INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD), edited by NAYEEM FIROZ, et al.

POETICS of G R E E N D E L T A THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD)

1 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

2 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

POETICS OF GREEN DELTA THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD)

Anthologized and edited by NAYEEM FIROZ, et al.

LONDON THE UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN PRINTED AT THE EAST WEST PRINTING SERVICES, FOR THE BANGLA ACADEMY, UK 2017

3 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FIRST PUBLISHED IN 2017

by BANGLA ACADEMY UK, 1A LECKWITH RD, CANTON, CARDIFF CF11 8HJ

POETICS OF GREEN DELTA Copyright © 2017 by Mohammad Nayeem Firoz

First Edition: September 2017

All rights reserved.

The right of Mohammad Nayeem Firoz alias Nayeem Firoz (as appeared on the cover and other places of this publication) to be identified as the originator of original idea and the Editor in Chief of this Anthology has been asserted by him in accordance with law. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher and the Editor in Chief.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

COVER PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHAHRIAR ZAMAN COVER DESIGNED BY ROYHAN RONEY BOOK COVER CONCEPT BY NAYEEM FIROZ WITH COOPERATION IN ILLUSTRATION FROM NIRZHAR NOISHABDYA

 P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD) edited by Nayeem Firoz, et al.-1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-78808-832-9 (Paperback) PRINTED AND BOUND AT THE EAST WEST PRINTING SERVICES, LONDON, THE UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN

4 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

O the brave souls of Mother Bangla you who triumphed and survived through your solemnly achieved a state for us sovereign, safe and freed From generation to generation you shall be reminisced shall be remembered your sacred sacrifice

‌‌..

This Anthology is dedicated to all the valiant MUKTIJODDHAS (the freedom fighters) and allied actors of all gender, age, occupational and religious orientation of the historical Liberation War of Bangladesh from 25 March to 16 December in the year of 1971.

5 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

AN ODE TO MOTHER BENGAL ________________________________________________________________ …

The National Anthem of Bangladesh adopted in 1971 during its liberation war from the poetics of Poet Rabindranath Tagore, the first ever Noble Laureate from Bengali Literature

....................................

My Beloved Bengal (Literal English Translation) My Bengal of Gold, I love you.

Forever your skies, Your air set my heart in tune As if it were a flute.

In spring, O mother mine, The fragrance from your mango groves Makes me wild with joy, Ah, what a thrill!

In autumn, O mother mine, In the full blossomed paddy fields I have seen spread all over sweet smiles.

Ah, what beauty, what shades, What an affection, and what tenderness!

What a quilt have you spread At the feet of banyan trees And along the banks of rivers!

Oh mother mine, words from your lips Are like nectar to my ears.

Ah, what a thrill!

If sadness, O mother mine, Casts a gloom on your face, My eyes are filled with tears!

Golden Bengal, I love you.

………………………………………………….

This version of translation is available at <http://visitbangladesh.gov.bd/about-bangladesh/national-anthem/>

6 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

A strange darkness has come upon the world today.

They who are most blind now see, Those whose hearts lack love, lack warmth, lack pity’s stirrings.

Without their fine advice, the world today dare not to make a move.

They who yet possess a0n abiding faith in man, To whom still now high truths or age-old customs, Or art or austere effort all seem natural, Their heart are victuals for the vulture and the jackal.

…

‘A Strange Darkness’

By POET JIBANANADA DAS …………………………………………………………………….

Translated from Bangla by Clinton B. Seely, (Clinton B. Seely is the Professor, South Asian Languages and Civilizations, at Chicago University)

7 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

CONTENTS 1. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 12 2. PUBLISHER’S NOTE

13

3. THE EDITORIALOGY  TRILOGY OF EDITORIALS

14

4. AN INTRODUCTION TO THE TENDENCIES IN POST-INDEPENDENCE POETRY OF BANGLADESH

19

5. ANTHOLOGIZING THE POETICS OF THE POETS OF BANGLADESH ERA

Abdul Gaffar Chowdhury Abdul Mannan Syed Abid Azad Abu Hasan Shahriar Abu Zafar Obaidullah Abul Hasan Aditi Shimul Ahmad Muzahid Ahmed Nakib Ahsan Habib Al Imran Siddiki Alauddin Al Azad Altaf Hossain Altaf Shahnewaz Amir Khasru Swapan Amit Chakraborty Ananta Shujon Andaleeb Anina Tahin Nevila Anis Muhammad Anup Chandal Anupam Mondol Arabinda Chakraborti Ariful Haque Rokon Asad Chowdhury Asad Mannan Asad Zaman Ashique Reja Ashraf Jewel Asma Adhora Asma Bithi Ayesha Jharna Azfar Hussain Azizul Huq

23-190

Badruzzaman Alamgir Belal Chowdhury Bidhan Shaha Bijoy Ahmed Biren Mukherjee Bishnu Biswas Bodre Munir Borun Kumar Biswas Chanchal Ashraf Chanchal Bashar Chanchal Mahmud Dalton Souvato Heera Daud Haider Delower Hossain Monju Dilu Naser Dipan Chakraborty Elius Komol Emel Nayeem Emran Mahfuz Faisal Adnan Faqir Elias Farhad Chowdhury Farhan Ishraq Farid Kabir Faruk Ahmed Roni Faruk Wasif Ferdous Mahmud Ferdous Nahar Firoj Ahmed Girish Goiric Hasan Robayet Hasnain Hira Hasnat Shoyeb Helal Hafiz 8 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Hijol Jobaer Hujaifa Mahmud Humayun Azad Humayun Kabir Imran Majhi Imrul Hassan Imtiaz Mahmud Jabbar Al Nayeem Jahanara Pervin Jahir Hasan Jannatul Ferdous Aleya Jayanta Jillu Jewel Mazhar Jewel Mustafiz Kajal Shaahnewaz Kaler Likhon Kalpurush Kamal Chowdhury Kamrul Islam Kamruzzaman Kamu Kazi Nasir Mamun Kazi Nazrul Islam Khaled Hossain Khandaker Ashraf Hossain Kishore Mahmud Kishwar Ibne Dilwar Kochi Reza Kushal Ishtiaque Layla Ferdous Madol Hasan Mahadev Saha Mahbub Kabir Mahbubul Hoque Shakil Mahdi Hasan Khan Mahmud Noman Maibam Shadhan Majul Hasan Malequl Hoque Masud Khan Masudar Rahman Masuduzzaman Maznu Shah Megh Aditi Mesbah Alam Arghya Michil Khandaker Mohammad Nurul Huda Mohammad Rafiq Mohsin Chowdhury Joy

Mojid Mahmood Mosabbir Ahe Ali Mostak Ahmed Deen Mostofa Hamedy Moyukh Chowdhury Mujib Erom Mukti Mondol Munira Chowdhury Muntaquem Al Mahian Murtala Ramat Mustafiz Shafi Muzib Mehdy Nahid Dhrubo Nannu Mahbub Nasima Sultana Naurin Kankon Naushad Zamil Navil Mandar Nayeem Firoz Nazrul Islam Nihar Likhon Nirmalendu Goon Nirzhar Noishabdya Nitu Purna Noirit Emu Novera Hossain Obayed Akash Omar Ali Omar Faruque Jibon Pablo Shahi Pias Majid Poliar Wahid Pranto Polash Raad Ahmad Raat Ul Ahmed Rafiq Azad Rahman Henry Ranak Zaman Rasheduzzaman Raja Rassel Raihan Rayhan Ryine Razia Sultana Rejauddin Stalin Rifat Choudhury Rimjhim Ahmed Rudra Muhammad Shahidullah Ruhul Mahfuz Joy 9 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Sadi Kaukab Sadia Sultana Sajjad Sharif Salehin Shipra Sanjib Purohit Sayed Uzzal Sazzad Saif Shah Mydul Islam Shahed Kayes Shahid Qadri Shajal Shomudro Shamim Azad Shamim Kabir Shamim Reza Shammo Rayan Shams Al Momin Shamsham Tajil Shamsur Rahman Shantanu Chowdhury Sharajato Shoumo Shardul Shajal Shashi Huq Shelly Naz Shiddhartho Huq Shikder Aminul Huq Shoeb Shadab

Shuhrid Sahidullah Shumi Sikander Sumon Rahman Shuvashish Sinha Shuvo Neel Shuvro Sarker Sohel Hasan Galib Sohel Rana Subrata Augustine Gomez Syed Shamsul Huq Syed Tarik Tanvir Mahmud Tarik Shujat Tarique Tuku Tokon Thakoor Trishakh Jaladas Tushar Das Upal Barua Vagyadhan Barua Zafar Ahmed Rashed Zafir Shetu Zahid Hayder Zahidur Rahim Zakir Zafran Zunnu Rien

10 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

6. INDEX OF THE ANTHOLOGIZED POETS

191

7. SELECTED ESSAYS AND PROSE ON THE POETICS OF BANGLADESH

208

7.1. LET HUNDREDS OF FLOWERS BLOOM: THE JOURNEY OF MODERN BANGLA POETRY

209

7.2. OVERSEAS VOYAGE OF BANGLA POETRY: A BOAT OF ELIXIR STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF SALTY SEA

220

11 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS _________________________________________________________

THE EDITORIAL CLAN Editor in Chief

Nayeem Firoz Executive Editor

Naurin Kankon Managing Editor

Mosabbir Ahe Ali Associate Editors

Ashique Reja Borun Kumar Biswas Developmental Editor

Dalton Souvato Heera Assistant Editor

Nahid Dhrubo

...

THE EDITORIAL CLAN is hereby conveying nonpareil gratitude to the contributor poets, translators, publisher, cover and interior designers, press personnel along with all who contributed in numerous alternative forms as the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;editorial and ancillary collaborationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; to the editorial clan for constructing this International Anthology.

12 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

____________________________________________________ How conceivable is it to think we can translate poems? But every poem is a translated poem – meaning every poem in essence is the poet’s interpretation of emotions and sentiments. Some would however argue that whatever is lost through translation is poetry! Three editors from the field of translation work have come together to simplify some of the complications. Renowned as the land of poetry Bangladesh has a distinguished history of poetry dating back to over a thousand years.

Benchmarked by Nobel laureate poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941) contemporary Bengali poets continue to uphold this tradition of expressing passion and sentiments through their remarkable use of language and poetry. Throughout the process all those involved in translating were conscious of the fact as coined by William Wordsworth that ‘poetry is the continuous overflow of powerful feelings’. Bangla Academy UK is honored to be involved in this invaluable work. May all that is beautiful emerge victorious!

