Naked, Lonely Hand: A meek translation of my all time favourite Bangla poem

Darkness deepens in the skies again

This darkness – she’s like the misty sister of light

who has loved me forever

and yet whose face I have never seen

like that woman,

darkness gathers dense in love on the springtime falgun night

seems like a lost city

a palace of the city, lost in dust, awakes in heart.

By the shores of the Indian Ocean

Or maybe by those of the Mediterranean Sea

or else by the Tyre Sea

It was there, this city, one day it was

today it isn’t. There was a palace

decked in rare furniture and pomp –

gardens of Persia, Shawls from Kashmir, flawless pearls and coral plucked from the waves of Berin,

my heart – extinct;

my eyes – dead;

my faded dreams and wants –

and you, woman –

all these were in that world that one day

there was orange sunshine,

there were many macaws and pigeons,

there were many leaves in deep shades of mahogany

and there was much orange sunshine

much orange sunshine

and you were there;

it’s been so long, so many centuries have passed by –

that I haven’t seen your face

that I haven’t looked for your face

Springtime darkness brings these tales from across those sea-shores,

Lines of pain drawn of splendid pillars and domes,

smells of lost pears,

gray manuscripts made of skins of countless dears and lions

rainbow-coloured glass-windows,

endless waves of curtains made of peacock-plume colours

from room to room

from orbit to orbit

to rooms far and further away

across orbits far and further away

glimpse of aura –

Ageless silence – stunned –

ageless amazement.

sweat jumps from blood-coloured sunshine on curtains, on gardens

wine made from watermelon in red glasses!

your naked, lonely hand;

your naked, lonely hand.

\

Shabarpa

Shabarpa, Shabarpa enter the skies

Clouds cloud the north of east 

Shabarpa feels the earths shake

Shabarpa sees his temple burn

Shabarpa sees his gods dead

Shabarpa roars: "Bhoomkaal!"

Yeah, Nishaad! 

Go for the kill, 

for hunters must hunt

And Adonis must die for the red flowers to be

Heruk burns thunders across the oceans 

White Tara blazes my eyes in cool, calm beauty

Her legs are white

Her skies are music of life and love

Green Tara dances crazy in the skies

Her legs are green

Her skies are music of life and love

Across times and histories that, unlike life, 

had never meant much 

Go for the kill, Shabarpa

Your god is stolen

Your temple has burned 

Your earth has shaken

Like all wheels roll and all rivers flow

So go for the hunt like all hunters must.

Buddha Purnima

sheel, rain in my heart
pragya, rain with my heart
samadhi, rain my heart

to a long lost phonecall and love

sweet jaggery sundance, sweet jaggery sundance,
when i left your station the skies were all on fire; 
and now it's just a big fat city,
and i'm just a big fat liar

চন্দ্রালোকে চারুলতা

চন্দ্রালোকে চারুলতা তন্দ্রালোকে বিহঙ্গ
অহং বরং গরগরাগম হুল-মুরারী ত্রিভঙ্গ
মাদল বাদল আদল ত্যাঁদল গাঁদাল বাদাড় ভাদ
ভরম ভপন ভাপভূমাভূম ভূমকাল ভূমনাদ
হুহুম হুহুম হুতুম ভুতুম নিশুথ ত্রিশাখ শঙ্খিনী
টিটিং মিটিং টিকিট কাটিং সনসন্তাপ সন্তিনী
বোশাখ-শিখি পোষাক পিকি পিকিপিকপিক পিঞ্জর-এ
ধুধুম হুধুম ভাদুম ভুদুম ঋনিশিঞ্জিন মঞ্জরী
পাখনা শাটিং ঝাটিঙ্গা-হট থমথমাথম থমবরে
রণথম্বরে জলস্তম্বরে দদদম্ভরে ঘন অম্বরে
আম্রকুঞ্জ শক্তিপুঞ্জ কুঝিক-কুঝিক খিকম্যাজিক
খিদমতগার আকার-বিকার প্রকার সকার কিরিংক্রিক
কটক খটক খটখটাখট টক-টক্কাশ টক্করে
ঝকঝক্কাস বকরাক্ষস ক-খ-খসখস অক্ষরে
দধাম ধধাম দমদমাদম ধরাধাম-ধূম ধুনক-তুন
নিম্ন-নিড়িং নিমতিতাতাম তিড়িংবিড়িং খুনের নুন
গথাম যথেষ্ট যুথযৌথন জগ-ঝম্পেশ যান-আসুন!

unscientific confessional

let's look for a river 

looking at which 

we can forget at times

that all histories flow and that rivers can't be wise in terms of material reality. 

‘That Boy’ a short story by Sandipan Chattopadhyay (1933-2005)

- Hey, do you have parents?
- No.
- Both dead?
-Yes
- Sisters?
-No
- Are you alone?
- yes
Silence.

- what do you do?
-i beg
- how much do you get every day?
- 20 paisa. 30 paisa.
- is that enough?
- yes
- What do you eat?
-MuRi, mostly
Silence.

- how much did you make today?
- i haven’t begged today
- why?
- didn’t feel like
- feeling sick?
- no.
Silence.

- Nice shirt. Chains and all! did you buy it?
- No
- Did anyone give it?
-No
- Where did you get it from?
- The drain
- O
Silence.

- and the pant?
- mom gave this
silence.

- Saw your mom die?
- yes
- what happened?
- she was sick
- where did she die?
- there. there.
- what was her name?
- Gouri
- And dad’s?
-Suryaprasad Singh
- Ever seen your dad?
- No
- Mom told his name?
- Yes
- how long back did he die?
- many days
- what’s your age? Seven?
- many days.
Silence.

- Are you sick?
- No
- Do you feel any pain?
- No
- Can you sleep?
- Yes
- Where do you sleep?
- Here
- On this rug?
- Yes
-If it rains?
- Let it
- do you dream?
- yes
- can you recall?
- no
- did you dream your mom?
- yes, once
- can you recall?
- no
- how’s your shit?
- hard and sticky
Silence.

