Mohammad Nurul Huda on Ekushey February

মুহম্মদ নূরুল হুদা

21 FebThis is the Ekushey day — recalling the 21st of February
The day when a stirred-up race erupted incandescently
And till now, that day in Bengali minds shines brilliantly.

It’s a day for morning processions and bare-feet walks
For crimson-lined white saris and pinned black badges
For grieving people with bosoms bearing history’s burdens

The day is all about the mother tongue and mother earth’s gifts
It is all about promoting harmony and humanity’s happiness
And reminding people everywhere about loving languages

This is the day when all mothers won—their children as well
A day of condolence meets, silence and of victory eternal
Ekushey is the day of victors and of champions one can tell (More…)

Suraiya Akter Risha

Sanjida sumaiya

risha_edThe date was 24th August……
Breaking hour of Willis little Flower
As usual the street became thick of, navy blue and white
As usual a blooming flower Risha stepped out

Maybe she ate a plate of Fuchka with her friends,
Maybe she laughed her head off on a silly joke,
Maybe that was the last smile on her lips,
Maybe, who knows?

But one thing for sure is, she was being watched
Watched by dark eyes of evil
Watched by some blood –thirsty animal,

Risha, one of many young girls went up the foot-over bridge
Maybe she was in a group of other girls,
May be she was alone,
Maybe she saw the shiny-pointy tip of knife
Before she got stabbed
Again and again and again! (More…)

Two Poems

Ehsan Imdad

Homeless Papa Columbus

Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma
Fought in Vietnam War
Lives under the sky in Manhattan
Like all of us
Except for a roof at night

Sleeps on yesterday’s New York Times
Covering his body with DHL boxes
Under the deepest blue sky
A meadow of winking stars
He also parties with three winos
And a retired prostitute
“Night train” & “Thundered bird”
Dollar a bottle
Nickels, Dimes, and Quarters
Party gets glamorous

Great news! Aristocratic dogs
Left their food nose upturned, to boot.
They run with watering mouths

An ignorant question to the President
Did we must?

Tribute to My America of Quarter Century

(Dedicated to President Bill Clinton)

Christopher Columbus sails his ship through
Native Americans’ veins

George Washington
Crosses the many rivers of my soul

Oh, yeah, George Bush keeps warning me
Jesus is coming

And Howard Stern keeps reminding me
To use water in toilet (More…)

Shudhiranjan and the early morning train

Mir Waliuzzaman

‘I’ve to catch the early morning train, wake me up at dawn’-
Saying so, Shudhiranjan stepped into the water.

This is Shudhiranjan, waves kiss his hands and feet,
Floral green motifs on the end of a sari dance in his view, a pair of bracelets adorns
An ethereal shape supine—spread out in water, on landmass,
A civil posture indeed.

Waves rise and fall, rhyming with the steam engine’s shrilly call
At a distance–
A python hisses in every cell of the brains,
Swallows without compunction—all happy portraits, sonic Memories nocturne, exquisite utensils cast in metals!

Behold, the engine has broken speed alongside the platform,
Holding the world within its carriages,
Pale visage rubs against the misty panes,
Sons and daughters, father and mother,
Languishing locks of hair, a feline profile exudes coital bliss,
Eager, indifferent.

Waves curb themselves on the ancient, timeworn ebony quay,
As the dawn train slams on the brakes; from abysmal depths
Someone blows the compulsive whistle, Shudhiranjan slips down and
Down; the platform looks deserted, water sport terminates,
Shudhiranjan the aquanaut surfaces like a Poseidon!

Bangla original: Habibullah Shirajee
English version: Mir Waliuzzaman

On Behula’s Raft

Khondakar Ashraf Hossain

(A part of Bangali mythology, the Behula-Lakhindar story is the reverse of the Orpheus-Eurydice myth: here the wife seeks to bring back her husband, who died of snakebite as a result of the wrath of a vengeful goddess, from the domain of death. Behula, the wife, floats on a raft with her husband’s deadbody along the rivers of Bengal and reaches the court of god Indra, where she pleads for her husband’s resurrection. )


Why did you touch me, Behula, my Bangladesh?
For an aeon I have been afloat on your raft
supine on my skeletal bed, nursed by your tears–
Why did you awaken me after all these years from my
long sleep
— Sleep, that enchantress wrapped in so much magic,
with so much effulgence in her folds!

Waking, I saw darkness dissolve like water around the oar
and you holding my head in your palms
amidst the ceaseless splash–
I didn’t greet you with ‘good morning’;
I rather hurled a curse at you like Durbasha, the sage:
“May blindness overtake you, may the showers of light
never impregnate you, may you lie on,
unconscious like all your rivers!”

At your touch my body now raises its cobra-like head;
In my veins the simmering heat of Jaishtha looks for
dry grass
As though it would kindle an immense bushfire from a spark
Or, in momentary rage break a big chunk from a boulder. (More…)


Fazal M. Kamal


I waited.
I left.
You never called.
As you said you’d.
I still wait.


Two Poems

Neeman sobhan



It is quite possible she lived elsewhere.
No matter,
for I did not come to sniff her trail,
nor even to posture at that faded balcony
clogged with the ivy of legend.

I came to watch from upstair windows
the crowd of devotees with slung cameras,
and to marvel how we expend
our allotted pittance of hours
in exploring and touching
the mottled walls of fables, inventing
great spaces of fantasy
within the medieval-ness of cramped rooms,
and with the tempera of our blind faith,
creating Love’s temple
in so meagre a house. (More…)

Three Poems

Shumon Ahmed



You are not of this planet
Of this distant space
Where you drift along the shore
Where you get lost in you the mirror
You are from a distant time
A distant kiss
Longing to pull me back
Again to your flame.

You are me, and I… you
We are like two shells
Floating under the sea
For eternity too…


‘Crystal Cove’ & ‘Monsoon Memories’

Dibakar Barua

Crystal Cove, New Year’s Eve, 2003

I pick three bleached pebbles with thin blue veins
and array them in silent invocation of the triple gem.
My mind in a ductile reach attaches to shapes
as the loud tongue of impermanence lashes the shore,
spitting out broken shells, licking clean sandpiper footprints. (More…)

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