Munira Chowdhury Director Bangla Academy UK

13 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

The Editorialogy  Trilogy of Editorials …

1 IN LIEU OF AN EDITORIAL: [A brief excerpt of the wordings that a lofty dream can carry. A viably befitting editorial for this Anthology would be possibly written somewhere else not here in a page or two. This Anthology is an endeavor of anthologizing the poetics, translated by diverse hands, from major and promising poets of Bangladesh who were breathing and still are breathing poetry between 1971 to 2017]

_______________________________________________________________________

Let’s suppose you have heard that there is a Green Delta in THE map of the world named Bangladesh and you should know it as a piece of sovereign territory the people of which land, as an inimitable instance in the history of human civilization, sacrificed their lives for their mother tongue, Bangla in 21 February 1952 which was recognized by the UNESCO as the International Mother Language Day. So, Bangla, the state language of Bangladesh has given the world an International Day that is being observed in the honor of all Mothers’ Languages in the world. And transformation of the notable poetical works from that language to English, the INTERNATIONAL Language, was inevitable to prepare and present for the International citizenry to have access, through this ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY, to the beauty and austerity of the poems written in Bangla from the very inception of Bangladesh as an independent state FROM 1971 onward- that can be marked as BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD).

14 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HERE AND NOW, for the sake of aesthetic brevity let the introduction, hereby, be a plain invitation to the world.

HEREAFTER AND BONAFIDELY, in the name of Introduction let us invite you to embark in the auriferous realm of the Art of Poetry vis-Ã vis the Poetics of Green Delta.

HENCE AND ENTHUSIASTICALLY, we hope and aspire that THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA may provide a glimpse towards the Post-Tagorean literary excellence enshrining mainly the post-independence poetics from the esteemed poets of Bangladesh and Bangladeshi diaspora.

Nayeem Firoz Editor in Chief POETICS OF GREEN DELTA THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD)

Member, Royal Society of Literature Commonwealth Scholar of the British Government London, UNITED KINGDOM of Great Britain

15 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

â&#x20AC;Ś 2 ANTHOLOGIZING THE POETICS OF BANGLADESH ERA: IN QUEST OF PLACID AND PRISTINE POETRY-LIKE-LIFE

Envisioned with the impression of an ultra-contemporary anthology of Bangladeshi poetry we are working forward. The target is to carry the resulting collection with a view to reaching international audiences and we got plans to extend into a more comprehensive print edition of poems written from 1971 to 2017 in Bangla.

The anthology shall rejoice the arts of translation as well as poetry not merely one of them excluding the beauty of other. We wanted to comprise both deceased and alive recognized and emerging voices in a wide range of styles.

This is not a mere anthology but a quantum mechanics of life in the form of erecting the testament of poetry from a land which is full of natural and cultural treasure. From life what do we expect for? We expect for relief, the light of salvation and (un)restlessness- a life which is calm and pristine like poetry. This anthology is a sincere attempt to make out that very life indeed.

We shall invite the transnational readers of poetry to taste the translational beauty of Bangla poems and shall solicit their objective appreciation in the multilateral media of arts should this arduous work warrants or merit any. I do hereby thank to all poetic entities who have sent us their own poems or any poems of the selected poets and translations thereof regarding the poets we ventured to anthologize. As a matter of fact, way more people shaped the outcome here than those named on the book jacket. Therefore, on behalf of the Editorial Clan, I am formally expressing our superlative and bonafide gratefulness to have the 16 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

valuable submissions in materializing this publication. We want the potential readers to be with us to ameliorate far-reaching effect of Green Delta’s literary fragrance through the successive editions of this publication and so on.

Cheers!

Naurin Kankon Executive Editor POETICS OF GREEN DELTA THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD)

Member, Royal Society of Literature London, UNITED KINGDOM of Great Britain

…

3 RELATIVE EXCELLENCE IN TRANSLATION: RELATIVE FAITHFULNESS TO THE TEXT AND MEANING

As an enormous linguistic bend, a translation possesses, there a range of excellence hides in. Yet surely, if translation is thought of as a process of rebirth or transformation, how can one even speak of fidelity? Firstly, one must be aware that the role of the translator is, above all, that of co-authorship. He, with his life experiences, with his worldly knowledge, with his command of the topic, will reveal, in a language different from the original text, the content of the original.

It is important to maintain this view of fidelity as the preservation of the original idea and topic, but nothing can impede the manner by which the translator expresses the idea in the target language (language to which it will be translated), even if it is dynamic and variable.

We know that, frequently, in the translator’s work, direct and significant intervention is not only advisable, but sometimes ever so necessary. However, depending on the genre of the source text, some attempts at translation are largely ineffectual in their efforts to allow for full reader comprehension, such as those relating to poetic texts and idiomatic expressions (including popular sayings or other regional and folkloric particularities, many of them peculiar to an individual culture). Some claim that it is impossible to translate Camoens’ Lusiads or Dante’s Divine Comedy into a Slavic or Oriental language without betraying the ideas that the authors intended to convey, categorically affirming that good translations of the works need necessarily to set the translator free of the author’s words. And if the translator does not fully grasp the author’s 17 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

thoughts, the words she chooses will not accurately express the original idea, thereby turning the translated work into a failed and faulty attempt, and the translator into an accomplished traitor.

But what is fidelity then, if changes, sometimes so significant, are permitted?

Fidelity in translation is not simply “equivalence” between word and text, but an attempt at making the target text work in the target culture in the same way it works in the source culture. Because of that, translators are often said to be faithful so long as they provide what their clients seek.

Taking all this into account, there appears to be no way to define the work of literary translation except that it is a deftly constructed art and is one that should be honorably recognized, because translators, far from being traitors, are competent professionals who dedicate their time and energy to communicating faithfully in another language, the essential meaning of the source text, while simultaneously addressing the cultural realities of both reader and author. And, even if, eventually, some direct changes are necessary in the source text, they are always made with the intention of preserving that most important element of the text: meaning. Without these “traitorous” translators, how many immeasurable riches would have been lost to humanity over all these centuries of writing?

Although there have been a few remarkably gifted individuals in history capable of reading in various languages, they cannot possibly consume literature in every single language. What would become of the literary culture of a people, or the construction of their critical thought, if they did not have the undeniable and laudable aid of literary translations?

Throughout this reflection, we consider a translator a professional in the art of translation who carries out her work with responsible freedom and fidelity to the most essential part of her text: its meaning. This translator should never be seen as a traitor if the context of the translation demands direct and significant intervention—and in many a case, it does. Similarly, in the end, fidelity should never be taken in the sense of literal equivalence, nor the choice of the most consummate words, nor even stylistic imitation, but in the preservation of the original meaning that is the essence of the text and which, above all, should be protected by the translator.

Mosabbir Ahe Ali

Managing Editor POETICS OF GREEN DELTA THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY FROM BANGLADESH ERA (1971 ONWARD)

18 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

AN INTRODUCTION TO THE TENDENCIES IN POST-INDEPENDENCE POETRY OF BANGLADESH

â&#x20AC;Ś Bangladesh earned freedom in 1971. Like many other countries of the world, Bangladesh was under colonial rule for a long time and finally she liberated herself and became a sovereign state. After taking the name, Bangladesh, its literature flows with a new dynamic which is different from when she was under British control. A newly born country just could not shake off the marks and signs of its long bore colonial maxim/dominion/ dominance, nor could she distant herself from post-colonial mantra/maniac. This is a reality and for this reason, post-colonial modern countries attain their literary characteristics that are different and of their own. Bangladesh is no exception in its literary aspects and elements. Less or more she carries it both-her past and present. After the liberation, contemporary Bangladesh faced a vast array of severe socioeconomic, political and cultural unrest. Bangladesh Poetry reflects it all. Observation of its dynamics in one hand is somewhat affected by politics, on the other hand, it has found its own flow and divergenceit has never been linear. Surprisingly, poets of Bangladesh did not put their feet in the quicksand of misleading political affairs where politicians play the key role to seek and serve their own vested interests. Most of the writers of the world hold a higher ground that humanity must win over any group-interests or events regardless of their walks of life, or cultural background. To the people of their society they feel a sense of commitment that they want to keep and serve their nation. In last two decades, financially has advanced profoundly and earned a prestigious position in the global arena. A 19 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

post-colonial unstable state is gradually becoming a powerful sovereign country. Needless to say, Bangladesh Poetry also has taken new turns in its hues and variations. Before liberation, uninterrupted urban life or simple rural life was at the center of Bangladesh Literature exposures. After gaining freedom, Bangladesh Poetry adorned gems and pearls of multidimension of stories of life in its twist and turns that is parallel to the global literature that can certainly be observed. After the liberation, Bangladesh Literature revolved around the Liberation War. Poets orchestrated their poetics with elements of war events that took place in their own soil and that are fundamental to their existence. The ontological search of their own memoirs and history became the bouncing life of their creativity.

That is where Bangladesh Poetry shone and dignified its own glory.

Liberation war added new dimensions and surprises to their works and that is where they have become more successful. Poets such as Ahsan Habeeb, Shamsur Rahman, Hasan Hafizur Rahman, Sayed Shamsul Haque, Sikander Abu Zafar, Abu Zafar Obaidullah, Rafiq Azad, Abdul Mannan Sayed brought vitality in their poetics. Who emerged as poets towards the end of the sixties, before the warkept writing on the war. But poets of the seventies gave the literary works a new dimension. From the eighties of last century to the second of the current century, Poetry has received more enriched and brighter dimensions in the hands of the newer and new poets. This extension of writing poetry since 1971 to 2017 exposed in a variety of dimensions. With the new socio-economic and political change, poetry has taken its new roots in depth of the poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind and cogitation; aesthetic nous received new tract, context, and variation.

Right after the war, freedom influence the poets to write something new. Also, poets migrated from country side to the city. In their poetry, they wrote their stories of unintelligent urban life and memories the life they left behind. The conflict between village and 20 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

urban life became evident. Change came in the discourse of language of protests, analogy and imagery and poetry became more meaningful though some readers complained about abstract concepts in the poems. Some poets followed the same trends of autobiography and confession as it was in the thirties through sixties. The stories of life that were turned upside down, the wounds, the sorrows and misery of losing relatives in the war reflected more in the poetry.