- heard of Jyoti Basu?
- no
- Indira Gandhi?
- no
- Shakti Chattopadhyay?
- no
- Uttam Kumar?
- I don’t know Uttam Kumar
- Never seen a movie?
- No
- Where does the sun rise from?
- Here, there, everywhere!
- Do you know the name of your country?
- Country?
- This, the land, the soil where you are sitting?
- BT Road
Silence.

- Aren’t you scared?
- No
- Of no one?
- I’m scared of the police
- You didn’t beg today. So, what did you eat?
- That pipkin of curd
- The one there that the shop has thrown away?
- Yes
- So, you scraped the curd stuck inside?
- Yes
Silence.

- You know that dog?
- Yes, it is my dog!
- Your dog?
- My mom used to take care of it
- What’s its name?
- Robi. Oi Robi – Ooss. Ooss.
Silence.

- Remember what I asked you first?
- ‘Do you have parents?’
- One of your eyes is huge and red – do you know this?
- No
- Don’t you look at mirrors?
- Looked at one long ago
Silence.

What’s your name?
Ganesh.

-----------------
Bangla text first published by Tarzan Minibook – 11 in 1980 and reproduced by Ripan Arya through his facebook profile on 21st January 2015

Song For Nathaniel Halhed

halhed! halhed! i sing for you
the sun is true and the moon is blue
your ghost flies from Portugal
and sails straight to Bally Khal
yours be the ship, admiral
shagor awthoi, TalmaTal
ratri awthoi, TalmaTal
yours be the oar and yours be the hull
your grammar book is the greatest thing
since Icarus and his wing
firang nam upkar arth
mirth takes birth on worthy earth!

বামপন্থা

বামপন্থা -
পয়দা হতেই বেজন্মা কুত্তার বাচ্চা
বামপন্থা -
বেজন্মা কুত্তার বাচ্চারা খেঁকুড়ে হয়ে উঠে যখন কামড়ায়
মোটাসোটা হাসিহাসি মুখগুলি
হয় আরো হাসিহাসি হয়ে ওঠে
নয় কাঁদোকাঁদো হয়ে ওঠে
নয় কেঁদোবাঘের দোসর সেঁদোবাঘ সেঁধিয়ে যায় খাটের তলার স্তূপাকৃতি ডাব-নারকোল-সুপারিগুলির মধ্যস্থ নিরাপত্তায়
আর নয় তো বুড়িমার চকোলেট বোমার মতো
ভড়াক করে ফেটে যায় সামনে পিছন উপর নীচ দিয়ে
মোদ্দা কথা, খ্যালাটা বাইনারী নয়
ঐতিহাসিক রাসমঞ্চে ঐতিহাসিক পালাবদল
লেনিন বা চৈতন্য থেকে আলাদা আলাদা রস পায় আলাদা আলাদা জনগণ

এবার বল শালা তুই কোন সাইডে!

Early Morning Photograph

you're so beautiful that love seems to be the running force of life
you fighting for the world
it's like Turgenev's mom-sparrow fighting for her baby
like light rising from darkness
like blind soldiers seeing the source of light
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting Russian literature for you and thinking of you as Margarita
unlike moobier hairier perver pervs selling faith for votes
Adonis goes hunting with Angulimala
many houses burn within a radius of 100 kilometers
burn, Radha
my love is so selfish that it romanticises fire and hates real flames
i'd rather look at photographs of you fighting for the world to come together and sing,
think that things are all in place in the universe
despite knowing that the construct of balance is elusive
and knowing that some people will forever walk the world
and see how the coldest, softest moment of the night turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows go out to fight for their babies
and see how the warmest, softest moment of the day turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows come back to fight for their babies
the house where i had stayed from birth till high-school ended had an occasional readhead Krishnachura swaying a headful of flowers in the green rain beside the window that opened to the South and an occasional orange-head Radhachura swaying a headful of flowers by the one that opened to the North



by the time i came to know that all trees are hermaphrodites they weren't there
but poetry with endless blue skies rolling overhead and words filling a few blank spaces up  and all blank spaces wrapping words up - have always been there and so have memories of a couple of Bangla poets who would look at the skies and at the streets and feel hermaphrodite
the streets took one of them
life took the other
and poetry took both
it's like that, something taking in the binaries and the void - love is

and then, the roads are always thirsty and none of them lead to anywhere specific,
except for people who believe in battles, and for fools and philosophers
and for the moon behind the mirror
and for all lamps that flicker
and for the uneasy relationship between storms and nests
and for the easy relationship between the sea and the seagulls
and for the relationship between fishes and the water where ease and diseases flow by, like life, like Eliot's women for Prufrock and Yeats' horsemen passing by
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting English literature to feel good about loving you,
the transparent cold of death wraps eyes of fishes
i have seen them staring at blank spaces from the other side of highly polluted slabs of ice

and in Lorca's city there's everybody asleep
and Pagla Meher Ali screams: 'Beware!'
and flames of devotion burns the sages
and hot streets burn musafirs
in the city the times are harsh. they sing songs of Lalan with greed for fame
and five odd timid stars sing and dance their carnival of sadness out in the five star sky of a dead poet's novel, their sadness melts in cheap cosmetics of sweaty, beautiful women from the streets, along their sweaty necks down their flabby flaneur-fleshes - i call them Shujata and think of them as mercy
April is mostly a cruel month in any case
Even sparrows don't talk much and crickets don't sing much in April cities.

But i'd rather think of the void and be happy
I'd rather look at a photograph of you fighting for the songs and for the baby-songs and think that there is something called balance and that the universe is in perfect balance now
and be happy
you're so beautiful that love seems to be mom-sparrows and baby-sparrows singing songs and baby songs of life

And so on

Sincerely,
(Or like Mr. Wren or Mr. Martin had once written in their book of grammar:
Yours, etc)




 

How the Brahmins Got Screwed Over in Jajpur

A li'l bit of anarchy:

This was in the 13th century. 5 centuries had passed since Shankaracharya had plagiarised the Buddhist treatises on Nagarjuna's Madhyamika from his guru Gaudapa and had his forces turn the guns against the sanghas, monasteries and koumos of the Bhikkhus. Vijay Sen had risen from the Barracks of the last Pala kings of Bengal and had set everything on fire. The Brahmins established their rule over the feudal gentry. There was much blood.

