know

NIRMALENDU GOON

The poet Nirmalendu Goon was born in 1945. He is the one of the most popular poets in Bangladesh. His first book of poetry was published in 1970. Since then he has published forty-five collections of poetry and twenty collections of prose. A love of freedom and faith in the human spirit also permeates many of his poems. The titles of his poetry books are: Premangsur Rakta Chai, Na Premik Na Biplobi, Banglar Mati Banglar Jal, Prithibi Jora Gaan, etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award (1982), the Ekushey Padak (2001), The Swadhinata Padak (2016), etc.

THE STORY OF A RICKSHAWALA You played the music of our 'kring, kring, allegro' so sweetly this afternoon! Here, please take this twenty-five paisa, get yourself a pan on your way back. Tell Badar to put a little fragrance in your pan. Better not take the zarda in this strong sun. Unlike me, your aren't going to be sitting by the soft breeze from an electric fan, listening to Atulbabu's songs. You'll take passengers to the railroad station, to Noumahal, to Kanchijhuli. An incorrigible drunk may get on your rickshaw, you must take him to the quayside-he badly needs the air. There are drunks in the traffic, roaring jeeps with government seals, country-bumpkins, simpletons, their awkward jay-walking, railroad crossings, pushcarts, the annoyance of the chain slipping off your tricycle, and the impatient passengers' bickering. You've got to be constantly watchful. Playing an allegro of `kring, kring' sound you would rush throughout the afternoon along the narrow unpaved roads. Well, what if the rain starts all of a sudden! Passengers would wrinkle their noses at the faint scent of urine from your dank lungi. You may suddenly remember your little dark-skinned boy. He's become so hyperactive lately. How dreamy are his eyes, Having waited for you, he must be asleep by now in his mother's arms, Your wife must be thinking of you as she sews the quilt for the next-door neighbor. When will you return home, mister? Has there been anything else in your stomach since that meal of left-over rice you had 89

before you left this morning? Other than a 'Gopal bidi' you smoked a couple of hours ago, you haven't had any time for yourself. Only passengers, passengers after passengers. 'Hey, move, you goddamn bastard!' You had rested for a moment by the roadside out of your tiredness before the traffic-police chased you away. You are returning home, wrecked, dejected, exhausted. Even so, you are intoxicating the pedestrians with your sweet allegro of 'kring, kring'. In your two fists you have the throats of two poisonous cobras gripped unflinchingly. You have sweat on your back, blisters on your feet, tears in your eyes. Translated by Farida Majid

THE DYING CROWN Is the earth now filled with accursed skulls? Possibly the crown of limited human knowledge shines on my head, too! I demand the unconditional freedom of light that the white grass yearns for every day. I shake with pity about the earthiness of man, when civilisation with its million hands stops the procreation of Nature, in a perverted passion for its own existence. With a fiercer twang on my bow I shatter the implacable unploughed land; My time, eternal time, flows by, as I get my million eyes intoxicated with the sight of surplus crops. Crime perpetrated by men on men shook me into a trembling fit; I tear off the dying crown of selfishness from my outraged head. On this natural earth decked with flowers, leaves, soil and water, I feed the new-born baby with the wisdom that I gathered through toil. Lo, the child of communism arrives! He will free the world and liberate the country! I, the father of civilisation of accumulated wealth, bend down here, begging his forgiveness, nothing but his forgiveness. Translated by Khondakar Ashraf Hossain

FIREAR There is a big crowd at the Police Station. Suspicious soldiers in the city are taking away all firearms. Frightened citizens, in accordance with military directives, are depositing their shotguns, rifles, pistols and cartridges like promised offerings at some holy shrine. On the table lies the saint's hand like a flower. Only I disobeying the military directive, turned a mild rebel. I am openly returning to my room, and yet with me rest a terrible firearm like the heart. I didn't surrender it. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

MAYBE I'M NO HUMAN Maybe I'm no human, humans are different; They can walk, they can sit, and they can wander room to room They are different; they are afraid of death, scared of snakes. Maybe I'm no human. Then how can snakes raise no fear within me? How can I go standing alone all day long like a tree? How can I sing no song watching a movie? How can I go without drinking wine with ice? How can I pass a night without closing my eyes? Indeed I feel strange when I think about The way I go alive from morning to eve., From eve to night. When I'm alive, I feel strange. When I write, I feel strange. When I paint, I feel strange. Maybe I'm no human; If I were a human, I'd have a pair of shoes of my own, I'd have a home of my own, I'd have a room of my own, I'd get warmed in the embrace of my wife at night. On the top of my belly my child would play, my child would paint. Maybe I'm no human; Were I a human, Why do I laugh When I see the sky empty like my heart? Maybe I'm no human Humans are different; They have hands, they have a nose, They have eyes like yours 93

Which can refract the reality The way prisms refract light. Were I a human, I'd have scars of love on my thigh, I'd have the sign of anger in my eye, I'd have a mother, I'd have a father, I'd have a sister, I'd have a wife who'd love me, I'd have fear of accidents or a sudden death. Maybe I'm no human; If I were a human, I could not write poems to you, I could not pass a night without you. Humans are different; they are afraid of death, They are afraid of snakes, They flee when they see snakes; Whereas instead fleeing , mistaking them for my friends I approach them, embrace them. Translated by S M Maniruzzaman

WHAT SIN WOULD REDEEM ME I have never tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree, I have been waiting. waiting. like the sea that waits for the river, or the river for the surging tide, in the remote hope that a feeling would crawl up from within the rocks and set my heart ablaze with passion. I have never been to a brothel, nor ever wallowed in that forbidden pleasure, I have been waiting, waiting I like the revolution that brews and simmers and waits impatiently for the climactic hour, or like the heaving bosom of a young maiden awaiting her first love. I have never slept with any pleasure girl in the hope that love, like the sea monster churning the sea in a violent mating duel, would teach me the art. Tell me, O wise soul, please do, what sin would redeem me. Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

ABUL HASAN

Abul Hasan was born in 1947 and died in 1975. Poet and Journalist. His poetry books include Raja Jai Raja Ase, Je Tumi Horon Koro, Prithaka Palanka etc. Awarded the Bangla Academy Award.