Also, they brought the joys of becoming free. Dalliance of life by the poets became the subject matters of poetry. In the eighties, new poets found life more complicated but a little more organized. Impact of globalization also had its direct effect in the new poetics. They preferred metaphor over narratives. Therefore, their language became concise, integrated, lush and intense and temperate. Bangla poetry changed its style. Since 1980 to 2017, this trend of Bangla poetry kept the readers charmed. There are changes in subject matters and imagery also. How a scene visioned in the imagination rather how it was seen with naked eyes made a difference in creating poetry. As a result, poems became abstract and hard to follow. First, the struggle during the war and military rule, absence of democracy, population inflation, urbanization, remittance, empowerment of women, standard of life, increase in GDP-all these reasons affected poetics of the country. Poets expressed themselves as they experienced life.

Some uttered personal crisis, some wrote as if he was a comedian.

Some used myths.

In 1971 Bangladesh became a nation state. In 1952, Pakistan announced that Urdu would be the state language of East Pakistanthat is when people of East Pakistan felt the need of freeing themselves. They protest and fight for their mother tongue. Later on, in 1971the country was freed as a result of the language movement.

That is why poets of Bangladesh deeply feels and writes. They keep in mind that the language should be promoted to its highest level in 21 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

its enrichment, beauty, and greatness. And that is how poets of Bangladesh took poems as a tool to express themselves in autobiographical styles sometimes. This Anthology can be considered as a library or museum of contemporary poets of Bangladesh; their best poems have been orchestrated in the translated language.

Latin American, French style influenced Bangla poetry profoundly.

Bangla Nobel Laureates Rabindranath Tagore was the first Asian Author who wrote in Bangla. From Bangla speaking context, it stands the fifth place of world languages. But without the help of translation, it is not possible to reach other language speakers though Robert Frost simply said-what is lost in translation, that is the beauty of the poem. This anthology is not merely a collection of poems also a mirror where Bangladesh can be seen in its reflection. The translation measures were taken by the poets of Bangladesh. Let us enter this poetics of Green Delta where Bangladesh has been exposed in her own beauty and glory.

Dr. Masuduzzaman Poet, Literary Critic and Editor Professor Institute of Education and Research University of Dhaka Bangladesh

22 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ANTHOLOGIZING THE POETICS OF THE POETS OF BANGLADESH ERA

23 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ABDUL GAFFAR CHOWDHURY â&#x20AC;Ś

21 February My Brothers Blood Spattered 21 February Can I forget the twenty-first of February incarnadined by the love of my brother?

The twenty-first of February, built by the tears of a hundred mothers robbed of their sons, Can I ever forget it?

Wake up all serpents, wake up all summer thunder-storms, let the whole world rise up in anger and protest against the massacre of innocent children.

They tried to crush the demand of the people by murdering the golden sons of the land.

Can they get away with it at this hour when the times are poised for a radical change?

No, no, no, no, in the history reddened by blood the final verdict has been given already by the twenty-first of February..

It was a smooth and pleasant night, with the winter nearly gone and the moon smiling in the blue sky and lovely fragrant flowers blossoming on the roadside, and all of a sudden rose a storm, fierce like a wild horde of savage beasts.

Even in the darkness we know who those beasts were.

On them we shower the bitterest hatred of all mothers, brothers and sisters.

They fired at the soul of this land, They tried to silence the demand of the people, They kicked at the bosom of Bengal.

They did not belong to this country.

24 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

They wanted to sell away her good fortune.

They robbed the people of food, clothing and peace.

On them we shower our bitterest hatred.

Wake up today, the twenty-first of February. do wake you, please.

Our heroic boys and girls still languish in the prisons of the tyrant.

The souls of my martyred brothers still cry.

But today everywhere the somnolent strength of the people have begun to stir and we shall set February ablaze by the flame of our fierce anger.

How can I ever forget the twenty-first of February? …………………………………………………………….

This is the theme song of International Mother Language Day what was first written as poetry in reaction of the 21 February 1952 in Dhaka.

[Translated by Professor Kabir Chowdhury]

ABDUL MANNAN SYED …

Ashokanon The moonlight stands in the door like ghosts, before all doors, all doors before me belong to inferno of azure time. All trees are enkindled like green flame; the bus resembles a star, the police seems to me like a star,the shop is like a star; snow is falling over all.-I was lying on the path being shocked on seeing those scenarios,my eyes with sins became blind like the moon and the sun, I turned to a new-born under your hands who owns hearty 'Ashoka'. The moonlight to him is like ghosts being on the songs, doors are the police being on the births, the deaths are the hells being on the flowers.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

25 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ABID AZAD â&#x20AC;Ś

Short stories Everything seems to be short, very short.

This trifle dress doesn't suit me in anyway, My half shirt, my dream eater torn t shirt, Ash colored jacket, the grey Panjabi and my shoes without roars of left leaves brought from the deepest forest, my stockings of non-invited thief sand, even mad handkerchief found in the moonlight night, the poor pocket filled in stars are decreasing size, very short.

This short life doesn't suit my body, Short, very short humans are turning to.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

ABU HASAN SHAHRIAR â&#x20AC;Ś

Seventeenth of March Not merely a date; seventeenth of March was the sacred tale of life To this luckless land on this fateful day Notes of the Spring, king of seasons came On the shore of eternal exploitation fields were dressed in Glory Bowers Rivers full of waves And the full moon did grace the forehead of the night Even the calendar was vocal because you were born O, Great Soul! Your birthmark is visible on the Hihiri hills The couplets of the Chariapada eloquently spoke of your root You were a Santal in the beginning You who are a primordial Peasants have your horoscope on of waves of all these rivers, Rivulets, lakes and marshes Hijal tree by the river-ghat knows where you buried your umbilical cord Only the soundlessness of sound knows you keep awake at the core of sound 26 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

You are praised by poets of oral verses that have the aroma of the soil The plough-blades of Tebhaga movement extol your virtues You were kin to the taste of rice in the sheer fantasy of the unfed You were kin to the late Autumn’s unswerving love You were kin to the fisherman’s nets that nurture dreams And the blacksmith’s hands that sparked You taught dried up rivers the lessons of the seas And you whispered, come be yourselves waves River, you keep on raging and surge In all thirsty souls, there reigns an endless story of the Spring: Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

ABU ZAFAR OBAIDULLAH …

O Mother, they say The creeper has leaned to gravity with numerous pumpkin flower, The Benzoil tree is full ofdrumsticks and I kept in care the basked cake of lentils When will you come my boy?

When are you released?

The blood-stained letter that was in his pocket reads“My mother, they say they’ll snatch away our mother tongue.

They won’t allow me to enjoy your storytelling laying on your lap.

Say, O my mother, is it imaginable?

That causes me to be late though.

I will only reach the home bringing a bunch of words for you.

Dearest mother, don’t be enraged, you see, a few days left only.

“Incensed boy”, mother laughs while perusing the letter “Can be enraged on you, dear!”

She prepares the Coconut-Cheera and fries some parched sugared Urki paddy and what not 27 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

for her beloved boy to return exhaustedly.

The pumpkin flowers got dried out The Benzoil tree lost all its drumsticks so far The Malabar Spinach lost their youth “Have you arrived, my boy?”

Mother stares over the yard after yard with her blurred visions Where the dead body of her beloved boy is dissevered by the vultures.

Now-a-days the sunrays emanated from the mothers’ eyes engulf the vultures.

And sitting on the terrace the mother makes rice out paddy and fries popped rice again Lest her boy comes by any time!

Today the dew drops on the mother’s eyesAnd the homestead is again occupied by the gleams of her sacred affection.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

ABUL HASAN …

Birth, Death and living Death shall take me, The United Nations won’t take me.

In the Gentle Association of poets before my death reaching the impartial humans I must say, keep silence gentleman, be pacified like rose flowers.

What will you fight for?

What success do you bring from foes?

What an immense greed for imperialism?

The newspapers are filled with news of loss, destruction and destructiveness...

Humans reached the moon, I availed love.

The world did not even now witness the stop of quarrel and fights!

Invigilating the nights, nobody in this world like me did not see the songs of paralyzed beggars and angers of the poor!

Half of our lifetime we finished for sex and production, Gentlemen, tell, in our life span for how many times we told ourselves, we are well, we are very well?

[Translated by Naurin Kankon] 28 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

Loneliness The girl didn’t ask for that much Splendid beauty, unbounded freedom Who had asked for a slight less Sitting around until afternoon Stressing her body across the mirror stand She fancied her mother to admonish her Her father to know her pain.

The girl didn’t ask for that much!

All that hue and cry, people or crowds or concourse Who had asked for a little less She wanted a mine of emotions arouse thirst in her at once And desired to be called a woman from the man of her choice.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

ADITI SHIMUL …

Selected Haikus 1.

Waves on tears Breezes are floating Onto moonshine 2.

Depression is weaving deepest sigh fire on blood.

3.

Fireflies twinkling on sparkling night [Translated by Laila Ferdous] 29 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

AHMAD MUZAHID …

Oceanic-Hymn

Relesing the soul and the offspring of Sun-Earth If the quantum of dissection of one’s ownself doesn’t superimpose the life on the color of moon and star, And if they miss the direction, The inaugurated flower or shadow being asymmetrically writtenremains abortive, towards an end of the blood-entangled forehead’s fire, then blow some wind throughout the whole entity; Refracted, our dark entity turns to all the particles of emancipation of crying fume, The corpus of truth has been unveiled that was assuming the role of hymn and rock, eternally, All the memoirs of insurmountable twilight, dance, smiling face entails this description; You accompany them, how you begotten the enlightened journey of human enlivening from material particles, hydroworld and spirit; wither them away all the seasons of limitations for the numerous queries, presence of an orchard Nonetheless, birds in a totality are the crucial entities before the light of the far extreme incumbent sky, the diamond-glittering men sacrifices in the water all his refusal of emotions-laden-imagination, all those artworks, miffed circumstances of women flow towards the ocean, wave!

My oozes are on wave, overwhelmed so splendidly Drawing lunacy of tune in the blue stony voice of a flame A big heart stop detonating on the verge of your downtrodden sight.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

30 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

AHMED NAKIB …

Eyes Your eyes are of granite stone.

Will boring into them find Some ceaseless springs?

Or I can forcibly seize the sun And set it on your silent sight; The light will flare up And fight off all that dark To see the world anew again.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

AHSAN HABIB …

I am not a Stranger Star in the sky shall depose Flowers on the land shall even depose, This dark night, savannah of bamboo, numerous fireflies The Queen’s Crape-Myrtle and Syzygium shall depose Pond in the east, the blank eyes of her sprawling figs And the Kingfishers know me, I am not a guest here For Lord’s sake, I am not an alien wayfarer I ain’t a stranger I ain’t a stranger, I was here and I dwell here here in the rule of the dream Being here tantamounts to be troughout the whole country I ain’t a stranger This acute sun, drizzly wind, clouds, the birds from the exhausted afternoon recognize me.