The bhikkhus had to save their wisdom. Many took it with them and went to the hills. Tibetan Buddhism had kept the gods of Vajrayana that had, till the 10th century, prevailed in Bengal. A few of them became the Nath Sidhyacharyas, and a few wrote the Charya songs in crypted texts and in a misty language that was to become Bangla and Assamese of today. The ancestors of the adherents, and also many of the 'pa' wizards like Dombipa and Shabaripa were, before the advent of Bodhidharma, from the lower castes and the tribes. Their gods were all there too.

But the Brahmins were making fast inroads. The monasteries had to be converted to Maths. The monastery in the hills had fallen to them and had become the temple of Badri. The one by the Ganges had fallen and had become the temples of Kashi-Vishwanath. The one in Puri belonged to the Shabar (Soro) people. The wooden god of the Shabars was captured by ugly, powerful people who came to the sea with chariots. The thunder-scepter of Heruk was burning and so was the lyre of White Tara. The Hor people of the eastern wilderness, who are the Santhal people lost their king Adisur/Adur to Durga. Today the east has been tamed by 'civilization' almost in entirety

Nalanda stayed up for a while. Scholars like Tilopa, Naropa, Milerapa et al had managed to hold Nalanda for a while, aided by the heritage and legacy of Atish Dipankara, who had moved from the soft plains of Dhaka Bikrampur, had taken the long hard journey across snowy peaks and killer passes to Tibet with the words of Bodhidharma in the 10th century AD, and had stayed over as Chiyo Rimpoche - one of the initiators of Tibetan Buddhism. But, before long, Nalanda wore off. The Brahmins were mighty and scary.

Then came the 13th century. A period of anarchy, one demarcated as the 'Dark Ages' of Bengali Literature by all the Hindu Indian Nationalist Bengali post-partition scholars from West Bengal. Established scholars from East Pakistan like Mohd. Shahidulla had chosen to maintain stoic objectivity.

So, in the 13th century, the Brahmins kept getting stronger and stronger, and then, one day, Bakhtiyar Khalji rode down to Bengal. Suddenly, the people who were being browbeaten back to the caste system by the Kulin Brahmins found some hope in the anarchy. The poem Niranjan-er-Rooshma by Ramai Pundit tells a beautiful tale of resistance against the Brahminical exploitation by the people of Jajpur. He had to tell it in a tad cryptic form. Thank goodness for that, or else it would surely have been burned in course of the eight centuries that have followed!

Here's the poem:

The plaintiff is from Jajpur, Sol Shah’s family has read the Vedas
He asks, why this tax?
The harlot goes to the South, can’t find a home
She curses the earth to ashes
More taxes in district Malda, everyone has to pay
Nets can’t tie the sides up!
They are strong, they gather in handfuls
They destroy SadDharma

Vedas spelled out, flames circle up and gather thick
Saw and trembled in fear
Deep meanings held in mind, all say to keep Dharma
Who but you can be the salvation?

Thus the Brahmins wrecked everything
And injustice grew strong

Dharma, who stayed in paradise got the sign
and all darkness became Maya
Dharma turned Muslim, he donned a black cap,
He rode the three barreled cannon
and arrived – the three worlds began to quake
in the name of Khuda
Niranjan, formless, became Avesta-avatar
And spoke of the Dum, his words had the Dum
All the gods became one in mind
and got the Izar of Ananda
Brahma became Mohammad, Vishnu became Nooh
Adam became Shiva
Ganesh became Ghazi, Kartik became Quazi
All the sadhus became fakirs
Narad threw his disguise away and became Sheikh
Indra became Haji Malna
The other gods like Chandra and Surya became footsoldiers
And they all started making music!

Devi Chandika, herself she turned into Haya Bibi
Padmavati became Bibi Noor
All the gods became one in mind
And entered Jajpur!

And thus the war began
The temples were smashed, the prosceniums were looted
Sounds filled the sky: ‘catch ‘em bastards!’
Ramai Pundit holds the vessel of Dharma
and sings:
“THERE IS MUCH ANARCHY!”

I don't know where the Jajpur mentioned here is situated. It must have been a site of incredible anarchic resistance against the upper-castes! Jajpur is also the name of a district in Odisha. Kalinganagar, where Tata had unleashed much bloodbath on the night between the 1st and the 2nd of January, 2006, is situated in Jajpur.

From Jajpur to Jajpur, it all seems like a bloody straight ramrod!

কিরণমালা

ধূসর পাণ্ডুলিপি রেখে যাও কিছু

রেখে যাও আধক্ষয়া চাঁদ, 

ভাঙা রঙপেন্সিল 

রাগী রাগী বাবাদের মতো মেঘ

দুখী দুখী এলোচুল মত নদী

পুরোনো শহরে মিছিল মিছিল ঘ্রাণ

পাণ্ডুলিপি তবু কথকতা

ফুরোনো শহরে টবময় বিস্বাদ

এইসব বুকে ধরে ও-দেওয়ালের মান্ধাতা

অন্ধ জ্ঞানীর পাপ গভীর জননীতে 

এইসব ভিটামাটি অখণ্ড পৌরুষ

সমুদ্র সমুদ্র স্বর, পৌনঃপুনিক

সিংহের মত চলকে ভলকে কালনিম জ্যোৎস্না 

কাঁটা চেপে থমথম অমর প্যাঁচা

ক্যাঁতামুড়ি জবুথবু অমর বেড়াল

চাঁদ বলে চাঁদনীকে - আয়নাও সত্য

শূন্য যা কিছু আজ, দিল ও মনন

ভাব ও অভাব ঘেরে স্মিত বিচরণ

নদীতে নগর ছিলো, নগরে নদী

নদীতে প্রাসাদ ছিলো, প্রাসাদে কিরণমালা 

বোকারাই একদিন পৃথিবীর রাজা হবে

ভালোবাসা একদিন ফুল হয়ে ঝরে যাবে 

জেনেছে কিরণমালা, সুগভীর বোধে

Weep, River

thoughts knot up in head

a bit of time dies with time

a lot of wisdom dies with time

a few musafirs, a bunch of gypsies 

and a listful of nomadic tribes also die out

while roving with their shadows, 

because the streets are private property of civilization

shantih is a private property of law

the green valleys have boundary walls

and they kill you if you cross

and they kill you if you eat fruits from their trees

and they kill you if you eat birds from their skies

(it doesn't really matter that you love the birds and that the birds love you too. loving and eating are not linked all the time though living and eating are.)