NATIVE LANGUAGE I wonder what's the native language of sorrow, of love, of pain and of war. I don't know what's the native language of a river, of nudity. In what language does the deep foliage speak? Only, whenever I stand at my door, I still hear the footsteps of the last civilized man, somewhere water begins to roll and the melancholy sound of water drenches my whole being and my body begins to turn to verdure. My body in green, whenever I stand at the door I hear chirpings of pet birds and the happy noise of children, I hear the laughter of lust decked in gold bracelets. And in those forbidden quarters where gay women lean against silent doors ; what language do they use in naked beds at midnight ? And those orange girls going to school tremble and bleed at the first touch and I hear the sound of blood spilling down But I do not know yet what's the native language of blood.

I do not know what's the native language of agony. I only know I am a man and in this wide world my native language till today is hunger. Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

THE INNER EXPANSION If only I could say, I do not belong to these, not at all to these. They, my eyes, stony and listless, This wig, And this costume of a poor player These are not mine, not mine, my Lord : O, if only I could say that. Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

HABIBULLAH SIRAJEE

Habibullah Sirajee was born on the 31st December 1948 at Faridpur, Bangladesh. Graduated from BUET in 1970. Worked in South-East Asia, Middle East and different organizations of Bangladesh. Total number of published books is more than forty; which includes poetry, novels, essays, memoirs & juvenile verse. Received the Ekushey Padak, the Bangla Academy Award, the Jessore Sahittya Parishad Award, the Alaol Literary Award, the Bishinu Dey Award, the Rupashi Bangla Award, the Kabitalap Literary Award, the Mahadiganta Award. He was President, National Poetry Council, Bangladesh; Fellow, Bangla Academy, Dhaka, Bangladesh.

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A LECTURE ON HEALTH For a change of health some go to the beach Accompanied by their wives. Their objective : to wrap around their body and mind A vigorous climate, live healthily, And pull the wagon of their years Close to the frontier to some hilly spot. Thus some regain their health, Get back the joy of physical union in the salty and fresh air, The necessary taste of fulfilment. Some, even as they feel the favourable environment, See on the wet sand a sick sunset, The brown back of crabs, and slippery oysters. Everything is natural, And thus all automatic actions Go on happening naturally: The roar of the sea The restless flutter of the breeze The intimacy of the snow The rise and fall of the waves. For a change of soil Some run to the distant west. For a change of palate Some give up fish And pin their faith more on meat. For a change of home Some break up their homes Again and again, Changing one's clothes is, of course, A person's very personal affair. For the sake of one's health Some turn epicurean, some stoic,

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Some include in their menu Chicken soup and bread and wine Or tomato and spinach. But however delightful the breeze And the water sweet and tasty, And even if there are flying clouds And captivating nature before one's eyes There is still something lacking, Something absent â&#x20AC;Ś Certain problem-ridden monetary matters Invariably control the climate And the hills and valleys and plains In a very sanitary manner. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

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THE COP READS THE NEWSPAPER The cop reads the newspaper amid the din and the roar Of Dainik Bangla crossing. His dead hours passed in a trance. When the game ends, the roads are deserted. The cop gets free at last. Picking up his rifle, He returns home to a growing family and to want. The cop reads the newspaper near the entrance of a bank, Unmoved by the happy vault, second rate dealings, ledger books. The blank page is full of accounting tricks, Zeroes multiply zeroes, His khaki trousers are stained, his cap gets soaked by its own fire The rice bowl is empty again. Handcuffs bind them together. 'Pull at the rope pull down the king's bust.' The cop reads the newspaper at Bangabhavan's gate, in attention The wind gets blown inside the Secretariat, files move, cops salute. But Teknaf and Tetulia and the woods of Sundarban are gone. When the mid-flanks swell over, the leader can measure his crowd. The cop reads the newspaper in the Parliament building. Unruffled. Translated by Syed Manzoorul Islam

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FIFTY SIX IS NO GREAT AGE, WHEN YOU CAN'T BE WET Deep fried rain will get into sleep this dusk-night evening Potato-potol smell dipped in hyacinth bog would give some warmth, Much hastened from a haunted house to a ditch house Hanging a basket on the neck of a wheel and singing The Buriganga will tilt to give a swing, there will be a downpour A drip-if stem-plucked mango is hand mixed with rice The cow calf is hesitant to feed from the haystack The impatient rice-pop khoi pops out in hand-milked milk Fried munching rain drops on the clean plate. The concert went on skewing mushroom on the fried rain The Germans are said to tribally see the issue of hormone Thus a slap from the hand palm and obstinacy of the rain Swimming the width of Dulaikhal arriving at Dhanmondi Swamps the chests of cognac and orange And together with kodom-flower, the lilies finger grey hair Goes and comes in the breathe of flood. This dusk-night the bright red ripe rain and overwhelmed concert If stair-overcome-kiss and mustard marinated Ilish become used Lips spill blood; teenage girls become menstrual: Fifty six is no great age, when you can't be wet. Translated by Quader Mahmud

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TIGER Imprisoned within black bars The two eyes of a black tiger watches for twenty one years. It only sees the knife thrower's game, The sleights of hand, and the monkey's trick. This tiger once roamed free in the jungle, It loved the deep sylvan shadows, Water, brimming and shining, the free wind. This tiger loved the harvest on the field, Dewey with the seat of labour, The dropping fruit trees, flower pollens. This tiger talked a lot about himself, Sang songs to be alive, like one's own self. But a hunter one day, leased the whole forest, The tip of the knife became moist And then wet with fresh blood. And interned within the cage A continent's time increases but truth increases even more. The cage of the tiger increases, Black and white skins are incensed. The tiger sees the earth, The snake's tongue sees the flame. The tiger sees death, and death itself then looks at life. Translated by Afsan Chowdhury

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A PAINTING OF HUMANITY With a gush of cold air from Africa's woodlands I have come to meet you; With a can of milk from Australia I have come to your abode; would you let me sit for a while? I have chocolates, cashew nuts from South America, clothes and toys from Europe I wish to live in amity with you all. I am the green of Bangladesh I offer you the silt-filled crop-fields to sit. Love for hand extended anytime, care on every stride, Eat some rice and fish; from within dreams bring out a bit of broad sky, where a whole picture of humanity is painted life and science. Translated by Quader Mahmud

