Literary Editor

দেশান্তর

তারিক সামিন ।

 

একে একে

ঘর ছাড়া

দেশ ছাড়া

বিতাড়িত ওরা

ওদের কারো নাম গণতন্ত্র, কেউ মানবাধিকার, কেউ বাক-স্বাধীনতা

 

গণতন্ত্র, দেশ ছেড়েছে সেই স্বাধীনতার পরপর

১৯৯১ থেকে ২০০১ এই দশ বছর, শর্ত সাপেক্ষে এদেশে এসেছিল সে

পিঠে তার তখনো সামরিক স্বৈরাচারী শাসনের দগদগে ঘা

 

দুর্নীতি দমন শুধু তত্ত্বাবধায়ক সরকার এলে

দেশে বেড়াতে যেত;

তাই তত্ত্বাবধায়ক সরকার ব্যবস্থা বিলুপ্ত ঘোষিত হলো

 

বাক স্বাধীনতা,

অবৈধ পথে

মাঝে মাঝে সীমান্ত পেড়োয়

মাঝে মাঝে ধরা পড়ে

কখনো উগ্র জঙ্গি গোষ্ঠী

কখনো পুলিশের হাতে

সবাই মিলে তার হাত দুটো কেটে দিতে চেয়ে ছিলো

আর কাটতে চেয়েছিল জিহবা

উপড়ে নিতে চেয়েছিল চোখ

 

সুশাসন, ভীষণ অপুষ্টিতে ভুগছে

জীবন্ত লাশের মতো কংকাল সার তার শরীর,

নো-ম্যান্স-ল্যান্ডে শরণার্থী সে

মাঝে মাঝে সাহায্য সংস্থা গুলো

খাবার পাঠায় তার জন্য

 

মানবাধিকার, খুব ভাল আছে

সে থাকে জেনেভাতে

মাঝে মাঝে এনজিও আন্তর্জাতিক দাতা সংস্থা গুলোর আমন্ত্রণে দেশে আসে

পাঁচ তারা হোটেল, ভিআইপি প্রোটোকল

লিমুজিন পুলিশি প্রহরায়

এদেশের উন্নয়ন গুলো দেখে যায় সে

দরিদ্রতা, সন্ত্রাসবাদের উত্থান, বিচার হ্নীনতা, সীমাহীন দুর্নীতি

এগুলো লেখকদের কাল্পনিক রচনা;

শুনে আর মিটি মিটি হাসে

 

আবারো বলছি,

একে একে

ঘর ছাড়া

দেশ ছাড়া

বিতাড়িত ওরা

ওদের কারো নাম গণতন্ত্র, কেউ মানবাধিকার, কেউ বাক স্বাধীনতা

সবাই মুল্লুক ছেড়েছে প্রাণ ভয়ে

Three poems by Bam Dev Sharma

Bam Dev Sharma born in 1967, He is a university teacher and poet. He has been teaching poetry and literature over the last twenty years at Tribhuvan University. His poetry collections have come from US, Japan, Australia, Korea, and India. His poetry collections entitled "The Bunyan and the Alder" "The Duet of River", and "The Adrift" have been published so far. Besides, his children collection entitled" The Shepherd in the Sky" has been published in the US with good acclaim.

 

Story Tellers

 

Story tellers love to tell

Stories

Splashing ink on the numb sheet

Dribbling words

Like simmering clouds

Visible or invisible.

 

They hope for quests and wishes

To turn sand dunes to temples

And break the walls of castles

Within the blink of an eyes.

 

Words twist and twirl

And begin to crawl on the

White sheets

Splitting woes

Scratching pensive human psyche.

 

Story tellers pretend

To be multi- headed hydra

To hiss for defense

Neither are they laundry men

To clean smeared dirty linen .

 

Their words sometimes

Soaked with moist wind

Dream of the moon

To be camouflaged in clouds

In yellow golden bowls.

 

Story tellers don’t often

Wave waxing metaphor

Or chilling ironies

But expand thread

Where Cinderella can escape from

Trap and watch

Wily flowers blooming in the sky.

 

Story tellers drag

Ligament of the sky

To weave dreams

For the pensive orchard!