and now there are clouds 

and the winds are strong

and dead people howl from the skies

and live ghosts howl from the earth

the skies won't rain fire for a while

and the earth won't bleed for a while,

a tiny bit while

but that's good enough for the shadows

to feel good for a while

and play around the silhouettes in sunlight

the walls will still be there

storms will break it 

and then they'll build new walls

and roaming the world will still be a crime

as will stealing fruits and birds that belong to other humans 

but the ghosts - they'll still howl

and the silhouettes - they'll still dance dances of hanged men

and the guns smuggled out by Rimbaud will still kill us, kill them

and Giordano will leap out from his stake

and he'll leap on the killers of wisdom forever

and Lorca will play a flute from his unmarked graves

and he'll play for all the unnamed humans sleeping in all the unmarked graves of the world forever

and sweaty heaps of coal will blaze their songs out from all boilers

as the ship goes down

with all its walls, 

and with all its humans caged behind all its walls

the hills might be all blasted down for gold and money

and the woods will be gone to make way for progressive leaps of science, technology and coordinate processes of production 

but i won't think of all these now

i'll be Lorca's kid and you'll be the gypsy moon

and i'll tell you to run when the bandits come

and i'll be Rimbaud's spider

and i'll turn into a little kiss and play on your throat

as you sleep; there'll be sunlight on your throat and on your neck and on your whole body

and there'll be some moonlight too

and there'll be some starlight too

and i'll be sunlight and moonlight and starlight and be on your body

and our slave-minds will speak slave-words to each other

and our minds will kiss like our bodies do

and you'll be a river and i'll drown in you

as the shadows get longer, 

come closer

and whisper stuff that we can feel but can't understand

we'll know of the dystopic shivers and ancient tales but we won't have words to speak them. we might have some silence though. 

or we might have a lot of silence

and other sounds - like, say, the sound of cosmic waves breaking against dead radios

the sound if real waves breaking against dead toxin-factories

the sound of rain washing hot blood from hard asphalt 

the sound of unicellular life dividing up

the sound of the archeopteryx as it flaps its wings

because it yearns for the horizons

the sound of the homa-bird as it cries 

because it yearns for the earth

the sound of pens scratching asses of papers as another Stalin, another Roosevelt, another Churchill as they sign on another treaty

the sound of horse-hooves echoing on stormy mango-forests as another Clive charges out against another Siraj

and so on and so forth

point being, homer can only nod

he can't die

and the ship can only go down

it can't kill the shadows with crime and punishment

so weep for the world, Cinderella 

we'll find out your tiny shoe someday

and the gypsies will not die 

and we'll all sing and dance under the open skies someday

and our carnival of death will rage mad in every naked road of the world

and lightning will turn your face blue like it turns the rivers blue

and i'll weep with you because you are beautiful, because the world is beautiful

and because the rivers are beautiful

and we'll weep together for everything that's beautiful

because that's all that there is to this madass badass being and belonging everywhere.

From a High Roof

on a high roof

there's nothing to look up to

and you can live

and you can die

and the rats won't bother

and the history of the universe won't matter

the ways and means are all the same

but the ladders are all broken

and the bulldogs are all dead

and the sparrows are all Philomela 

on a high roof

we won't fight for land and bread

we will look at the stars and tell ourselves that the war is over

despite knowing that there's no 'the war' 

and that it's never over

much knowledge we have tumbled through

pillar to pillar, ash to ash - imperious, ecstatic

blind

we have seen and heard it all 

and we have felt it all

but from a high roof

the world is a whiff of orange 

a little child plucks it from the shores

and gives her voice to the waves in stead

you can call her Komal Gandhar

you can call her Philomela 

or you can not call her anything at all

and see her eating oranges

and feel like Lorca does from his open window

from a high roof

stars die and fall, 

and some shoot in happy rage,

towards all wombs 

and towards all graves

and towards all pyres

and towards all city-snakes that slither their way

towards their bitches

and some don't shoot at all

and go catching those mad butterflies in the brain

or steal the thunder of Heruk to make a garden of love in stead

ergo, goblins of the world, unite

you have nothing to lose, not even love,

and winning has never really mattered in any case.

Another Dead Blogger

another star is stardust

another blogger dies

another cricket match to jerk off to

another slave raped by another orangutang in another amphitheater 

(hell, no Rome is sure ever built in a day!)

another bunch of spectators cheering with silence

i believe in things i find beautiful

i believe in words and thoughts i find beautiful

i believe in magic, 

i believe in poetry

i believe in music

i believe in dust

i believe in ghosts

i believe in martyrdom

i believe in the soul

i believe in the fight

i believe in the crazy roads of the world 

but i'm such a selfish asshole that i can't write for a dead blogger without going on spewing shit about all the beautiful jazz i believe in

dear dead blogger

i am sure that you were beautiful

and because i believe, most of all,

in beauty, 

i will keep on believing in your death

may it bloom on among the ugly killers and the uglier spectators

like lotus blooms in mud.