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MOHAMMAD NURUL HUDA

Mohammad Nurul Huda (born on 30 September, 1949, Cox's Bazar) is a leading Bengali poet of international repute in today's Bangladesh with more than 100 titles published to his credit. His poetry books are above sixty in number including his 'Kabyasomogro' ('Collected Poems' in Bengali) and 'Selected Poems' (in English Translation). His poems have been translated into many international languages including English, French, German, Swedidh, Russian, Arabic, Urdu, Hundi etc. He has won more than fifty awards at home and abroad including the Bangla Academy Literary Award, the Poet of International Merit (ISP, USA), the Tripura State Award (India), the Mahadiganta Award (India), the President's Honour (Turkey), the Ekushey Padak etc. He also organizes a poetry festival called Darianagar Kabita Mela (Darianagar Poetry Fair) at an interval of one to two years. He can be reached at poetnurulhuda@gmail.com

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THE RAFT-JOURNEY UPSTREAM Nothing is to be put aside, because It was your choice, this journey by raft It did not scare you, rather you thought It was possible to make it to the end; So under the moon and the sun and on This roofless raft, O you mermaid You have come to this port. Your throbbing youth itself is a treasure More valuable than gold and silver and The fruits and devotional offerings; To the gambler fisherman you are a Big fish, the water-son has forgotten the The principles of crystal water. They all lick your lovely body and look for hidden treasure He casts his lusty looks at your audacious nipples And your bursting thighs, But you are careless, buried deep in yourself, And you don't see the great war between Two goddesses with you in the middle. You don't care for either victory or defeat, Your only pledge is to get all the way to heaven.

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THE TRUTH ABOUT A FERTILE WOMAN Hold fast the decomposed body of your husband in your arms, O Sati! Wrap him carefully with the linen you are wearing, When the form vanishes, go seek him in the formless, Draw his unbroken form like a faultless painter. Conflict is primordial truth, more so is light And its material form drawn in abstract lines; At day's end burns the funeral pyre and incense hangs in houses; The earth's son and daughter make up the dĂŠcor of this life. The truth of your dreams too lies in shadows and illusions, With your human hands you are to set up a home; You have many things to gain, nothing to lose, Saplings from boiled paddy are wanted, that's your part of the deal. Sun and rain on earth sustain a continued fertility, A fertile woman is true, drought is just ephemeral.

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ONLY ON CONDITION OF POWER Does the magic wand turn men into vampire ascetics? Does the cruel ascetic disguise himself as Lakhindar ? Blessed by the goddess, does anyone make bold to violate a woman? The magic wand makes the scales of justice tremble in apprehension; Who is magic, who is just, The two sisters, Neti and Padmavati, Engage in debate and go their own ways. Woman's pride is chastity, Although Padmavati wants divinity; Sati wants the life of her husband back, The goddess of serpent eyes the Olympian heights, Be it Behula, or Manasha Neither pity nor devotion moves them Audacity being their life-long passion. Homeless, penniless, childless Chandradhar merchant Has no fear, being a devotee of Shiva; He too wants to put the house of the underworld goddess in disorder. Conflict between heaven and heaven, or Between heaven and earth, being the sole aim Neither man nor gods want a welcome truce. O! they all want to win on condition of wielding power!

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BEHULA'S SARI I started where the blue sky hangs, Started where the ice-capped mountain peak stands And then Travelling days on end, Flying like winged birds I look for a house on the alluvial shores, Restless and quivering; Only the shower-drenched body of a woman Knows my true identity Across the Gangur's bend, When on the two flitting banks, The young girl dances to the rhythm of her Ghungur, Leaving behind the shadow of her adolescence, a dense bamboo clump, Undulating her breasts the thirsty urge of her youth bursts into a flame, I on her golden body Grow in numberless surges Quickly, I am a twelve cubit long cotton taant sari on the lovely body Of a Bengali woman. Seamless, joint less I am on the soft body of a woman a quivering cover, I am woven out of lyrical embroidery, Dhanekhali, Jamdani, Dorapar, Tinpar, wedding Kataan, Muslin, Tangail, Bichchapar are lovely names in which I am looked for. My journey starts from Pathrail-Roopganj, Through the sub-continent to Southeast Asia And there in every clay daubed front-yard, In every Bengali household world over They all adore me. I start my journey from the slender waist of a virgin, Touching her feet, back and shoulders, I move along her audacious breasts over her left shoulders 111

On the untouched body of a woman, I am there in rain and sun, I am a river, a painted river-like Anchol that travels on to The concourse of a woman. On the slender waist of an adolescent maid, I am a Quickly wrapped up pouch, In the bright green glow and the sparkling blue I help a young woman Set up her blissful house, On the head of a bride I am a golden touch of life's happiness And when they grow older, on the basin of a woman's body I am all a quiet grey radiating fulfilment; On the head of a mother I descend as a white blessing, To a poor housewife, I am her last savings fastened to her Anchol, A more thrifty woman would keep her household keys far away from me Across wealth and mind, I am in constant demand of a woman at every hour. On my lovely body hangs the dense green shadow of the earth, the charmed garden of a woman; in birth, death and weddings the vermillion red is my only companion. As long as the land and waters hold, As long as the ethereal sky holds, And as long as alluvial waters of Bengal keep flowing I shall be there on faithful Behula's body An emblem of woman's dignity.

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WHITEPAPER ON BACHELORHOOD Flora,

how long have you been anxiously waiting in time's gay courtyard? Look at this tree in the dusky gloom, at the lovely art-work on its clustering leaves. It is but an ancient image of our earth at whose feet I sit. I sit here, Flora, an undefiled hermit at the top of a towering hill. Down below stretch dense forests full of pines, orange groves and apricot trees. Alongside, life's twin lakes flow, deep and mysterious. Like a hunter's arrow these scenes fly before my eyes while sorely wounded I sit here a bleeding sinner. Flora, you have blossomed in the blue night of happy times, you whisper into the ears of the wind. Or, are you writing in perfumed green ink the silent history of some other maiden? I do not understand what you say, as if I were stupid. I do not hear what you utter, as if were deaf. I do not see anything of your history, as if I were blind.