They know I ama not an outsider.

The bud of the paddy in the month of Kartrik shall depose And the sharp leaves thereof even can depose Resonating mist and the shadow of Nishinda tree covered under the moonlit shall depose too Owing to the ageing the declined body of some Kadam Ali The darkness of his tired eyes 31 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I can certify, I am some proven kin to him.

The barren kitchen, utensils thereof belonging to mother of some Jamila can depict me Hold the oar and the plough, see Imprint of my hand can be felt so intensely My faragrance goes to the soil, it even receives aewsthetic aroma from the soil.

Trust me I am not a stranger.

My entity encompasses the paddy field on both the side of the tiny path And the bank of endless river I am an entangled boy of this eloped river.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

AL IMRAN SIDDIQUI …

Memory of vesper In a light evening I came across her heavy eyes.

And I said: one day on your face too twilight will cast its gloom.

Red round ''tip'' on your forehead will get eclipsed.

Then I saw a shoal of red fishes roam under white bikinis that float in the aquarium.

‘Such a twilight rarely comes in a lifetime, doesn’t it?’—said she.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

32 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ALAUDDIN AL AZAD …

Memorial Tomb Did you get your memorial tomb broken?

What to be frightened, we are now a family of four crores.

We are still upright!

The base that was never conquerable by any monarch The crown of diamond, ble warrant, naked sword We sow the paddy, draw the boats and drive arms and gasp at the end of the road dismantled by the sudden strike of hoofs We are the plain hetroes, people of uniqueness.

Did you get your minaret of bricks broken?

What to be frightened, we are now awakened, a family of four crores.

What type of death it is?

Did somebody see such death, which does’nt arouse eyeshed, weeping unbound.

From the Himalayas to the sea All the grief turns into a flag’s color spontaneously What type of death it is?

Did somebody see such death, which does’nt arouse sigh in utter deteachment?

Only Sitar becomes the lovely flow of cascade, does the Pedstrian Season of immense words bring the era of poetry to pen?

Let the minaret of bricks fall.

We the four crore workers built one single minaret in the tune of a viola, on the letters of colorful heart.

We have drawn on the spumous rock, the name of yours in every era, O myrters You all are floating as an island on the eyrish of fathomless eyes of rainbow and parrot tree Hence, on the ignited pinnacle of thousands of closed hands a sculptor of oath shines as the sun.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

33 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ALTAF HOSSAIN â&#x20AC;Ś

Some added stanzas on Sylvia Plath In an early morning, she is writing fast holding her coffee cup From her writings distilled wines are downpouring from throat to heart fast, rhythmically and drop by drop on which the petals of Bayur flower are scatteredly floating She is shivering So that her eyes become more visible So that her hand can hold a deific light So that can have the most grey and upright life for the spur of the moment Since she had to accomplish that and leave a blueish note of suicidal death.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

ALTAF SHAHNEWAZ â&#x20AC;Ś

Paddle I distraught in your eyes along with lonely wharf; Then call upon the birds of Farao.

If silver birds and their iron songs throw food -- I travel the entire village unpaid.

Thorns found beside your home In the last border, I will show you the regular boiling vapor of rice.

Was I fed or not-- in calm and quiet eyes in the lonely wharf being distraught?

Life now- shoots aimlessly I am afraid of you-- A glow of being turned off I sprinkle water like blind Who will touch your eyes?

Where warm water dwells in them...

Tattered when I stare at...

Like cartridge I am scattered!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali] 34 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

AMIR KHASRU SWAPAN …

Journal 2010 My lost and distorted transparent eyes appear in a city surrounded by an eternal forest in a warring state And the smashed heart of mine, as it didn’t turn to a prey of animal, has started dreaming being on a half-sized millpond full of skeletons.

Though I am not aware of the number of girls being lost towards the porn-world in the guise of war Yet, nothing to do in the four corners even if this face spreads news of condolence to the world with utter hatred, And thinking this one can ridicule the death Nonetheless, that YOU who is floating casually with an open mouth like a puffer fish, how can he be ridiculed!

I suppose, depth of meeting is quintessential to break the mighty rhuthm of a dance Moreso, I am thinking that, which wall of this city may be reorted to for advertising this healthy amount of disappearance.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

AMIT CHAKRABORTY …

O Tempora!

Inside an hourglass stillness rolls down smooth.

Sand means the memory of a beach and sunbath.

A path leads through the olive trees; For ages people moved into a solitude like this.

Despite that the archaic sound of their feet resonates and lingers on...

Time revolves.

Men keep getting lost into the paradoxes of Zeno; It is Cronus that emerges out of the clock [Translated by Jewel Mazhar] 35 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ANANTA SUJON â&#x20AC;Ś

The Transformation This year I will join the flock of birds The fame of flying has been proposed to Black Kite Before falling again, I will submit all fiery winds on the apex of cloud hills-that was hidden inside a body of a growing girl!

That the sagacious guy, who is sought by the planets and stars, stepped for unconquerabless with breaking colds in winter where there was living an age-old tortoise who teaches fountains the symphony!

In the feet of that tortoise, there sits static the extraordinary lake of longevity-The fashion of his pavement may be of an expert dancer May be, someday in the nearer home that dancing would be staged, Would be plundered like a renegade deer breed, spreading blood and salinity in the puzzling woodland!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

ANDALEEB â&#x20AC;Ś

Non-flowery 1 The line of poverty, and its underneath; Underneath the shadow of derailed superstore assembled the humanity.

That quantum of woes crystallized in this very product-laden night thrusting the outburst of some pollen of promotion and those of plagues, On this orchard of non-flowering plants, the 'FLOWER of Lust' turn to blue in beauty.

Behold! Arise hereby on the verge of these O eternal 'slave of products' Do chew thy credit card in hunger, lick it instead.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

36 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ANINA TAHIN NEVILA …

The Buyer You are not supposed to say You will buy it for me Being in the present, like a balloon you sit by the sky You afford it so you sit on your haughtiness and spire In the dense of night, stars hang like corpses who dream of up above And some desire to turn into birdsIn assurance, you tell One day you will buy wings just for them.

What you didn’t know-when you talk with emotions You are not supposed to be so verbal And not to utter-you will buy them for me In the current market that is too much of capitalism Rather, put your hand upon your left chest And say-Here you go! Take it!

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

ANIS MOHAMMAD …

Freedom Solitary noon; A minor bird, fearless, Sitting on a lamp post.

Cantonment; Soldiers, handful of flowers; A white crane on the skull of a cannon.

[Translated by the Poet]

37 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ANUP CHANDAL …

Secreted and Silent It is acceptable that someone possess some secreted and silent sins: Perhaps you have caused a triffle monetary loss to someone in an ineviatable need, You might have been allured by the dire instigation of the unscrupulous nature– She is your sister, daughter, mother or immature – What could have been done!

See, there is no crime-particle in this wide savanna You only feel this followed by your long term stay at human civilization.

Well then, let there be some secreted and silent crimes– Abruptly wake up, any one of you, as if a sleep-sparing star, Give some gently igniting aching and light, Afterwards elope again …

If I can I may frame with care one or two stanzas with this luminous aching Unleash for floating in the grayConfession thereupon!

As though the new sins glow from the ashes of old sins As though the stanzas can unleash to float in the gray after framing them once again.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

38 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ANUPAM MONDOL …

Shadow To the resurrection of wave-array I, do fervently, solicit through the clouds and a hand, full of oblation.

The long tamarisk trees have eloped far more in the dead-end of forest.

Lo, I see the reflection of the Banyan tree and one or two leaves of the orange tree on the water, and floating on the edge of the wetlands.

Far from that stance I wonder staring at that very foreleg as though someone is cleaning the dust from it.

Having been driven away by airstream branches of the Murunga tree are getting descended to the earth And they leave one or the other of their yellowish leaves downwards on the soil.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

ARIFUL HAQUE ROKON …

Somebody In the rain of the past Radhachura and Kolmilota got drenched Many cuckoos and blind flies also flew away.

Pollen seeds play in the sky Old ducks, young peacocks, widowed fireflies On the bituminous road of love under the strong sun Girls lie and forget the worldly life People who were promised the sun and the moon Also lie there doom and gloom.

Yet, one I am on this earth like my own…

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

39 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ARABINDA CHAKRABORTI …

Version of the Ocean Mother taught once— It is of no stunning sleeping on the sea.

Even if Iam not hailing from the Kaibartas We settled by the riverside, I’m a potter’s son Throwing net in the immensity of fate My father explores immense enigma, daily foodings Amongst all I sense the propensity of winning wisdom.

Lest we lose my father strike his oar strongly through the flow-tide Even eye remains as the newest version of the ocean I encountered this plain learning which was translated on my mother’s expression.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

ASAD CHOWDHURY …

Autobiography Autobiography is written after giving a lot of thoughts The list of names in the pallid journal is made shorter By discarding some Moreover Some rough and tumble deceiving memories command.

Be it the key fundamentals Someone else writes the tale of cortege An autobiography is fundamentally an unfinished write up.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

40 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ASAD MANNAN …

Who Calls him from Behind Who calls him from behind the dense flagrant rainy night?

Wrap me around your heart with endless light I will will you the lion forest in the deep infirm blue tinge.

If you want a world of peace, I will mange without honey and beehives. If you wish for rearmost bunch of flower- I will bring you too.

Then why you are late? Go to that green village (NuhashPalli*).

There waits permanent bridal chamber in rains.

On coffin, mother's hand becomes motherland and playing a sad clarinet extending through ocean to the Himalayas.

Flower in hand, tears in eyes are gloomy and messy through the whole universe. There lies John dark in relaxed mood; Who provokes concord of lovers with the soil through eliminating the curtains of disunion. ………………… *NuhashPalli – A farm house of Humayun Ahmed- A veteran Bangladeshi Writer and filmmaker

[Translated by Modsabbir Ahe Ali]

ASAD ZAMAN …

Secret Oh, the sky of white flowers, confer the beam Impasted moon upon body let me be the black leaves.

Beckon to close And arm stirred to Good bye Who is in the midsts Good bye and welcome?

Countlessly close and gone away wide came close and gone wide.

Now you are standstill a traffic in moonbeam Elaborately, Accosting the leaves Flooding away opening your Narcissus book appearing as traffic and leaves But who knows the secret of them.