you are always beautiful

you are always beautiful
and little birds wake up and sing to your fruits on blue mornings like these which are like the Blue Danube
i've never been to Danube
but i've seen blue lakes and wild mountain-springs
i have jumped in some of them, and i have stared at broken sunsets on big wild rivers
i know of a poet who had seen broken red bits of sunset riding piggyback on the waves while he was waiting for his Wheel to return
it doesn't matter whether it returned or not
and it doesn't matter where and how the wheel turned and where and how wheels turn
except when they do and when little birds sing to your fruits which are the colours of mornings and sunsets and Blue Danube where i've never ever been to
and then i don't think of storms like i didn't think of storms that night

there's no war in poetry these days, and there's no peace either
Don Juan and Don Quixote take lessons of love from Lenin
but there's no love in hospitable maternity-wards of cities where they've learned to sell love for money and sell money for love
even you stay in a city but they can't touch you
because you are beautiful and because birds sing to you
hands of great anarchs send their breeze of love to caress your flowers
and your flowers are big and red, they start blooming
on the first full-moon night of Magh when they sing for Magha-Karam all night in the forests of Jharkhand that are barely intact, like their songs
they keep blooming as folks gather for Magha-Magul by the shores of Titas which is still a river's name
and they gather the flowers of Glory Bower
the same flowers that wept in your silver anklet when you danced like a torn wagtail in the palace of Indra the king of gods
and i was bitten by a big black snake
which a poet had called Black Divinity on the 15th of August 1973
but things are different now
and your flowers are big and red
and they bloom in your grand, fulsome beauty on the full moon night of love when springtime blazes the wanton night and even the moon is red
and your fruits are for the birds to sing to when the world is Blue Danube and the morning star has stopped burning in lonely anger all night
i stare at red, blue, green, yellow and white flags all night
i don't know if the Red Flag will bring me freedom or if Green Tara will

but when i was close to you and the fires were strange all around, woman,
i hadn't thought of freedom
i hadn't thought of Kabir's Bhakti or Lalan's lamp,
i hadn't thought of Bakunin's anarchy or Che's revolution
i hadn't thought how it would be if Tarashankar's Nitai makes wild love to Bulgakov's Margarita
i hadn't thought how the earth turns and how the sun burns
i hadn't thought if starlight can communicate with the smart wisdom of ghosts
i had talked a bit about starlights though, and i think about mists coming out of leaves of trees and turning into clouds and rivers of the world
and you had talked of being in a new city which could have not been new, Amarcord
and i was close to you, not close enough to feel your breathes rising with the magic of the night, but enough to think of dangling down the wheels and clockhands of time and dancing, though i can't dance in any manner that is considered to be aesthetically pleasing, but it didn't really matter then
and it doesn't really matter now,
except that when at the crack of dawns like these the skies are very blue and the birds are very chirpy
i stare from the fogged realms between sleep and torpor,
wanting to fill the world with poetry
i walk to your river and to your tree and they become the trees and rivers of the world
and they become endless roads weaving their way through the misty climes of life and the undisturbed universe to the unknown, shivery mokam, or samadhi, or whatever

so, that's how i am
and you are always beautiful

We Will All Be Bhagat Singh

river of life meets river of death

forests never walk, dear Macbeth

and there's no milk in the Milky Way

they hang Bhagat Singh everyday

the river of love - it flows on still

the sharpest knives refuse to kill

by the bends of this ceaseless fight

they burn Bhagat Singh every night

the river of blood - it sinks all boats

it guts all guts and slits all throats

'freedom!' 'freedom!' - the thunders shout

but that's not what it's really about

the river of hope - it freezes here

there's no dream, no nightmare

and martyrs aren't worth a dime

so they kill Bhagat Singh all the time

but there's a river that'll ever flow

no one knows what it's called though

but it gives them killers a mighty scare

for Bhagat rows his boat out there

there's no right and there's no wrong

all that's there is this lousy song

and the nameless river flows on strong

for Bhagat must be rowing along

Row on, Comrade, the skies are red

And my hungry kid is yet unfed

Selfish me, I think of you

For that's the best I can really do

flow on, fighter, the clouds are big

the ugly judge has lost his wig

there's no noose to hold your neck

but there are fleets we have to wreck

and there are chains we have to lose

and there are paths we have to choose

and for every knife on every throat

there's a Bhagat rowing our boat

the killers rule the earth and seas

and Rome was saved by cackling geese

but one day they'll cackle no more

for Bhagat Singh will stand by the shore

and we'll all go out and stand by him

and make our way through this ghastly dim

and the bells of freedom - we'll hear them sing

and we will all be Bhagat Singh

Do Nambari Confessional

you had tiny hands

and your ankles were beautiful

I don’t remember much

save the magic

and we were saving the magic like we still do

and the universe was very big like it still is

and there were and there still are big people

who sell love for security and intellect for cynicism

and the last time I saw you you were fighting them

and the last time I heard from you you were fighting them

Seeing and hearing have become beautiful ever since –

Homer hearing the swishing sound of those arrows of fire,

Borges getting inside Aleph where human history shall ever be,

Beethoven drowning in the music that tastes like love,

and feels like colours

rivers singing through forests before getting ravaged by monster cities  

birds getting busy at sunrise and baby-birds getting happy at sundown

(and there are also some birds that just fly across the horizons in search of everything

and no one gets to know where they reach)

does the nucleus know where the electrons stay?

are there beehives in other galaxies?

I don’t know these things but someday I might tell you of many beautiful things that I know of

for example, I know that the size of the universe divided by the size of our bodies is infinity

which is also the distance between our egos and our Kaum

I know that the bear might be one hell of a creepy animal but often it climbs a tree or two or many to get very drunk

et cetera and et cetera

but that your hands were tiny and your ankles were beautiful and that magic exists everywhere all the time is more important knowing all these stuff

Ahoy there,

be well.

it really doesn’t matter

Listen, hey, it really doesn’t matter and it really never did
In the war the humans come and go
But where the fuck is Michelangelo?