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Flora,

I am blind, deaf and stupid, a sleepless sinner of the earth with no interest in history or geography. With steady eyes I keep staring at the virgin land, the whitepaper of my bachelorhood lies open, a divine pen attached to my body. Flora,

I do not write a word. I only get drenched in nature's blue deluge. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

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JAHIDUL HUQ

Born in 1949. Poet, short story writer, lyricist and novelist. His major works are: Pocket Bhorti Megh, Neel Dutabash, Tomar Homer, Parigusccha O Onnano Kabita, Balconygulo, Premke Korechi Bari etc. Honoured by the Bangla Academy Award. He worked for Bangladesh Betar (Radio) as Deputy Director General and spent valuable time in Deutsche Welle as senior editor. He is well travelled.

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SEEING OFF You are leaving. So leave. But think For once, before paying for the fare, You're not really going anywhere. Why leave? What would you add To that empty distance? Mumble instead at the ticket-counter, 'Please give me the passage to nowhere. I've travelled for many a days between Inside and out, between dream and wakefulness ; May be this time I'll go on a hideout'. You are leaving. So leave. As you Pull out of the station, think of what You may have left behind On the platform of silence, Like someone's waving a hand, fading away, Then turning up in the station-vendor's box On the sheen of his apples and grapes. Think for once whether or not You're leaving behind any keepsake. You are leaving, well, leave. It is that time of a limping day. At the station, on a day of leave-taking, It is not nice to stop anyone saying, 'No', It is not fair to plead, 'Stay'. Neither must one say, 'Stop' to the river Even when, far away in the distance, The shore-slides into the water With a deep thud. It is uncouth to make placards Out of tattered sadness and display them At the terminal on the eve of departure. It is no good saying, 'Do not de-anchor On this pale afternoon'. 116

No use saying, 'Stay, please, Dear silver-winged aeroplane, Leave tomorrow. Why not let yet another Sunrise drink a glass of champagne In your warm company '! But I know, it is ominous to say so. You are leaving, so leave. In the drought Of my dream, whenever I see trains, They seem to be leaving, always. None returning. Nor do I ever see any Aircraft afloat on the leeward wind. Never a ship mooring here. There is nothing in my heart That can define your meaning Except you yourself. Is that why I feel sad on this odd day Having caught your sight In the departure lounge? I utter to myself, 'Woe me, what a sad hour'! In the imaginary customs section, There are a few beholden to my heart Who want to stop you from leaving. They look for mistakes in your passport. Biting their fussed lips In a show of disapproval, they go through Your luggage looking for wondrous gold, Documents of pacts made, and names, Names written on blue paper. Meanwhile, the day goes by, Damp with memory. I see on the bridge of forgetfulness My own trembling shadow.

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That is why it is not right To say, 'Stay'. I would rather you whisper, 'Here I am. Keep this place of Deep shadow in your solitary space. Keep it a dark secret. Keep it with care. Even if I go, how far can I go'? Translated by Farida Majid

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MEN DIGGING This is the way men dig the earth And their golden dream of crops. They keep digging their land, And above the land, their homes In order to come back to their own pain And sorrow, to their own cornices. They ask of themselves : 'O Man, O saddened man, when will you turn Into some other kind of man ? The song that remains sleepless in the dark Is mistaken by you as light ; And you chant eternally in praise of light . And how you lament forever , Why , Man , why do you go on weeping ?' Men keep on digging the earth And most of their dreams around them. Yet , what are all the reasons For all this digging ? Translated by Farida Majid

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FROM PARIS-BUNCH LOUVRE O Louvre, please nestle cumulated sorrows within Or, glorify monologues with brightness proper; In your midst, frozen tears of the century Exist in rows in sculptures or in paintings. Please retain the folded history with care And cosmic eyes for numberless dreams : In flocks of tourists and in dust of talents, In flashing of cameras and in sinking soliloquies, MONA LISA The glow of your smiling lips emits sadness ; Reasons of sadness not known. Why in your eyes Do you store chocked emotions of the soul ? In your smile there's a deep insight into Visions of mankind soaked in tears down the ages, There exist anger and sweet songs of discord : The joy I've brought with me to see you here today Gets mixed up with sadness on my mind! The ages seem to be the sentinels of sorrows; And, you? You're the festive gala of inner mourning!

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CHAMPS-ELYEES GRACED BY THE FULL-MOON Champs-Elysees was graced by the full-moon last night ; The bright blue moon, as it was, Rodin's contours Over flooded her generously. And then, The moon had eloped me there to emit A prodigy of dreams and fancies all over Paris. O moon, the full-moon, you're like the soul Which digs itself out in meaningless melancholy To make ditches to be sated with frustrations; The soul that beams out holy tranquil moonlight Down the panes of buildings on the bemused night: The lamp-post extends its arms to you for a hug, Eves' painted faces reflect fine arts, glossy, A poet's patience culminates in serene sculptures In your beam, erotic art of a gay even Turns eloquent with meter and rhythm; Life and violence sublimate in art proper. Translated by Alfaz Tarafder

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ABID AZAD

Abid Azad was born in 1952 and died in 2005. Poet and Editor. His poetry books includes Ghaser Ghatana, Amar Mon Kemon Kore, etc.

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THEME A magpie robin is perching within thought. The lonely man lighted a cigarette Stooping like a tamarisk tree, The fire of the match-stick glowed in his folded palms Like the silvery radiance of the blazing stars: He splashed his face with water From under the surface of the pond Shoving the carpet of motionless water hyacinth Transparent and soft like green plastic. The transparent cold water, the glow of the solitary star Clung to his sad chin, his exhaustion, for a while Like a piece of linen cloth. Then in the cold December evening Dry leaves lay frozen in the avenue, And in the red-blue bright neon light Banyan leaves were dropping on the bonnet, The pink windscreen of a shining car Parked on the other side of the road The man immersed in thought is walking along His one hand in his coat's pocket Has forgotten the existence of it's fingers, While the shining evening stars have turned into ashes Within the cupped palm of the other He is heading for a lonelier street where the winter noon is shining Like sparkling brass utensils Where within the park he will make a fire Out of the dry leaves To bake the shadowy magpie robin In the fire surrounded by mist Translated by Saidur Rahman 123