[Translated by the Poet] 41 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ASHIQUE REJA â&#x20AC;Ś

For silence Spring comes in mind before in the forest Living in night together and chilly winter Behind the leaves, cuckoo hums Little further, an unknown Cicada cries Deep in a dry, hungry honeypot For me!

No, not warmness, Do not want touch of lyrical stream All I want is chill and peace of the grave Simple sounding can break fragile dam Unlocking the door of words Starts dance of disaster Ferrous with water invites rust MoreThe day Antarctica got the attention Started sinking into water Desiring affection, Himalaya melting Quite! Zip your leap, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t speak Communicating is not good part How can you undo Loosing thy heart?

[Translated by the Poet]

42 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ASHRAF JEWEL â&#x20AC;Ś

The past Lady, the sorrows became birds The sorrows Suddenly became birds, Fluttering the winds, the wings told us the ode to the imperiled moaning.

Like a sick scarecrow, an unexposed lover waited long in the solitude of September, to touch one's lips she became a shadow dancer mocking in the other way.

Oh, the past lady, to be unrevealed, I too wish; Yet, by the passage of days you tend to be mirror-sybaritic.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

ASMA ADHORA â&#x20AC;Ś Abstract-Poster All the manuscripts that have been written, conceal fire in their bodies. Though strong instigation of this morning manifests that the storm has dismantled the weather-scale, letters that are witty can still sweat and cool down. The lead of the 4-B pencil worn out so easily that it looks like a free rainbow inside half of an inverted comma.

The half-done oil painted face of the teenage girl awaits to be completed; at midnight, her lips open up and soon upon turning the lights on the easel shows all flooded with red. Where can you hang such a picture, mighty ego?

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

43 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ASMA BITHI â&#x20AC;Ś

Tales of flowers That very last evening runs While the darkness rest.

Without darkness, how the buds can bloom within the eyes of night and how the day light expresses itself from the deep of black tummy.

The extract of life breathes from the fragrance of flowers.

Jasmines and Chameleons and sometimes Night Queens and Spider Lilies bloom in any garden thoughtlessly That all flowers I like, what division could I find out.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

A Y E S H A J HA R N A â&#x20AC;Ś Bonsai Poetry You really need silence, a lot!

Ignoring all the crowd, vaunting rail and screaming-you are going to a rainy hill.

There are so many bonsai, dwarf trees and pakur. Sometimes, soft lyric of waterfall is heard. See, how dwarfs of that dwarf land are marching in dancing posture towards formless future. If they could get the lost dream particles! Care, compassion and moonlights are dropping down from the sky. Someday, stock of stories, fairytales become exhausted and some crazy dwarfs chant dwarf poetry.

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

44 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

AZFAR HUSSAIN … from

Dhaka and Dirty Dialectics: A Nocturnal Prose Poem in Seven Microcantos

So where is history written/except in the poems?

—Audre Lorde, Our Dead behind Us They have told me I only talk about politics now.

—Ernesto Cardenal, Zero Hour

Microcanto V Or am I too prosaic to be in the company of your poets and critics policing the border between prose and poetry, the traffic of statements—over or under—or for that matter the entire regime of tropes and techniques? You must be subtle and low-key—you bet. That is, you must be clever, really. You ought to use Good English to attract foreign presses and foreign critics. For Allah’s sake, hold your tongue, and conserve the purity of your metaphors. Don’t ever mix them higgledy-piggledy. Politics? Boring. It contaminates your poetry and prose alike, and even makes them stink like a pile of pigshit. So forget political economy— there is no time or space for your frigging bigmouth Qazi Nazrul or your Marxleninfreak Nazim Hikmet or your cranky commie Roque Dalton—but take lessons in verbal economy. Key: your profit lies in making the maximum of meaning out of the minimum of words. And, oh yes, make it a point to clean up all your phrases and wipe their arses before they stand up for saying prayers to the West or Washington or Wall Street. And be sure that you don’t rock the boat of those mullahs at this dangerous time. Thus, scale upon scale, their commandments accumulate in the name of Good English Good Poetry Good Prose Good Criticism Good Manners Good Morals and Good God: just grind out your stanzas or paragraphs according to the Golden Rule.

But your factoryworkers and rickshawallas and automechanics and truckdrivers and busconductors and newsvendors and shopkeepers and saleswomen and signalmen—and on and on can I go naming many others, including your entire lumpenproletariat—keep stitching their dirtied sentences of daily struggle in different dialects, from Dhakaiya to Sylheti, under your sunset bleeding like a throat slit sharp by a dazzling knife. And your prostitutes and thieves and nightguards and policemen and dogs and muggers and reporters—crossing one 45 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

another’s path and knowing your nights better than your urban poets and petit-B politicians or your maastans and ministers—don’t give a rap about ars poetica or ars erotica. Nor do they give a hoot about how well those chamchas bark English to amuse their foreign bosses or buddies. And meanwhile flashing their white teeth, the World Bank and the IMF mispronounce your name, maldefine your needs, make up your contracts, and then produce a long check-list of do’s and don’ts.

Damn! Should I adjust structurally, as I write these lines about you, Dhaka?

[Translated from the original Bengali by the poet]

AZIZUL HUQ …

Blood Sapphire Behold! a heart is steel bleeding brightly on a blueish glass plate This is just severed and put on the table And that phenomena invited the sunrise on the water of an ocean.

In this profound morning what else can I offer? What else indeed!

A blood-oriented Sapphire.

What else I could offer.

Beneath this erected palace Quasi-demolished a city shall be discovered one day.

The bright skulls of women, grave to the right eyesight, Rarest jewel glitters from the hollow of the other eye Blood-oiented Sapphire, As if it is nothing but a deep blue eye severed by an arrow Litting a drop of blood stares towards someone inside the dark To whom she stared at, do you know it, O twentieth Century?

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 46 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

BADRUZZAMAN ALAMGIR â&#x20AC;Ś

Father and Son Outside the window Lightening flies in the sky With extra ordinary excitement And life- threatening vigor.

Father will come home from far He leaves the house in daylight Comes back at night Covering a long distance He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t carry a flashlight As well he is losing sight.

To bring my father home In lightening- stricken rainy night I step out of the door with a kerosene light.

The timid light accepts defeat To Michael's one blow.

I fetch the broken hurricane lantern A tiny fire drop flickers inside the chimney Spreads light to infinity.

I wait by the pond with the hurricane in hand I - a tiny little boy Lightening strikes again With a life-threatening roar.

In the distance A shadow appears by the Monamara Bridge Steps towards home in following the lightening light.

A deep darkness engulfs the night!

Father returns home in the worry of thunder I stand with the lantern on the bank of the pond.

Both of us awaiting a lightening My father and I! [Translated by Khalequzzaman Matin] 47 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

BELAL CHOWDHURY â&#x20AC;Ś

A scenario decamped in the Azure Two persons together putting hand on hand, Numerous mistakes chant inside the headThat pinches causes bodily pain Unblemished blue collyrium on the eyes; In the saliva, we can assess somefragrant pollens Soft Cloud-Flower of dawn.

In the touch of fierce fire Overheated two persons Strong red body of iron Reaching the pinnacle of wave falls on the shore.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

BIDHAN SAHA â&#x20AC;Ś

Desire I feel like a drunk on such a cloudy day Full of thunder and lightnings.

Virtually a mild aroma is drifting close.

And my desire to get you is as smooth as your body!

May something untoward happen today.

For I am enchanted by you, fire!

[Translated from Bangla by Jewel Mazhar]

48 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

BIJOY AHMED …

Me and the Dragonfly Dragonflies have been my principal choice; In my childhood, I have many noons and sun were observed only by running behind the dragonflies But for an unknown reason they couldn’t like me!

They used to talk with the bushes, Consequently, I was envious of dragonflies and their friends!

Then I used to think when I will grow up and become a red time fail rail I won’t care them at all!

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

BIREN MUKHERJEE …

The Poem I Have Written in My Dream Maybe it is not the arbors, it’s the river that stands still With the victorious song of life, We have been floating away in search of thee.

Maybe it is not the river, it’s the time that stands still In the dark womb of life, We have been floating away in the tide of time.

Maybe it is not the time and not us either In the making of it The roll call of emptiness surrounds everything.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

49 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

BISHNU BISWAS â&#x20AC;Ś

That dark dead pillar That dark dead pillar will be melted In the paths and rocks In the dust and grasses The pounded sun is found Dripping of fire beneath the hill The melodious fountain Drums are in rhythms praying rains Your private noon is under the bloody fountains Daily Your celebration is under the bloody fountains Diurnal; Yesterday- The shut door of the washroom is found broken The future is waiting beside an ancient cave that may throw to enormous dark.

Darkness is in the cave Darkness is in your hand Crecenthimum is bloomed through clashes and the image of wideness.

Under Arrows, archer, dead-body Households Coitus, under the fire, the upper sky And the darkness is burning inside the darkness.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali] 50 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

BODRE MUNIR …

Retirement Business is a hungry animal, Moreso it knows the ferocity It should be fed carefully, staying alert from far is better.

Many animals become tame by dint of your magicIt didn’t honor the level, it remained uncountableBirth-fellow of esteemed dream!

Business is the wild bird, if it flew away, retirement is your assassin.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

BORUN KUMAR BISWAS …

Day Dreamer’s Sagacity Dreamed you my goddess At shiny indolent midday I had gone sleepy twinkling planet You had thrown Romany clay.

A Shivering pastel in my hand Crayons could not stop My groggy mind allowed The canvas to receive the fob.

Exploring your beauty I had found a paragon Insolent lips had osculated you I became a big gibbon.

Dreamed you my goddess Looked me with a steadfast look, 51 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I could not continue to read An illusive holy worship book.

More than ten thousand nights I had slept before You did not come ever Not fallen the cumulus rain on the moor.

Carrying your mighty face Blood flows through the vein My prosy mind wants Goddess in my dream come again.

[Originally written in English]

CHANCHAL ASHRAF â&#x20AC;Ś

The Song of Journey No air was in the tyre The Path was far away Leg was caught in the air Bat were hanging in the eyes anyway Frost was the anger of the stars Frozen was the air in mourn The Earth looks like barbers Parents inclined to see from whom I took born No air was in the tyre The Path was far far away Leg was caught in the dust layer There raised a bloodily gurk anyway Air was hidden in the chest Nobody knows it dear!

Father couldn't know him best Who will stop his tears The tyre was running out of air Air was hidden in the chest 52 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

With two mighty wings there An Ostrich walks in unrest I touch and feel a shadow that comes in the form of a body.

With countless fragments of stars The sky keeps lying upturned.