 

 

SLUMBER

 

 

The delusive spring

saunters

over coy land

like a modest flower girl

pacing

through the garden

and fecund serene sky

waits for horizon

to fondle in caress.

 

Erstwhile clouds

try to clasp the moon

in mercurial embroidery

as if she were beloved

for merry casement!

 

Rueful dreams trickle

like tales of summer

and spill over

numb grass

in gleaming rays

as wanton as buffeting breeze

pervasive in the heart

to awaken us

from the slumber!

 

 

Hovering Feathers

 

Slowly in the dawn

Some feathers fly away

To an alien land or

In the whirlpool of space.

 

Hovering up and down

As bright as a little bird

They turn white or yellow

And waltz over the grassy clearing

Rebuffing with the wind.

 

Perhaps in the next dawn

Trifling sparrows would nibble

Or briskly robins would peck

Nobody knows for sure

What is meted fate to them.

 

What more foxhounds or cats

May tear them to pieces

Or splashing winds will not spare.

 

In the carefree glide in the sky

I sense these libertine feathers

Hover around and soar

Beyond sight and mind.

POEMS OF RODOLFO DEL HOYO

Rodolfo del Hoyo was born in 1953 in Barcelona.

He is a bilingual poet in Catalan and Spanish. He has published the following poetry books among other:

In Spanish: Vague Looks (1994), Internal Affairs (1995)

In Catalan: The Interpreter’s Fingers (2003), The Walker Drifting (2007), Reconstructions (2017)

 

 

I think about you defined

 

Your body of air trims the serenity and darkness of the room

 

Above a slow night of eyelids,

 

the room has your eyes.

 

 

 

The years shake

 

You draw the twisted letters.

 

He knows how to read the moon.

 

 

 

Words II

 

He has his say

 

between two shadows.

 

 

 

He can’t take

 

the voice,

 

equidistant from the light

 

and the emptiness

 

He puts closer

 

the sore of the fingers

 

to the shadows

 

and he starts the stroke

 

in the air crust.

 

 

 

 

 

Sacrifice

 

Sacrified by his father to a god without a name

 

The walker penetrated the chaos

 

Searching the eternal instant

 

Where he thought to find the camera of origin

 

The uterus that would open the crack for the appearance of the shadow.

 

And the walker,

 

Frenzy between chaos and presence,

 

He was adrift.

 

 

 

I can’t stay

 

I know you will need me

 

I know that you will want the heat

 

Of my things,

 

But I can’t stay

 

Too much time.

 

 

 

What happens,

 

It never happens here.

 

April song

- Ranesh Rai

 

April song

Square framed window,

Latched by a Frosted pane

On its edge,

My rested elbow

Brittle pale Morning,

Early visitor to my day,

Greeting every eyes,

Gently steers away with time,

 

Briskly squeezing my mind,

For a drop of word,

Clarity with such honesty,

Dimly I drift into reverie,

On its tip-toe

Mind then races,

Far from this places,

To a haven that embraces

 

Visions I recall

Rainy day wearing off,

On rooftops,

Along the stairs,

Inside cafes,

Folks holding conversations,

Shimmering puddles of water being,

Run over by racing wheels

Throwing splashes on pedestrians,

Giggling and pacing at their own speed

Strangely the evening turns clearer,

Faces get brighter,

Laughter getting louder and

Lamentations softer

 

Dancing around a bonfire,

Like gypsies in their prime

Life then choose me,

And so did I gave in,

To its ravishing beauty

For Nusrat

-Tareq Samin

 

[ This poem is dedicated to Nusrat Jahan Rafi. A Bangladeshi brave girl. She was Burned to death for reporting sexual harassment. ]

 

 

You burned her alive

because she protested against you

the way you sexually molest

those Madrasha studying girls.

 

After the protest:

She became a slut

because she talked

about your inhuman behavior.

 

O Mullah!

You sex with your four wives

and with your house maids,

and sexually molest child.

 

But!

People do not speaks about you

because you are the man

with the religious Holiness!

Three poems by Serpil Devrim

Serpil Devrim born in 1960 in İstanbul. Many of her poems and short stories were published in different anthologies and literature magazines in Turkey , translated different languages and published literature magazines in different countries around the world. She is a member of the PEN İnternational Writers Association in Turkey.