THE SUNSET HUNTERS Why did you visit the sea shore Accompanied by the three sunset hunters ? In fact they craved to see the glow of the setting sun In your face and eyes, Rather than enjoying the sunset. Why did you climb the hill top with them? In fact they desired to hear the roar of the sunset From within the cup of your palms, Rather than enjoying the sunset from the hill top, One of them was carrying a shining black camera Like a weapon of the primitive age, Another was carrying a bag that contained A flask and pocketful of dry lunch, The third one had a record player with some cassettes Taped with the gasps of pleasurable sensation At the peak moment of copulation Just reaching the sea shore They gazed at the setting sun and raised a hullaballo, Like a commotion raised by stone-age men At the sight of the meat of a singed deer By the cave's fire at night. Just in that style one of them flashed his camera And took the snap of your nude shins Another bit a chunk off a dainty bread and threw it at you ; The third one turned on the record player to a loud tune. The three encircled you like three hills And began to dance in lonely pleasure. After that they returned to the city With your groaning taped in a cassette. Translated by Saidur Rahman

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GRENADE Violence is not for violence's sake, I say from love, I spring from love. In some eyes, anger lies deep down Outside the man appears as quiet as a gentle lake But anger remains inside him around his heart. The anger was not for anger's sake, I fought for love Blood is not spilled for spilling's sake ; For love's sake, I pulled out from below the gullet A grenade which I hid in my grip. There is a sensitive feeling heart inside a grenade, War isn't just for war's sake, I kept a lovely grenade in my grip, for I meant it as a birthday present for you. Translated by Tassaddoque Hussain

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NASIR AHMED

Born in 1952. Poet, journalist, novelist, short story writer, playwright. His major works include Akulata Shuvratar Janya, Tomakei Ashalata, Brikhamangal, Valobasher Eiepathe, etc. He has been honoured by Bishnu Dey Purashkar, Jibanananda Purashkar and many more. Honoured by the Bangla Academy Award.

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PERPETUAL SILENCE You wanted silence from the thirst A little movement was needed For two of us to the same target Moon called the night, saying - O night, How much solitude you are in In the dark moon? Night didn't replay Thirst and solitude Both run to meet each other Moon and Sun still immersed in solitude. Am I the thirst? Or are you solitude? Or after hundreds of queries Which didn't break The perpetual silence Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman

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WHAT I DIDN'T SAY What I didn't say ever before I couldn't utter that even today I tried to explain my inability Whatever unspoken words remained Pervading artworks like bruises and pains You've sprinkled bitter taste of separation Keep on giving those all the times You didn't make me happy Nor did you make the tree fruit-bearing With all these complaints I remained silent I myself made all dreams come to an end. Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman

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ONE DAY THIS DAY One day there was blooming rose in the breath Eyes were full of rains of moon-beams I've love in this heart: key of belief Any heart could be opened with it. Eager ears could hear the songs of the ocean But only you are not present. Now corpse of memory Encompasses my entire vision Sunlight is covered with black wings of time Only I have a banner of confusion in my hand Now ears can hear announcement of the thunder only Today the dreams will be shattered But now you are standing in front of my doors! Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman

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JAHANGIR FEROZE

The poet Jahangir Feroze was born in 1955, he is one of the renowned poets of Bangladesh. By profession he is a journalist. He has nine books of poetry books to his credit. They are Bandho Matal Rode, Sera Tukro Megh, Mouri Boner Batash etc.

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FLOWERS WITHER FROM BOSOM Clusters of Hijal flowers wither on golden chains hanging from trees and keep floating in the river. the flowers' destination is unknown to us. We keep fishing floating in the river of memories, flowers and Puti fish clad in saris are caught in the net, the moon shines on the bodies of the fishes, the moon and the fishes play in the net. I am hidden within a fish; sleep is ruined at the rippling of water we remember we go on cultivating within our bosoms, our bosoms hold rivers, fishes and Hijal trees. Flowers drop in the river and drift away; we but forget that we move like rivers our bosoms do not hold even the smell of water. Flowers too get rotten drifting in the river water they do not give off fragrance. Fishes dwell within our bosoms, Attar smears the fishy persons, flowers wither in our bosoms. Translated by Saidur Rahman

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FIRST FLAME Beyond the limits of words the feelings have found shelter In a life book On the last leaf of that epic tome is writ large the magic of my touch Thorny Nata, Sofeda, Jamrul Redolent of my adolescence wild khoi and bunch of red berries resembling goat droppings Red ants of desire and apathy roam around Their bites turned into words in the foreword of biography Venus figure of Boticelli as if taking form in flesh and blood Came out of the far side of the room The sound of her wet clothes tightly wrapped around her body opened the door of wonder within the heart of night The first flame touched the profoundest string After many a springs, that first Falgun Again came into bud with your sincere touch. Translated by Syed Fattahul Alim

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INSCRUTABLE, THOU Inscrutable, Thou I am so close to you, yet so far The warmth of your body calls the impalpable bird With the drop of sweat on its beak We two try to grasp it transgressing the limit But she slips away into the deep of the green. The individual trees, the creepers I visualize. But the totality, the green, still eludes my senses. The bird of the eye fleeting past my vision, But the bird still flies beyond. I am so close to you, yet so far, You are here, but no where can I find you, Your belongings left behind, the train of self has returned, So close, why do you live so close to me! Translated by Fattahul Alim

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THE HOUSE OF LONELINESS An eerie darkness has draped the house. A solitary dog, overcome by loneliness, Lounges in the parched porch, Its mouth resting on its paws, Hopefully, ever so hopefully, Awaiting the return of its master The dog is loneliness. This house, by now a symbol of solitude, Belongs to me. Translated by Afzal H. Khan

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I HAVE WRITTEN YOUR NAME THROUGHOUT MY SKY Whatever little sky had been in my heart I have written your name covering the whole of it; whatever little air accumulates in my heart I have taken your odour with full extent. Whatever these eyes have seen Your enchanting picture prevails three fourth of it, Whatever I hear Your sweet voice only rings Wiping out everything Whatever I want to think You acquire the whole of it. If someone other's name is written in your sky then I shall be a North-Western; If your sky is flooded with amazing azure I shall be the array of clouds in Autumn. Whatever little sky remained in my heart you've acquired the whole of it, Had there been scope once only To peep into the sky of you! Translation by Tapan Kumar Maity

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MUHAMMAD SAMAD

Muhammad Samad was born in 1956. Professsor in the Dhaka University. President Bangladesh Poetry Council. His poetry books include Ekjan Rajnaitik Netar Menifesto (Manifesto of a Political Leader), Selected Poems (bi-lingual), Premer Kabita (Love Poems) Kabitasangraha (Selected Collection of Poems), Aamar Duchokh Jala Vore (My Eyes get Wetted in Tears) Jay Aaj Sharater Akashe Purnima (The Full Moon in the Autumn Sky) Cholo, Tumul Bristite Bhiji (Let Us Be Drenched in Torrential Rain), Podabe Chandan Kaath (Will Burn Sandal Wood) etc. Poems of Muhammad Samad have been translated into many language that include Chinese, Greek, English, Swedish, Sinhalese. He has received number of awards for his contribution to Bengali poetry and literature.