Out in the sea a plant of the nether world Rises up from its slumber …

A bird comes out of its slumber through the songs it sings.

Inside a tamarisk grove I offer to give my body back.

Will she accept?

With this question, the wind blows along the coastline.

It tells me: you are lonely as an ant That walks relentless along the water’s edge.

And see! to the parched-blue sky The sea unfolds its bosom.

See, over there in the abandoned port A sleepless sailor’s love and a ship of errors lie.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

CHANCHAL BASHAR …

Prism of the wild Gradually I go up to the top of tall trees The air swings and causes to dance. Ceaseless I talk to myself in vain; ---sort of coming to terms— mop up sweats, fatigues. Shatter chains of work; From the core of leaves the last chlorophyll I bring; The same amount of salt, water, blood and green!

Those who begged fire in my dream, I gave them Dry branches, leaves and murmur of twigs; Thus my eyes got filled with fire and smoke.

Yet, I have me on top of tall trees, All the time The wind swings and browbeats me I feel — Bending down I see no earth. Nothing left but Spoiled water, ashes and parched leaves.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar] 53 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

CHANCHAL MAHMUD …

Alex, your hungry teeth bleeds me a lot O Alex! Hungry friend of mine, lets sprinkle plates of rice.

We collect religion more than rice like the oyster found in the beach.

The abraded civilization is waiting behind the door.

Lets burst into-- rise elsewhere as a new civil.

Alex put one hand on stomach, other on the forehead. How far the stomach from forehead?

Measure in blood by meter scale and compass!

As fate is unchanged, life lifts up in a jute bag.

Yes, civilization is found in the park bench in self exile.

Rise up like a swine in racket!

Here cries my friend’s scarred hand, Dishelved hair, sweat in the eyebrows, sore on legs are getting ruthless in hunger.

Screaming the Uvula, didn't you hear?

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

DALTON SOUVATO HEERA …

The Mortgage Eventually I got that I gotta go back.

Even in these incumbent days, it is the butcher who can reflect on poetry whose strand is at the dead end of this one-ended lane.

I thought I would educate him on poetry should I got some spare time in my hand.

That amount of spare time would be worthy of splashing the salvation inside the Imambarah! I couldn't afford that recess time, instead I just went on to carry the splits of spirits within.

54 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Our pathways of old town assumed the pattern of East European roads...heritage heritage! I wish I could even import the bottle of liquid aroma, dust of the lane, Muharrams and the discreetly observed KaliPuja over the ShakhariBazaar to the year of Nineteen Hundred and Forty.

All the certificates of Dhaka University from forty to thirteen could be mortgaged to Kohebi Cohen, a jewish girl. Then her unchaste granddaughters could be traced out searching throughout the Europe.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

DAUD HAIDER â&#x20AC;Ś

About You Sometimes I feel about you Clouds gathered in the sky, song of rains in the winds, Night seems too long.

Sleeps are not in the eyes at all.

I am tossing and turning on bed--A pin-drop silence through the universe.

Sometimes I feel fly through the infinite emptiness; Like the flight of clouds, I wish I would pay a visit to Bangladesh!

I wish, standing on the top monument --With a sky breaking shout I would say-On other side of the border there is my home-But alas! I, like an expatriate, reside in here alone.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

55 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

DELOWER HOSSAIN MONJU â&#x20AC;Ś

The Original Peafowl While rivers swell more than veins I kiss you for two and a half minutes being the opposition of God. God feels lonely now, He abodes in the solitude of His mate Delower Hossain Monju.

I opened my wing while on the branch owned by the architect ant.

Being within the original air this RAGAA floats through the finest light while swaying on the stone and before the nose-hole.

Let others know That the field shall not sleep in the building made of grass.

Humans bearing hardened stigma will lose the right to enter in the heaven.

This is my subconscious mind, The dancing light in the consciousness, the useless trash.

The original peafowl cries in the eternity.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

56 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

The Lace Shiddhirgonj proceeds to the breast of Madaripur Blade is flying in the wind Blade is flying in the wind The hair of a dead peafowl is resting on the branch of fragrant screw pine ... this shadow is muddy not that of a human, rather a shape of a human.

Python sisters are taking birth from the empty stomach To leave the viscera towards Jamuna we left the womb…

Me and the cobra are wayfarer together.

A fair-dawn desecends to the womb of village...

The sparrow is going to a burning metropolis riding on a rail-berth At end of our embankment what was fallen for the entire night milkwhite apathy or moonlit.

Sky starts melting in the eyes Sky starts melting in the eyes...

Me and the railway I do cross the river on the Dingi boat of entity...

I can hear the water where resonates half of a tiger and the sound of buffalo’s hurt...

Not too far light is stampede in the whirlpool The light and the children’s crying shall be convicted on the lamp-post 57 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

We shall reach to our own Junction through the tiny path of heaven, The beautiful women are seen on the ships that are full of flesh in a port far away I won’t watch children of stone left under the cementing Children of Day, the offspring of stones.

In this oblation, I am laying inside a morgue…

Stinks spreads severely of vulva and napthalene’s Sexism is attained by a rat Three legs of a rat are climbing by the thigh In the blood-clot of nostrils, in the remants of the shadows…

Turning into dark the white ices of corpse.

Alas! My valentine In the moonlit of the desert she is a Giraffe of the clouds Nobody rushes to pick me Nobody rushes to pick me…

Sleeping alone inside a morgue If boththe water and the fire turns to utter bitterness I feel sleepy, I feel sleepy…

O mother, far in a village, the lumen of your lantern is waning…

O mother, the lumen of your lantern is waning, far in a village …

[Translated from the Bangla poem of Delower Hossain Monju by Nayeem Firoz]

58 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

DILU NASER â&#x20AC;Ś

Light Up Now is the Time What a dreadful time for us to meet You and I Not a touch of blue in the sky No flowers to see and no birds sing Only death and destruction As far as I can see Darkness prevails all around.

What a dreadful time for us to meet.

Murderous is this time in a shroud of grief Which decays us night and day Why is there this eternal breach between us two Why is this doubt and fear Why we seem lifeless though we live?

Cast this fear and the doubt aside Light up now is the time Rub the flints of our hearts together Light up where it is darkness now.

[Translated by Munayem Mayenin]

59 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

How Long Can I Run

No longer can I bear this fleeing How long can I run away?

Having kept on fleeing I have crossed much distance First having left home I went to Jainta Mountains Then Sheethakoondo--Baataali Paahaarh Having crossed rivers and seas I reached the Himalayas.

Having gone across Rajastan--Kaandaahaar one day I burnt my fragile physique in the piercing Saharan sun Later on floated over the Mediterranean I got blended In Crete; in Athens keeping the scent of Horoppa And Mahenjodaro I have traced the footsteps of Socrates.

At midnight-in Granadan jungle-I have searched Lorca’s grave.

Having run and run I had gone so far Beneath the dazzling lights of Venice, Barcelona and Paris Hours had gone by in drinking maddening venomous blues In efforts to wipe away the water-born-smell of Meghna and Padma I repeatedly jump in the Thames, in the Abro, in the Rhine Having gone round and round across Piccadilly, Manhattan Exhausted myself I have run to desolate Arafat With interminable thirst I have kissed the Black Stone.

How long can I run?

Having run and run I have even run away from my tormented mother…

[Translated by Munayem Mayenin] 60 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

DIPAN CHAKRABORTY …

Prayer Hallucination of tunnel is being audible from a radio, Words lost their language this day Let’s stare at it, barely That silly lass laughed in the spring that was chopped in the jigsaw of blankness Her prayer echoes in the fragrance of wood apple on the Hills of Santals‘O fire, O Sun, take back the hunger, import the luminous kisses’ This is not a silhouette by any means, come on I have observed more than what a sane eye watches A green horse, why you were so hasty!

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

ELIUS KOMOL …

The Sanatorium My friend whom I gifted a hill Yesterday, he returned me that hill This time I gifted him a Sanatorium He is too happy--as he knows that I need a sanatorium badly than a hill [Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali] 61 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

EMEL NAYEEM …

Even life can be lived in this way Each day someone asks me to write something, but you have passed many days just in slumbering and wasted the ineffable spring. That call is very intense. It says festivals of sacrificing have been increased in the guise of awaiting and disregard. I think to write something each day. Having been attentive I encounter that the atlas is being burnt. The bus that burnt down to ashes and the rest of the charcoaled inanimate bodies within.

One day we all brought ourselves out on the road. The fifth day of February it was, in the year of two thousand and Thirteen. We don’t come out now. Some named the ‘awakening as travesty. All the known names become unknown, willfully or unwillingly. I am carrying myself to sucha a distanct destination.

Every day appears to be a dormant flow of extra life. I am fine even if all the others got demised being burnt. Even human life can be lived in this way… this is the way a country sustains too…

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

EMRAN MAHFUZ …

Unforgiving History Yamaya hands of millions of people calling Distracted Traveler- Capricious Noon looking In the light of emptiness with shepherd–eyes.

Brick-colored sunshine on the yard Raising me up like a girl, And I’m stirring in snail-water.

One Life – Wants not to be dissolved in Imagination, Visible amorphous body does not go away.

Mirror stands with its unkind nature I give a look tooAs if a man’s work is to make full stop.

[Translated by the Poet] 62 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FAISAL ADNAN …

The Lone Survivor A tortoise How melancholic in an acquarium Moving across It is irresponsive while remaining amongst the hunan It watches us from the water What will he think while living a hundred years?

—Properties of Panacea for the blood of Unicorn?

—Different thought about death?

—Any facet of meteors descending from the space?

—What rapidity do there for the human being?

—Or the thoughts of sex revolve only around the solitude?

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

FAQIR ELIAS …

The moon that knows how to play a guitar There was a river nearby. A moon used to cry sitting in the bank thereof.

That moon was a vacant place for a long time. The story begins like this.

We’ve come to know the history of homeless posh community.

Afterwards we step forward. We reach the bank on our foot. The bank used to refuge the damaged boats once upon a time. The learned boatman used to throw out the water accumulated in the bottom of the boat. We used to enjoy the mastery of boatman’s hand. And we noticed that the hymns of human doesn’t cease to sound even in the late night. Continues the crossing of the river.

There was a storm here. That storm was lost to some other states. Hence, the citizenry of this country forget how to chase the storm and adorn the life being within that. Or how often all issues warrants dismantlisng like 63 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

that strike of a storm. In the like way the enemy quarters of hyenas were demolished in the year of 1971.

Exiled storm and vacant moon are passing their confined life in an island.