Listen, hey, it never mattered how you were, how we are
Power killed half and greed killed the rest
Snakes never wore jewels
Except in fairytales

You speak of love and there are places
Where it never rains and it never will
And there are dots we have never joined and we never will
And it really doesn’t matter where the music goes once it stops playing in the sky
And it really doesn't matter who killed the gods and who plundered Rome
And it really doesn’t matter who sold the chimera and who bought the lies
And it really doesn’t matter who smashed the kaleidoscope against the shores
And it really doesn’t matter if we wrest away all that was taken
And it really doesn’t matter if we seek payback for all the lost sunbeams
And moonbeams
And stardust
And mountains
And rivers
And everything else

There’s a bit of love still left and that’s about it.

খুকি, তুমি কাঠবিড়ালী যাবে?

সেইখানে কেঠোভূত সোল্লাস, জ্যান্ত
পৃথিবীর কাঠবিড়ালী কি কেঠোভূতকে চিনতো?
কেঠোভূত ধুধুবালি, মেরুমরু মিলেমিশে
কাঠবিড়ালী আয়নার মত কোটর-প্রাসাদ
আমবাগানে বৃষ্টি হলে ঝড়ের হাওয়া দেবে
পৃথিবীর কেঠোভূত মোকাম খুঁজে তৃষ্ণ
পৃথিবীর কাঠবিড়ালী রাস্তা খুঁজে নেবে
ছোটে সব, পথ আছে,
তেষ্টা খুব, ঘর খুব কম
গ্যালাপাগোসের কচ্ছপটা বহুদিন খাঁচা জুড়ে ছিলো
পথ আলো ধুমধোঁয়া জীবক-হ্রীবক
এঁদোএঁদো খালেবিলে, বাঁশঝাড়ে আলেয়া
জোনাকি জ্বলেছে ধুম, হ্যাজাক নিভুনিভু
সেইখানে, মহুয়া-মহুয়া গন্ধ, বাতাস সহজ
আনখানে কি আছে আর যথেষ্ট সহজাত?
আনপথে কি আছে আর পর্যাপ্ত জিনি-জীবি?
সকলে ব্যস্ত বলে, বহুকিছু জটিল হলে
সহজ ঢেকে যায়, সমুদ্র চলে যায়
পাহাড় হামা দেয় সুর্যোদয়-সুর্যাস্ত-চন্দ্রোদয়-কথামালা
অঙ্গুলিমালা, কিরণবালা, জল তোলে
কলসী এখনো সোনার, কিছুটা ধুলোট
জটিল হিজিবিজিরা চোক পাকায় বলে কেঠোভূত চলে গ্যাছে,
কাঠবিড়ালী চলে গ্যাছে
ভাঙা কুলো জোড়া লাগে অথবা লাগে না
কিছু স্বর বহুদূর, বহুপথ চলে যায় ফিসফাস।

For Avijit Roy, Shaheed

a bit of free mind got martyred yesterday
are there any stats of how many butterflies are born per day?
are there any estimates of how many nuclear warheads will end religion for good?
i've heard somewhere that martyrs don't really die
that's bullshit
everyone dies
but when beautiful people get killed by ugly people
it feels like shit.

Anyways, Abhijit Roy (hope that's how you used to spell your name), salute.
All the beautiful blogs in the world seemed to have turned a shade bluer tonight.

Comrade Saroj Dutta, Your Ghost

Sitting by the statues that were always there

As fields turn into houses 

and green crops turn into green money

the crops were red with your blood

the money is green with my greed

flowers that never bloom

decorate stairwells of the king's highway

rivers of gold and death spill over

the sun wilts down

the moon wastes away

they carry big men on big black cars

and guards with guns guard the gate of justice

there's a show by the pillars tonight

but men with guns have taken my keys

they'd taken yours too, but you had the guts

to ask it back

so they shot you instead.

i was in a carnival

the music was strong

the wheels were wild

they were to try the killer 

they were to hang the killer

they called out the killer's name

but it was my name

so i hid behind a mask

so they shot my brother instead.

these days, the streets are busy

we have too many bombs to feed

hearts heave booms before heavy iron bars

these days, the nights are haunted

we have said all words

we have heard all sounds

we have dreamed all dreams

now we repeat it all

through tragedies and farces

once there was a lizard that stayed behind a wall-clock

it came out at odd hours

i had named it Newton

but then it fell on a tub of muriatic acid

it's ghost lives by the clock-hands

and eats the flesh of time  

the ghost of this dead reptile

glides by red clouds of midnight

it's always a cold midnight

they chopped you to pieces on a cold midnight

they left you by the pillars of false history

before false judges to determine

with their false teeth chattering in make-believe wisdom

the mist has grown thick ever since

so thick that no foglight can pierce through,

no sniper can aim at

the keys are still with them

but they better be wary 

their guns can't kill dead people

their bombs can't rip ghosts of dead dreams

and when ghosts ride out to reclaim all that's lost

-- it's always a beautiful dream to live and die by.

সব সরে সরে যায়

সব সরে সরে যায় চেতনার বসতির ভিটামাটি, বালুচর
ভোর হবে, 
শাম হবে, 
ছাইডানা শঙ্খ 
বাজিকর একদিন 
সকলেই আলাদীন
আমাদের বাতিঘর
ধর ধর কর কর
আমোদের হাঁড়িব্যোম
সব নড়ে নড়ে যায় বাড়িঘর বাতিঘর ভুতপ্রেত মার্মেড কিসকিস কার্পেট

'Achchhey Din'

Ever heard of Ralf Fox?
Heard of Caudwell and Cornford?
Do you know of Federico Garcia Lorca?
These martyrs had reddened Spain
The green olive forests are red
Mothers lost children, lose children,
Yet I say, good days approach
Come, let’s go touch their blood
And write, with that blood,
a song for the good days.