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CROW I find it difficult to make out the behavior of the crows of Ted Huges1, They are somehow post-modern. The crows of Bengal are eternal like my simple mother. All through they talk about our good and bad, Hold meetings for freeing the world from garbage, And in the light of policy-decisions, they fly and run in sun and rain; and at the correct moment they broadcast their forecasts of danger. So, I love the crows of Bengal. All morning-crows are my younger sisters. They awaken my daughters and seat them at reading-tables. They send my father to the eastern sky with a plough, and call my soft mother to bow in prayer. They shout out to the world and say â&#x20AC;Ś Sister, get up and keep well - our throats are about to burst crowing, right now they will bleed! Translated by Kajal Bondyopadhyay 1

Ted Huges was Poet Laureate of England.

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TREE: ONE See time's nail is here pierced through my palm. Dig into my youth, and see how beautiful and blind is this furious burning, this life-giving love - this deep faith of the earth! Unfold the layers of my body, and see how brightly shines the plough's blade there like the sixty-four arts of love-making of Vatsyayana2, and there the gandham3 fruit. The pleasant episodes of the golden earth are only the noble epic of ancient blood - a storm, everything that makes the poet with his firm faith on fire and his roots dug deep into stone. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury 2

Mallanaga Vatsyayana authored the Kamasutra, an ancient Indian text on love in Sanskrit literature.

According to Islam, it is the name of a fruit of Heaven for eating which Adam and Eve fell in disgrace.

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TREE: SIX Maiden, you are a firefly; Glow in the sky of my body-Green leaves will shelter you. Go on sleeping all day long in a soft breeze; The cowboys will bring home their herd; Twilight will spread its spell in the village alleys; In the eyes of village belles; The wet saris4 will scatter drops of beauty on the dusty roads; From the mud-built mosques, muezzins Shall pour the fountain of mellifluous voice; Holding lamps in their conch-white hands, Women with vermilion on their partings Shall blow on the conches with their soft lips, And spread the Lakshmi5's mat in the yard. Maiden, you are a firefly; Glow in the sky of my body-Green leaves will shelter you. Translated by K Ashraf Hossain 4 5

Traditional wear of Indian and Bengali women. The Hindu Goddess wealth

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LOVE GROWS IN DARKNESS Love grows in darkness - love grows as it gets dark In darkness love lies with the beloved in its arms In darkness love rumbles all night long like the clouds of Ashaar 6 In darkness love throbs impatiently at every point of its million hairs In darkness love quietly treads along a thorny bush. In darkness love shudders as it smells the long tresses of its beloved In darkness love runs gurgling like a mountain brook In darkness love kisses the kaash 7 blossoms by the river bank In darkness love drips on the beloved body under the shewli 8 tree In darkness love entwines itself around the beloved's neck and throat and all her limbs In darkness love knocks its head a begging at the golden door of heaven's den Love grows in darkness - love grows as it gets dark Translated by Kabir Chowdhury 6

The third month of the Bengali calendar year. A kind of white, light flower that blooms in autumn, mostly on a river-bank. 8 A small, white, sweet-scented flower of autumn with lovely soft petals. 7

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I WOULD EMBRACE YOU NOW I would embrace you now In this fool moon's night In this sweet surrounding-The body is overwhelming, Glittering diamond everywhere, red globules of fire-Why should not I receive you! It's me who woke you up loved you with body and soul you are the Droupadi 9- Krishnaa 10 you are the waxing fortnight you are River Shipra 11 you are love, water and light You are the red globules of fire Why should I not embrace you! 9

Droupadi is the heroine of the epic Mahabharata. Here is another name of Droupadi. 11 A sacred river of southern India mentioned in the Mahabharata. 10

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KAMAL CHOWDHURY

Kamal Chowdhury was born in 1957. He stepped into the world of poetry with his youthful and defiant verses in mid-seventies. His first collection of poetry Michhiler Soman Boyosi (As Old As the Procession) was published in 1981. He has published seventeen books of poems including the collections titled Arrived at My Dawn (Echechi Nijer Bhore); The Lightening Cloud (Ei Megh Biddute Bhara); Sunshine, Rain and Harmony (Rod Brishti Antyamil); Oh Soil, the Earth-son (He Maati Prithibiputra) etc. He has a PhD in Anthropology. Kamal Chowdhury has received several awards that including the Bangla Academy Award.

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BLACK AND WHITE All the land-home of man-is white. Some don't call white a colour. Even the rainbow is happy without it. But our children's school shirt is white, White is the pigeon of peace And paper, the birthplace of poems, is white too. Yet we are still black and white In the land of the black! The good thing with the white is You can turn it red, whenever you wish, And black of course. Translated by Tapan Shahed

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A FAIRY TALE On the tree of the dead I hanged A white pigeon that you call peace. And I summon this magic realism To tie the warmth of the feathers With the body of a withered leaf. And the child-manuscripts overwhelm the godforsaken lands To fly on a strange carpet To the clouds emerged from a magician's hands. There hang the dreams of the dead From the fairy tale trees My hanging peace, O peace, I keep writing these fairy tales To journey through the clouds of life. Translated by Tapan Shahed

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THE UNKNOWN It was only dawn and the rain came. Rain bathed me, but I never forgot the dust In my overwhelming sleep, And I passed wakeful nights, of course, Here blood is on my shirt, but never Any afternoon came to wipe that off. No, there was a girl! But She said, 'I am somebody else.' Unknown wind haunts your dreams When you long for herYour home can forget you, and the faces Of the people you know can look like masks Sold in a village fair! The neighbourhood I live in Is quite a townThe boys there are Derrida-readers And the girls distant and beyond reading... Translated by Tapan Shahed