Where the storm can endure the pain but the moon can not. We can listen that echo of crying via the guitar playing of the moon.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

FARHAD CHOWDHURY â&#x20AC;Ś

Lament of the God You read the poem, Read my heart that reurned from the morgue Read the religion of politics and feeling saturated with stunning blood Standing on the gate of the church buy for us the glass-like heaven And enslave me only for you after the sex in senselessness You should laugh, bring together the abandoned smiles of others I reckon the senseless lines of songs dwelling in your overcoat I become hyper-intoxicated and stop the search for a pub Then I do gently recount the lifespan of a pannikin And you remain sitted as the old-fashioned gloves of the shop for time and again from man to man-nexus See, human is leaning towards the earth from the heart As the twilight downfalls See, after loosing the home the God is crying inside the heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hush And you read the poem Read the lament of the God Read and peruse this manuscript with thought [Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 64 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FARHAN ISHRAQ …

Maa Forget the cellphone Maa, I can hear you…

The chord deteached from the navel...slightly charmed Tell me....I am concentrating on grabing near the ear the world-hollow that is enveleoped by the magenta darkness The way you used to tell us embracing under your aanchal i can the electronic game of sound wave be more sound than that?

Leaving headphones and striking out the name of the clinic I will go back, prior to arrival of the medicine. .

Flashback Hospital is seen far away Yellow or slightly grey ‘Jolpotti’ is on the forhead Fever-striken physique The wave of the graph of fate is inside the cup of Biscuit Two of your hands is hailed upon the stars, you are flying though!

Which branch river of affection has gone to whic The current of festival is running forward making the itra-continent some foam The silent seed, see, from the background of the leaves how gracefully alone only because of the glory of the land How adorable can the language of glance be A crane standing on it’s own single foot Didn’t it tell me it in the day of latitude The voice of the fallen leave sof bamboo, playhouse The night that holds the depth of an Aatafall, carnival in dew Forget the cell phone maa, I can hear you… …………………………………….

‘Maa’ is the Bangla version of Mother [Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 65 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FARID KABIR …

The Train The train dropped us off, In the middle of the journey, in an unknown station Wherever people want to travel or where they get off –is that their destination?

Or does the destination find its own people!

After getting off in the baffled station we also think did we really want to get off here Or the train meant to leave us in this deep night of mist!

Where we got off, or where we were supposed to go to None of these are true The window of the train and the swiftly moving Jamuna Bridge Flash like a picture before our eyes.

Ah! I am turning into a tree…

The fragrance of green is all over me, and I am leafy…

All my body is growing rind So you come now and sit for some time under the shadow of this tree Your tale is being told in the sound of the breeze From tree to tree, branch to branch…

And your name is being written on the leaves I also am being an integral part of them!

Please, don’t let even a single leaf fall!

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

66 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FARUK AHMED RONI â&#x20AC;Ś

What's in a Friendship A friendship starts with a byte, like frost on hand.

Slowly it exposes to the megabyte, that a span of relation.

A relation between the touch of rain falls, kissing the mind.

A friendship jumped to the gigabytes, while blood runs fast And crashing into the iceberg.

A friendship is not a deep as the hole, is huge as the ocean.

A friendship always bonds of ecstasy! Softly hunts into the brain, Go to blood vessels.

While reaching its terabyte, there is nothing can stop, Its flow as like melting the moonlights to the cave.

A friendship bears great meanings, is in love.

A friendship is an emotional boundary, physical affection and grow energy within life, reveal the habitual native.

A friendship touches hearts to blow inside the memory And glows, flows, blows around the life!

[Trnaslated by the Poet]

67 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FARUK WASIF â&#x20AC;Ś

Refugee Shower of sparks is above the head, wave of black air just underneath.We are thrown out from the eden of heavens.

Discrete and unwatched waited for us only the light, soil, water, air and fire. We two are the first refugee in earth. I searched for you in the land and water. I sought refuge to you; you sought to me. While searching you, I have created country towards the exile. From our lives and ribsbeganthe history. From our cohabitation were procreated trees, reckoning of time and all the sighs.

Even today we are in search of land, children, foster mother and beloved carol.

O civilization, I do oft return on your edge by the walking way. There was a country of ours even closer than the civilization. Wating, the sister of Hope, to enkindle incense sticks thereby. Even today I visit Arafah as I miss you intricately. Even today I am engulfed by the fear of Blind Father DHRITORASHTRO, hatred from the blindness as depicted in MAHAVARAT. The bloodish sands of KURUKSHETRA is flying over the sky of KARBALAA. I am athe father or Cain, shouldering my dead son Abel. O Eve! I do reconnoissance for you from frontiers to frontiers.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 68 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FERDOUS MAHMUD …

The Birthday Cake It’s me who knocked the door The one who opened the door that’s me too The one who remained inert is our corpse Rather it spread the smell of chololate in the tomb.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz and Naurin Kankon]

FERDOUS NAHAR …

The ever-blind river Not in this birth rather in another birth, when you were a flying eagle and I was ever blind sharp rivers.

I wanted to be accompanied by you and wished to fly in the sky of EQUATOR Theses all dreams are thrown to the dustbin being the memory of the last birth. I walk in the unknown paths breaking the lonely sunshine.

Looking like villages but not village, the shadow of the pond in front of the home, the shadow of the midnight, the illusion, the hallucinations.

I forgot when I saw all these things, When I took birth as an ever-blind river, I kept beside me a white stick.

When I left the stick on the water, I caught the wings of an eagle.

That time the kites flew vehemently, all things were present but something was absent.

The blindness saw from distance the depressed caricatures of the eyes.

Now they see nothing.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

69 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

FIROJ AHMED …

Reappearance Swimming through two different rivers two colored fish returned their home this day of rain carrying fishy flavour in their respective body, whose love is written in the dead letters.

Earthrests in the body of light coming from the other planets All flowers change if you go closer to them On the waterbed two fishes with severed gill but that bed is dehydrated althrough.

Do the fishes weep?

The Ichthyology (science of fish) dosn’t know the difference between tears and waters Perhaps those two fishes are weeping Perhaps they are not.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

GIRISH GOIRIC …

Mother - 3 My mother, Gita Ratna is her name She reads the Gita everyday in the temple While I read her very self to build A temple of my own Where no God can ever stay.

[Translated by Abdullah Al Muktadir]

70 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HASAN ROBAYET â&#x20AC;Ś

Faces and Masks Alerted after mid-day-bath by those beyond-the-meaning doves This smile is a pure lament in fact.

Your mask gets unfurled---.

Night is thick as death looming large on crops.

Someone in the stony basin Comes across the course of the sun As he Scales the peak of a song..

As many nerves, I wear As many bodies I have.

The wind is a magnanimous savior itself!

Was there ever an unblemished face As pure as Tulsi leaves washed in milk?

In the lady rambler's shadowy house The earth is an old patron.

If my body gets sick.

Certain human face I still recall.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

71 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HASNAIN HIRA …

The Private Hamlet Life in prose with a poetic heart. Sketched forest in Tally book under the feet.

Winter comes with rain, summer calls for graphics of spring when we cultivate.

In a geometric step, I do walk timelessly. Like the fallen leaf of rose apple, I don't have any specific home. I find rectangle in step; the flowery light rays stand in open heart. In moon's voice, I shout-- I am your Samurai- your only fingerprint-- I keep the light shining inside the upper comma. No theorem is there of uncertainty. Deep in the heart--I hold the neighs of billions of years, epitaph of antiquities in the unknown whirlpool. If the address is identified-- consider the roadside abandoned corsage be my private Hamlet.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

HASNAT SHOYEB …

The Rainy Season-1 Noon and again: ‘Imagine there’s no heaven’-Invoked the daughter to his dad. We shall go to see a mountan in the summer vacation- father replied to his daughter. Warm water is kept in the geyser, by that two baby rabbits are getting bathed. Father watches this while his daughter cheers with applauding.

Good Afternoon: The Father departed before the summer vacation. The daughter went on to see the mountain alone. The Geyser and two baby rabbits followed her. It rained all on a sudden. The girl couldn’t avoid her rain-shower.

Goodnight: Are you from Pisces or Aries? Asked the girl. I am a Virgo in Zodiac replied. She smiled and outbursted into life. You? I am Leo, but my father has died.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 72 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HELAL HAFIZ …

Banned Editorial NOW is the hightime for the youth to join in processions.

NOW is the hightime for the youth to join the warfares.

NOT all the hands, voices and legs are the same in race.

Here come worldly people and people who forsake the world.

Few come to make a bond of family out in the main streets Few come having ruined their families or few want to do it.

Even the solemn peacelovers take up arms to join the warfares There are times when at the very call of existence they must oft return.

Some turns to warriors obsessively hankering after the coinage A genre of love is there that causes a lover to become a killer.

If you want to be a killer by loving So be it Remember, the finest time is flowing by this very day.

NOW is the hightime for the youth to join in processions.

NOW is the hightime for the youth to join the warfares.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

…

A Flag of My Own It was promised If I have my own flag I won’t write poems of pain with shooting sprout It was promised If I receive my flag Sabita, that carol singer nanny in her failed forties shall say- ‘I have received, indeed’.

It was promised if I receive the flag The daughter of leaf- gatherer will bathe in the rustle of them in warmth In the Winter morn when she hears the national anthem.

73 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

It was promised if I get my flag Landless Monu Mia shall sing the songs of Boishakh-Jayastha with content, War-children will live with deserving respect and abundance.

It was promised If I own my flag We will deposit all our sorrows in our joint farm, In our collective scientific cultivation, we all shall harvest and share our happiness.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

HIJOL JOBAER â&#x20AC;Ś

Saga of the Unheard In those dales and fields all your shadows lie dead --- At a distance the Hebrew messiah lies wrapped up in a sheet of yellow cloth--- The sun goes down. You wipe dust from your dishes. And I go from illness to cure. I listen to an unheard-of music inside slumber's core. There, in the season's garden, a civet lies dead. Lie the teeth of a deer killed and devoured by a tiger. Among fish-eating snakes and reptilesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; death-anddying lie mixed up. A torso gropes in the dark for it's head---perplexed--- Desperate the slain civet looks for it's torn-apart body in the season's garden...