(the original Bangla was by Somen Chanda (1920-41), fighter, poet, martyr, the one of the first and only flagbearers of the Progressive Writers' Association's work on the cultural front in Bengal, the earliest Bangla voice against Fascism, hacked to pieces by forces of sectarian and partisan violence)

The Ballad of Ahalya-Ma

folks were hungry in the land of food

the farmers fought for they had to fight

or else the rice would go for good

in the fogged autumn of forty eight

the food had gone to feed a war

the food was snatched by the sharks of land

the food was burnt in petro-tar

and so the farmers formed their band

the women loved their rice a lot

they fought for it for they had to fight

they led the fights the folks had fought

holding broomsticked flags of might

the men marched out in angry files

with bamboo rods in clitter-clatter

to free the land for a thousand miles

a lot of evil they had to splatter. 

the evil had arms of deadly hate

of men with guns meant for their uses

the guns were owned by the mighty state

and so were the bombs and so were the fuses.

in lands and waters far away

people fought and kingdoms fell

through the night and through the day

humans burnt in man-made hell

in lands and waters closer home

the food was gone and the lands bled death

off to cities many did roam

to pass their beastly endgame breath

some stayed back and fought for it

to save the rice and save the soil

with fists clenched and jaws firm grit

they stood for the glory of their toil

through a jungle a river ran

tigers roamed the woods in swarms

and right where the forest began

came those boats with men of arms

cold breeze blew from far away

mist had gripped the land so tight

in November, on the sixth day

the whole of Kakdwip rose to fight

evil forces armed with hate

marched in fury to gut all guts

and when they reached the village-gate

conch-shells rang out from the huts.

from hut to hut the news leapt

the women blew the shells so hard

the rice was theirs, it must be kept

out they came and marched forward

Ahalya with a baby inside

broom in hand she led the march

Batashi, Comrade, by her side

to fight the brutes that lay in lurch

little Ashwin, he gripped a rod

and sprang out of the angry wave

he saw their guns in daylight broad

didn’t cower, had rice to save

evil Paresh, blessed by the leaders,

had shown the forces their lusty way

like all who seek to climb tall ladders

the sun was shining, he made hay. 

Ahalya hit him with her broom

as little Ashwin wielded his stick

and thus arrived the hour of doom

bullets shot out of the mist so thick

the state was hurt, it sought revenge

the sharks of land, they paid it well

farmers killed from point blank range

martyrs have their tales to tell. 

shot, Ashwin, he writhed in pain

Sarojini, sister, she heard him shriek

she ran for water, she ran in vain

shot in an arm, her world got bleak

bullets flew like metal rain

Brother and Sister, they squirmed in thirst

they had no guns to guard the grain

yet they fought because they must

Ahalya, she heard them scream

she ran to them like comrades do

she sought to run to the flowing stream

but then she got a bullet too

love thus fell to the force of hate

for the rice she breathed a prayer

a monster arrived with bayonet 

to gut her womb and the child in there.  

Batashi, Surya – they saw this sight

out they sprang to save the dream

they have no guns but they must fight

as their friends writhe and scream

the guns blazed out yet again

and angry bits of metal flew

couldn’t stand long, the bullet-rain 

Batashi fell, and Surya too

shot through her belly, Batashi died

few were hurt, dead were many

in pain and thirst Ashwin cried

as did his sister and Suryamani. 

three of them got dragged to a boat

five more corpses heaped in there

to the upstream town it set afloat

rivers don’t speak but they do stare

Sarojini, gripped by mighty thirst,

cried before they’d gone too far

men with guns, creatures cursed

they shoved a bayonet inside her

Surya, she was thirsty too

she saw her die, she heard her yell

she drank own blood, her lips were blue

and thus she lived to tell the tale

The boat sailed by, the sun went down

the fields of paddy lay in blood

history, she’s a sullen clown

gliding by through drought and flood

She juggles around with odds and evens

as farmers live and farmers die

bloody Kakdwip – the island of ravens

echoed thus with their battle-cry

So, remember remember the sixth of November

of blood-drenched nineteen forty eight

and in heart’s hidden, hounded chamber

Ahalya, her friends – they rise to fight. 

Bodh Hawey Tungabhadra-r Tiir-ey (Seems Like By the Shores of Tungabhadra)

By the river Tungabhadra the sun is going down
By the river Tungabhadra our anchors do not frown
By the river Tungabhadra our hearts are slightly sad
By the river Tungabhadra crimson grips us mad

By the river Tungabhadra there are clouds in her hair
By the river Tungabhadra my shadow’s a soothsayer
Grasses see their own shadows on pitchers made of bronze
By the river Tungabhadra crimson grips our bones

By the river Tungabhadra ghosts of children dead
By the river Tungabhadra real maps that bled
By the river Tungabhadra guts gut in hellholes
They are very angry and may anger blaze all souls

By the river Tungabhadra shades of greenlove soft
At times when we bust out they do hold us high aloft
By the river Tungabhadra five thousand stars are singing
The roots will all have wings out there, the bells of time are ringing.

বেঁড়েপাকা বীচিকলা

অর্ধ কোঁদল চন্দ্রবদনী বন্ধনে

উর্ধ্বে ধবল ঘাইহরিণীর বার্তা কু'
হস্তে দখল হস্তিনাপুর হিরণ্যানী
গর্ভে তাহার ঝুমজব্বর আঁধারমণি
জ্বলন বলন মলম মরম গুহ্যকোষ
হালুমহুলুম জবরজুলুম দিলডাকু
ধন্যধন্য চন্দনবনে কাহ্নপাদ
ধর্মতলার ধর্মরাজার বাতাসিয়া লুপ
রেডিওবাজার নিশুথপুর হাঊষচুপ!

pretty poetry for pretty lady

it's a blue month

the roses are bust

she rides her blue pony

because she must, we must.

these are cruel times

and i'm a big fat bore

i had her keys, now i don't

so i knock at her trip-coloured door.