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DISTANCE This winter makes me humble Because we shed leaves And you, sitting by the morning Write a song of love On a withered leaf. Meanwhile, I learned to deceive To turn into a mere reader The daily dust of our life Carries the soul of a long-dead stream From the heart of words... Translated by Tapan Shahed

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FOOT PRINTS Witness to each other, we walked through glowing sands. far from any human abode Dhaleswari, in your wide wide field, barren and desert-like, in your sandy shoal drenched in fog our foot-prints spread like a procession. That was 8 p.m. of biting cold On our muffler, pull-over, pantaloon and shoes. We walked as we ignored its paws Our hair and eyes drenched in fog Our feet sinking in white sands we walked and walked on Sometimes in cyclic order, sometimes on the middle finger In a few minutes thousands of our foot-prints awoke in glowing sands Dhaleswari, they awoke in your physique, barren and waterless. Dhaleswari, would you never know who left all these footprints? O full moon, O winter O biting cold wind drenched in wintry fog Be witness to us all If Dhaleswari ever asks, tell her Three sentiment bound young men loved to leave all these foot-prints. We walked in childlike ecstasy, in an all-pervading manner We collected handful of sands and sprinkled them around We know, once this waterless barren river will flow to its brim 147

like the lyrics of Jibanananda Dhaleswari, the memory of your contact, inundated, once will grow into full Bangladesh Three young men shall go floating through out the whole of Bengal. Translated by Muhammad Nurul Huda

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TARIK SUJAT

Tarik was born in 1965. He studied Political Science at the University of Dhaka, where he had a distinctive role in the cultural movement against the military rule in the late eighties. His awareness of contemporary socio-political realities remains unabated as he keeps progressing in poetry with his unique experiences. Tarik Sujat emerged in the landscape on modern Bengali poetry in the 1980s. His mastery of lyric produces appealing music in poetry. By profession he is an award-winning graphic designer and an entrepreneur in the field of design and media. He has five publications to his credit. For his poetry, Tarik was honoured with the prestigious Krittibash Award from India.

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THE MYTH OF THE STREETS Bearing countless tyre tracks on its chest The songs of this city will cease one day. In dazzling midday sun, dropped feathers of birds lying on the tarred-streets will croon the fact: once, here, in this city of peace, besides men birds did dwell. Alas! Birds dived into extinction in the blue waters of eternity; a group of doctrinaire men keep looking for the magic key to urban civilization in desolate barren stretches. Translated by Shuborna Chowdhury

150

COME BACK In childhood the blaze of war burnt all traces of the nomadic path ever since! At dead of night floating in the tranquil rivers couldn't behold the rays of day-break: in darkness ever since! Bloody 1975 in early youth; in a lac-house the innocent soul heard the demon's guffaws: stone deaf ever since! In youth the mangy body of politics was rife with a dictator's democracy our agitation for freedom split into two. Hues of two rivers flowing towards the sea never blend. Fallow ideological fields,

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even after fierce tilling Remain barren! Since then The identity of one generation : Obsequious The identity of one generation : Freedom-lovers Nomadic, Blind and Deaf will that generation today, at the high tide of life slide into decrepitude? Sempiternal Seventy-one!* Come, come back: restore courage to millions of freedom-loving souls! Translated by Shuborna Chowdhury *Seventy-one (1971) : In 1971, through a war of liberation Bangladesh emerged as an independent country.

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BROTHER, HEY BROTHER! Hold up the decrepit scales

and wait Brother, hey my Brother! ill-fated weights are we. Stretch out your backbone please, pull it hard. Without a spine you will receive some state award. Times and again the nation lost its honour, Brother, hey Brother! Justice said good-bye All is left is embarrassed judges.* Translated by Shuborna Chowdhury *Embarrassed judges : The trial of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, slain on 15 August 1975, was delayed as appellate judges felt "embarrassed" to hear the case.

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IN A LAND ONCE FULL OF RIVERS Bridges are more prominent than rivers pillars bigger than the bridges on the strength of the pillars men are occupying fishes' ridges. Leaders are loftier than the country, titles more than the leaders, caught in megalomania inaugural plaques are being wiped off! In this land of rivers the child floats in the streams the father himself is wandering in search of his lost child. The post-box is waiting alone for a new letter to come, ah, the letter by itself somehow reached the graveyard. Translated by Shuborna Chowdhury

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BEHULA* In a pitch-black envelope arrived the letter of light, let me translate its hues into my favourite words. Notations of eternity left heaven's path, harboured here though motion and music didn't stop. Even the dumb letters of the alphabet have spread their plumes today in ascetic, young souls, at joyous song of Behula. Translated by Shuborna Chowdhury *Behula : The devoted, loving wife in a Bengali folk-tale, who through her devotion brought her dead husband back to life.

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AMINUR RAHMAN

The poet Aminur Rahman was born on 30 October 1966. He is a well known poet in Bangladesh and abroad. His work has been translated in more than twenty five languages and he has poetry books in Spanish, German, Japanese, Mongolian, Russian, Chinese, Arabic, Malay etc. He is a renowned Translator and Art Critic of the country. A few of his poetry books are: Hridaypore Dubshatar, Thikana Kabita Dighir Par, Bhalobasha O Onnanno Kobita, etc, Compact disk of recitation, Solitary Dependence. He has translated thirteen books of poetry and edited a few poetry magazines and books. He has represented Bangladesh in the Poetry Festival in Colombia, Malaysia, Mongolia, India, Japan, Nicaragua etc. He was Awarded the Chinggish Khaan Gold Medal (2006), Heaven Horse Award (2015) in Mongolia, Numera World Award of Letters (2016) in Malaysia, Contribution Award (2016) in Taiwan.

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THE SCULPTURE From the mist's dense cape I carve your body's shape -gently sculpting, all morning. With my eyes shut, I sit amid the fog's heavy sheets as its frost settles on my cheek, ear, and nose. The same hands, the same lips, the same eyes -I find them with such ease -Your torso floats on that river; I shall conquer its flow. Your figure blossoms, freeing itself, leaving behind sun's light and fog's ephemeral body. You're entwined with my soul -its root, plinth, and depth. Translated by Sudeep Sen

157

SOLITARY DEPENDENCE Very little, can hurt me these days, my grief's address lives on forever. My solitary dependence awakens at midnight, I feel the cold under my feet; my eyes, wide open, see the endless expanse encompassing a courtyard-space of existence, just your shadow. Who are you? Who are you? Sometimes you feel familiar, at other times, unfamiliar. Sometimes the play-of-light lives in you, at other times, only pre-dawn's darkness. Sometimes you seem so simple, at other times, full of doubt. Sometimes you seem to be in this world, at other times, in some other. Sometimes you are child-like, at other times, just endlessly silent. Who are you? Who are you? The night trembles, the heart flutters like leaves whispering to the breeze. The waves stir on the placid river, the fish are motionless, and the stars weave dreams. Who are you? Who are you?