 

 

I’ve Got Nothing To Say 
 
the voice of a crying child
inside my brain
I just look
I’ve got nothing to say
Not a sentence to form
not an apology
not to guts to dare
 
I fell silient
I watched
I stood in the front
Your height up to my knee
and the fear in your eyes
couldn’t stop me
neither could your thin neck
 
 
I drummed into your head
the terror and the violence
Ripped-off hands and legs
torn apart faces
with lined up corpses
you sleeping without satiation
you waking up shivering
it’s my civilized art
 
among the wrecks
as the fire goes up
your scream won’t get to me
I am the one to drop bombs
and demolish your house
with tank, cannon and rifle
it’s my bloody hands
that stole your childhood
from far away
 
the voice of a crying child
inside my brain
I just look 
I’ve got nothing to say
not a sentence to from
not an apology
not the guts to dare
 
 
The Dead Poet
 
the dead poet is a river exiled from its bed
its gurgle is without foot or rhyme 
its flow is the linear of existence 
the path it knows is courageous and open 
 
water takes the form of the container 
dress the form of the body in it 
and the chewn bits the form of the mouth 
the bed of the poet for the outbursts 
is like the narrow Aegean shores 
the Cretan promontory 
its two sides are the song of goats 
and a lyric poem blessed with immortality 
on the land of the dead 
its heart never decays 
 
the river exiled from its bed 
stripped of its privacy 
it brings down stars from the sky
and bathes in its own water 
it's hilly and rocky when seen from the sea 
when seen from the land there are crazy blue waves only 
with their hard-line freedom 
 
it sweeps before itself the ways 
landless peasants walk on 
and the aid sailors seek 
it grows out of the labors 
of workers and splitters 
and lies next to dead children 
decapitated at each war 
it had sad eyes at each break up 
it gurgles to death 
with fragile loves at its core 
 
 
Where To! 
 
The land hid itself 
İt didn’t have a mountain to take shelter in 
From the mind it among bandages his the skin 
With which it has long been mingling 
And the mind from the life 
‘’Let the oldest who staps 
The life with her seal speak!’’ 
I used to say, let her ask the truth 
İt doesn’t matter, they are all the same 
The oldest fossil, a reptile 
Or a living millenarian olive tree 
The one who creates life a burning fireball 
‘’you were involved in every trick of the day 
There remained nowhere to touch, where to!’’
  
You saw inside the fair tents 
The night messengers 
The wizards who hold shrouds at hand 
The watchers of the stars who don’t sleep a wink 
The charlatans who set games 
With their elephant bodies and eagle talons 
And witnessed the one who scares 
Fire with water, water with fire 
You were involved in every trick of the night, 
Where to!
 
For exactly this reason 
I couldn’t like the humans that mind can’t nurture 
And the darkness of the night 
I stood by the coolness 
Of early mornings 
That run like colorful horses
  
Kissing the earth and placing the heavens on my head 
I took down 
The skyscrapers that block the sky 
The trifling stories 
And the concrete jungles 
With their humans the fools of harem 
I created a mountain fort the land to take shelter in
As stupendous as the head carrying a crown 
 
I passed another spring cloud to praise 
Through the ancient cities 
Primitive and innocence by their primitiveness 
Whoese ruins are under the water
 
İn my deep sleeps I pictured 
Love and the face of my beloved 
Adorned them with colors and odors 
I didn’t consider my beloved a stranger 
For the water to object and the fire to oppose
To the evils and death 
Unaided by the conscious
Page 6 of 19

লেখা পাঠাবার নিয়ম

মৌলিক লেখা হতে হবে।

নির্ভুল বানান ও ইউনিকোড বাংলায় টাইপকৃত হতে হবে।

অনুবাদ এর ক্ষেত্রে মুল লেখকের নাম ও সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি দিতে হবে।

আরো দিতে পারেন

লেখকের ছবি।

সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি।

বিষয় বস্তুর সাথে সামঞ্জস্যপূর্ণ অঙ্কন চিত্র বা ছবি। 

সম্পাদক | Editor

তারিক সামিন

Tareq Samin

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লেখা পাঠাবার জন্য

ইমেইল:

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