গভীর ভীষণ দুক্ষো

গভীর ভীষণ দুক্ষো পেলে আকাশতলে যাও
হাট্টিমাটিম হাট্টিমাটিম বাইছে সেথা' নাও
মৎস্যডিম্ব প্রসব হ'লে মৎস্য ধরিয়া খাও
ডিম্ব ফেটে মৎস্যশাবক ছোড়ুব নাহিঁ গাঁও
গভীর ভীষণ দুক্ষো ধুকু দীঘির ধারে ধাও
গভীর ভীষণ দুক্ষো হেঁটে ঝর্ণাজলে নাও।

lives and times of real-time ghosts

now that the red rags are out
now that the bulls are fuming
now that the kids are dying
now that the ones with the rags are happy that they can speak of some dead kids who are clearly more important than some other dead kids
now that the ones with the rags can fill their arsenal with the cheerleaders hooting full-blast from the sidelines
now that love is an app
now that hatred is cool
now that hunger is outdated
now that politics is for the losers
now that the soul is a Martian apologetic
now that the soul is blue and grey
now that the music is a sound coming from a box
now that the music is punctured
now that the ghosts howl, deadbeat
now that the ones with red rags can unleash missiles and civilization
now that its trending to bomb the bulls back to the stone ages
now that food has become a diminishing return for real and nobody gives a bull about that because its not trending to give a bull about food being a diminishing return
now that the rivers are places where the monsters of iron pee
now that i visit the whorehouses, where i used to visit to make love, to fuck
now that i see kids being put in boxes and killed for eternity behind benches and tables with computers and switches that decide what will happen to the kids who can't sit behind computers and switches because they are too busy getting bombed knifed castrated and starved
now that newspapers decide what cycle the newspaperboy would ride
now that poets self-publish outputs on roses and love with the money they get from people they call sir and those people get money from the people they call sir and those people get money from people they call savages in need for upliftment through bulldozers drones and nuclear warheads
now that Lorca is a dead guy with a bullet between his eyes rotting in some mass-grave somewhere copy-pasting whose poetry affords many a good fuck
now that the soldiers have taken my sisters of blue mercy away
now that chocolate boy soldiers save the day by selling chocolates on tv
now that doctors enter temples of love to diagnose chickenpox for the soul
now that doctor faustus mentors icarus to sell aeroplane tickets on tv
now that the heart and the guts are one and are ready to be ripped apart any given sunday
now that abortion is free and men in uniforms who perform that operation with sticks rods guns and bayonets get gallantry medals pinned on them and their pictures on textbooks wherefrom kids get to know who their heroes and saviours are and men without uniforms who perform that same operation with swords and butcherknives on women who belong to the hell where all the nasty others belong become ministers and get to decide whom to pin the medals on and whose pictures are to appear on books for the kids to learn
now that poverty is philosophised in air conditioned rooms where gloomy people in shiny suits pretend to listen to gloomy people in shiny suits
now that there's music and revolution oozing out of coffee shops that are built by uplifting certain savages from certain rehabilitation colonies and flophouses that aren't cool enough to be where the music and the revolution are
now that i haven't shed a single drop of blood in any battlefield which makes me the perfect expert to speak on blood and battlefields
now that wisdom belongs to people with money who need more ignorance for more money
now that peace belongs to profiteers who need more war for more peace
now that tears belong to the circus where dreams, well insured, are ringmasters and the lions of hope shiver below sanguin and sangfroid electricity
now that everything we own can be brought and sold
now that everything we wish for can be clicked upon
now that the attic-room-soldier can't step out because there are barbed wires on every bit of earth
now that the earth that used to smell of the green motherly childhood mornings smell of chemistry labs
now that the shadows of death get longer than shadows of life by the inch and to the hilt
now that there's virus in the realm of the truly lost
now that there's anger simmering in the hearts of the healers
now that there's venom spewing from the gutters that never yielded poetry
now that Plato pats Aristotle on the back and says: 'i told you so, kid!'
now that Aaron is a face that died
now that Che is a coffee-mug that lived
now that
now that my mind veers away from Bodhidharma
now that my flames flicker as ghostcandles in faceless graveyards
now that my fingers twitch around the roses that don't bloom except in fake-poetry that's as far away from life as i am from you
now that the moon wilts in sadness that used to make gypsies from lost lands dance by fires all night and that used to make rain fall on the ghosts - damned, decimated, howling with the coldest breezes from the realm of saturnalia of all dead stars
now that you, priestess of my dead stars and dead dreams, float along the bloodless phantom-tides that swell
swell
past the eyes of the Homer
past the ears of Beethoven
past the haunted lores that whisper garbled words of pain to children lost in this ghastly wilderness,
that ghastly wilderness
and everything in between - nuggets that shine and nuggets that don't
now that Orpheus is dead and Euridice will never come out
now that Bacchus and his friends rule the brazen cars with Fergus
now that Orpheus doesn't sing as he floats
now that Behula doesn't weep as she floats
now that the Ophelia doesn't sing as she floats
now that she isn't a great white lily but a bloated corpse like a million other bloated corpses
now that my love will never be a song
now that my hatred will never be a revolution
now that my hope will never climb mountains
now that my faith will be a pile of lies told, retold, untold
now that my dreams will try to be your dreams and die in thirsty pursuit
now that my nightmares will be your nightmares and yours will be mine - perfect and cold, silent like huge ancient statues
now that my fire will scorch the soil
now that our crops of gold will turn into gold and there will be no crops and there will be much gold and Midas, once the king, will stare at his daughter's statue forever, eyes fixed at the goal -
absolute unqualified annihilation
absolute unqualified jack of spades
now that eight and eight pawns will swim in this battlefield of light and darkness in the marsh of Bhula Masan
now that you will never be me and i will never be you,
the rags flutter mad
the bulls charge mad
the bombs rage mad
the knives shine mad
tigers leap out from heart of hearts
flames leap out from ancient trees on fire
wolves leap out from creeks of lost time and aim straight for the throat
all hounds of earth hunt all rabbits of earth down
all spiders of earth inch closer to all flies of earth each passing second
vines of pure poison creep up along pillars and posts where we had etched our love when we were soldiers and when we had conjured up our nightmares thinking they were dreams,

now that we know that the game is on
now that we know that we are a part of it despite everything
it's the perfect time to think of dinosaurs that roamed the naked earth for a hundred and sixty-five million years.