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Engulfed in a soundless world, I sit alone as the ruddy-night bleeds away. Another night arrives, moves, moves on, turns back to whisper its suicidal urges. Who are you? Who are you? Very little, can hurt me these days, my grief's address lives on forever. Translated by Sudeep Sen

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FULL MOON NIGHT I have carried love from the desert I have carried love from the sea I have carried love from the mountain I have carried my love too! Which address will I post! Moon, dream, endless time, where! Which addresses do you belong to! North, south, east, west, where! It is too heavy to carry It is heavier now with music It is heavier now with memories It is heavier now with desire Which address will I post! I have asked your address from enormous green! I have asked your address from white snow! I have asked your address from the waterfall! Nobody knows your address! I have kept all loves in the sky Surrounded by glittering stars Just next to the moon! In a full moon night you can find them there! When you can hear the music of the river When you can get the smell of roses When you can feel the breeze on your face In a full moon night you can take them!

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CINDERELLA You have appeared to me at midnight! When I have closed all my dream doors When I can hear the sound of darkness Suddenly you have appeared to me Appeared out of fairly tales just like Cinderella Thousand years I have been waiting for Waiting with my empty basket of a dream. When I have asked the air, 'where you are?' When I have asked the night 'where you are?' When I have asked the moon 'where you are?' Every one said 'I don't know' Suddenly the air whispered in my ear 'Yes, she is coming!' And you have appeared to me from fairly tales You questioned me 'why are you awake at midnight?' I told you 'I was trying to find a dream' I also told you 'I would like to open my dream's doors' A few minutes you were with me Until we enjoyed the music 'love can make us alive' Suddenly you vanished Vanished from air, ether and from everywhere! I was trying and trying to find you But you were invisible, incredible but immiscible I could not find you anywhere You have disappeared ruthlessly to save me But every moment killed me a thousand times Bleeding night passed on with heart murmur.

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SELF-WILLED EXILE I longed to sit side by side till eternity You and I were travelling together With the luggage of a dream Wandering along I felt like touching your hand You said "you will not touch me" With mesmerized eyes I glanced at your exquisite lips You said "turn aside your look" So many days rolled into a year or more Poetry has been forbidden for me I have led a life ostracized from poetry I am taking food, walking along and talking to you Tell me correctly am I really in exile Or totally steeped in the realm of poesyMay be I have scarcely written a line of verse All these days But I dwell in the abode of poesy My address is still the same - Stand of unfathomable ocean of poetry Where windy doors remain open Where bliss trickles down from green leaves Where water birds descend from clouds I live there And dwell in depths deeper than a dream Where it is possible to be in communion with my soul I live there I shall remain there till eternity Let that life be a life of exile from poetry. Translated by A Z M Haider 162

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PETER HORN was born in Teplitz-Schönau (Czechia), grew up in Germany and emigrated with his parents to South Africa. He studied German and English Literature at the University of the Witwatersrand. He has published 7 volumes of poetry, Voices from the Gallows Trees. Ophir (1969); Walking through our sleep. Ravan Press (1974); Silence in Jail. Poems. Scribe Press (1979); The Civil War Cantos. Scribe Press (1987); Poems 1964-1989 (Ravan Press 1991); An Axe in the Ice (COSAW) 1992; The Rivers which connect us to the past, Mayibuye 1996, two collection of short stories, My Voice is under control now, (Kwela 1999), and Walking the Road of Death (Geko 2014) and two collection of essays, Writing my Reading and On the Margin of One/Many Languages. His poems have been translated in many languages. He has also published extensively on literary theory and German literature, including books on Thomas Bernhard, Franz Kafka, the German novel since 2000, 3 books on Heinrich von Kleist, Hölderlin, Rainer Maria Rilke, Paul Celan. Peter Horn taught at the German School, Johannesburg, the University of the Witwatersrand, the University of Zululand, he was professor of German at the University of Cape Town (1964-1999) and is now Honorary Research Professor at the University of the Witwatersrand. ANETTE HORN was born in Cape Town, studied German literature and English literature at the University of Cape Town. Her Ph.D. (1998) was on the topic Nietzsches concept of décadence. Critique and analysis of modernity. (Published 2000). She has published books on Peter Horn, Thomas Bernhard, Franz Kafka, the German novel since 2000, Heinrich von Kleist, Jean Paul, Rainer Maria Rilke, the 18th century cosmopolites, Anna Seghers, and Nietzsche and a collection of essays on modern German literature, essays amongst others on Anna Seghers, Nietzsche, Musil, Uwe Timm, Jürgen Fuchs. and on South African literature. She was from 1997 - 2000 a Lecturer: German for Beginners, Department of Extramural Studies, UCT; Teaching Assistant, German for Musicians at the Opera School, UCT; 2000/2002 Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung: (Post-Doc), 2003 - 2004 Senior Lecturer (German) in the Department of Modern European Languages, University of Pretoria. 2005 - 2010. Associate Professor, 2010 - present Professor, German, School of Literature and Language Studies, University of the Witwatersrand.

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SHAMSUR RAHMAN ALAUDDIN AL AZAD SYED SHAMSUL HUQ AL MAHMUD FAZAL SHAHABUDDIN SHAHEED QUADRI SIKDER AMINUL HUQUE HAYAT SAIF RAFIQ AZAD ASAD CHOWDHURY AL MUJAHEEDY MAHADEV SAHA RABIUL HUSAIN NIRMALENDU GOON ABUL HASAN HABIBULLAH SIRAJEE MOHAMMAD NURUL HUDA JAHIDUL HUQ ABID AZAD NASIR AHMED JAHANGIR FEROZE MUHAMMAD SAMAD KAMAL CHOWDHURY TARIK SUJAT AMINUR RAHMAN

Edition Delta

Stuttgart| Germany

ISBN 978-3-927648-60-9