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

74 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HUJAIFA MAHMUD â&#x20AC;Ś

Sense and Spring To the direction where indicates the flawed needle of a compass that way leads to a lost Inn, abandoned stable When we reach in the grey tanzerine-land on our black palfrey your orchard of white flowers and marble palace waned awayby those days, Serene forest of cotton ascended in the roads, and resonated merriments flying away the leaves of gardens in multitude of directions velocity of various wind, shakes the branches of silhoutted trees as if chime of bells are crossing the mountains from a church nearby it seems like the heart is the pendulam of a dormant watch what a day it is appearing as a ethereal sunny day the breasts of world get swollen Mare of the blue saucer, at the edge of mustard fields auriferous sunshine glitters throughout his body and the fallen shadow ofher is getting covered under the elm leaves Aha! what a indifferent mare you remain!

Into the intuition of your stupor few sparrows embark... again hundreds of thousands of sparrows nest at your sleep.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

75 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HUMAYUN AZAD …

Sometimes me If I dream sometimes I shall dream an immense river.

On the river, there remain the deep blue sky The Seagull flies through the Blue.

The waves touch the sky I find nobody except me.

If I call somebody sometimes I will call the soft long distant bird.

The picture of forests is drawn on the wings The morning sun shines through the pupil The sky shakes through the voice of the bird The rain comes over the whole world.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

…

Question of a Third-World Farmer We sow, sort out the weeds, keep eyes days after days, on dry sky. We sweat on the soil, we pour our blood like salty sweat; And at last, if the earth and cloud are kind, greenery dances in the farm. Passing through drought, heavy rain, flash flood – likewise hundreds of problems – again if mother nature is kind, we see the bunch of grain. With all sweating, we steam ourselves like rice and produce little grain. We are illiterate, at your healthy distanch, just wanted to know, how much could be produced in a piece of land if do you that left-right, day and night?

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

76 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

HUMAYUN KABIR …

After the victory comes In such a pacific mood Bangladesh lies.

See, in the whole day the forests being heartfelt lies on the songs of sea and boats.

There remains no clamor, the shouting of Rifles stopped, the dead bodies, one to two moves around.

Besides the above, the immense Bangladesh resembles one lamp on skull.

The end of Asshottho nods through air and there one example is affixed to the dim window: The resonance of war ends and the red flags of manifesto.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

IMRAN MAJHI …

I will Die at Night I will die at night. Poetry book in hand right. With lips are open a bit. A colorful sailboat tied in the river bank's feet. Covered densely by mist.

It’s not the river but its tributaries. A leaned river in ebb. If a full drunk moon, the distant sky has. I will call that moon by reciting spell. In the howling for lost loved ones in the waves tail. Fishes cry, birds cry, cry green crops. In a broken prow boat with my naked corpse. Beside a book open. I wish I could take birth, as a true oarsman again.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

77 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

IMRUL HASSAN …

Song of Estrangement Elongated and sad much like a coconut tree – this lament Sways in the breeze after it stopped raining; Your door curtains flit about too, afar...

Struggling Where to go now? Where to go?

This afternoon is rolling towards dusk Murky red sun dimming further And all on a sudden like a monstrous scream -- the rickshaw’s tire explodes Then it’s all quiet again Slippery muddy ground lies estranged after the game is over Tiny leaves under the starfruit tree Footprints gather on wet soil beside them Signs of human movement; Who can tell which one was whose..

No way can I recall When exactly had this story begun When came its demise!

Divided to start, and then gradually narrow...

A coconut leaf is swaying in the breeze 78 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Never again can it be uprooted That face engraved in memory Shadow of a face amidst these jumbled bits of moments wants to resurface It never will perhaps The sun set, You murmured So long!

All scenes dissolved after dark Nimble night walks in retracting everyone within herself The coconut leaf kept swaying empty, Insightfulâ&#x20AC;Ś.

[Translated by Mesbah Alam Arghya]

79 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

IMTIAZ MAHMUD â&#x20AC;Ś

Dog Locality's black dog's name is Ambrose. If called by this name he feels very enthused. Wags his tail, gets running, makes many capricious demands to grab a loaf of bread. At last he gets his bite. Barks at strangers, attacks every unknown dog, enjoys his loaf of bread, gets running. Gets very saddened by the moonlit night. From the moon's black spots, he can guess, guess very well ---a black dog has got trapped inside the moon.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

JABBAR AL NAYEEM â&#x20AC;Ś

Sacred Hymn O Dear Gulbodon, Lost is our twenty first century and blinded by your beautyBecause you are lovely Staged a War-War game in the Asia and AmericaBecause you are lovely Doomed down is Japan by demolishing bombardmentBecause you are lovely No less than a total refugee camp is now PalestineBecause you are lovely Deviated by the drought of dogma is the AfricaBecause you are lovely 80 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Slain are the aboriginal clan of AustraliaBecause you are lovely Guillotined are human throughout the horizon, our heads go down Even then resonates your sacred hymn- Gul Bodon Gul Bodon!

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

JAHANARA PERVIN â&#x20AC;Ś

Detachment Let us descend from the height of multistoried building to the height of nails, We will find the distance between feet and earth has closed.

But some people like to lengthen this extent.

Human beings have no wings but they know the spell of flying over From the height of human being we reach down to the society of ants And often see them teasing humans for being detached from themselves while they walk in line.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

JAHIR HASAN â&#x20AC;Ś

Rain drops don't know acting?

I went there to rehearse When stops rain-Two rain drops hanging from the wire I told them-Embrace each other for once Then depart again 81 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Again get settle on your position As if people think Why don't they embrace again?

Alas! They sit face to face and embraced such strongly that nobody gets parting.

I tell them-Hey, both the unified raindrops This is only the rehearsal of the play Again, set distance between you.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

JANNATUL FERDOUS ALEYA â&#x20AC;Ś

The Seven Tales of Dream I see the dream. I see the dream of dreaming.

I see the day dream of touching the sky.

I see the dream of getting the fresh air being revolved within the stinky filth.

I stand in the darkness, I see the dream through the close eyes If I give hand I can touch the fair light, I don't know in which day and when; I see the dream and I shall continue my dream.

If in some day it happens That surrounding me the purified humans remain, the sheer surprise; At that time, I wouldn't want to go to the heaven, I rather rectify my prayer; O my Lord, let the humans forget the lies, And can triumph over the limitless greed.

May there remain the bare happiness or imagination, 82 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

even then the dreams be rest in the eyes.

The life may be finished But the dreams may remain alive, The true and nice future days be on the move of dance on that.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

JAYANTA JILLU …

On the extinction of the DODO birds

I had to halt in the port of Istanbul after entering into the History.

The daily Adams used to love this port. When the entire earth transformed into the history, a calendar was hanged in this port.

Some clans were destroyed reflecting on what was inscribed on that calendar. The first version of the photo-letters on the extinction of the DODO birds was received in the Mediterranean Sea. ‘Visual Perspective’ is what a man can see keeping himself upright. In such a perspective, an amiable Friday was initially seized in Istanbul. And there existed an objective calendar in the Morocco bound ship, although that was banned afterwards. Before such phenomenon a sentence simpliciter could be recovered from that calendar-This calendar will not leave from Istanbul, it inscribes the chronicles of the dates on the extinction of the DODOs. [Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

83 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

JEWEL MAZHAR …

Megasthenes’ Grin You are stuffing gunpowder into the silent cannon All by yourself. When winter is over Why do you stuff gunpowder?

Into the cannon?

I wonder: Is Megasthenes’ grin also Megasthenes?

Within this power-operated Charade Brown horses fly —Engines rumbling and robots coughing by.

Are you still stuffing gunpowder? into the silent cannon?

[Translated by Subrata Augustine Gomes]

…

Memento 1.

Let me see your eyes.

Only then I can bring you The night's air and aroma.

2.

84 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Where's the amazing cloud?

Where have you been, You who belong to a foreign land?

I am a distressed soul.

I assume the form of a cuckoo Only to send out my tunes Near your house secretly At midday in the spring.

[Translated by the Poet]

JEWEL MUSTAFIZ â&#x20AC;Ś No Finger is False in Gamblersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Court The cook of an inn was found hang from the Wood Apple tree. That cook had a blue stone tied in his heart, after his death, with the remnants stone here flows this poetry. Not exactly a poem; it might be the story on half of the dark stone.

The path that went towards the west, look and concentrate-- you will meet some quick moving children and their tears there. Attending that crying we set sail for infinity. The grave of the cook is on the path to the west. For death, this tree is ideal.

As it was written on the epitaph of the grave of cook, we got to read it.

A Wood Apple tree grows up in dreams, in sleeps, in brothels. Therefore; there is a call for death by the branch of Wood Apple tree.

Think deeply that many wood apple trees are on clash on the field front of the inn.

Forget it. If the tree feels angry then no escape out there. Few days ago, I saw at the post office that all the letters are assembled from that Inn, from brothels, and from the Wood Apple tree.

Being scared I ran and saw everyone is under the Wood Apple tree, in the shadow of the brothels, in the Inn! Man was never death bound but death is, and for this so green the Wood Apple leaves are.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali] 85 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KAJAL SHAAHNEWAZ â&#x20AC;Ś Mustafa Anwar, where on what protocol to meet you?

Just the other day beneath the earth we put you to rest.

Now how could you smile away from cloud to cloud?

The butterfly no more hovers over our flowers For he has now made for himself a virtual nest.

Sanguine I sit all day to gather honey from bonsai.

Deep within my heart a pyroplastic flow of love Mildly flickers.

Everyday I write my name on the internet.

I haven't, as yet, found you in any chatroom.

Do you now make your abode in the Cygnus, or do you Measure instants of rhyme and meter with magic membrane?

Tell me before lonesome you depart How I could get your new verses?

Where shall I find you, if at all, on what protocol?

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

â&#x20AC;Ś One Day Pineapple There was no one but pineapples in the field I slid inside and quietly became one of them with the desire to see more with many more eyes.

Many a grief myriad possibilities I see the mid morning sun boiling on one side wind blowing with pollen Sal forest on one side. A noise on the other, a whistling gasp, who knows of what.

When free anguish became creative it was surely a fusion manifold 86 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

that formed such a colossal alienation My polyvision could only show me a singularity.

Even with many eyes, I really only have one, I reckoned With many sensations, the soul is solitary.

I saw, top and bottom don’t match up.

Far is incomparable with near.

Night and day are distinct.

If you probe like a pineapple with many an eye you can trace parallel thoughts. you can groove many perceptions. Many things can be seen.

[Translated by Mesbah Alam Arghya]

KALER LIKHON …

Bird Birds have crystallized dew on their wings eventhough they have lesser love for waters, They fly for dryness towards the clouds afar and after hindered frequently return they hatch through their wings, on the affection of depression Taking the news of completion two other birds fly back in the next morn Another two birds remain, even when someone’s eyes are fixed and confinedBirds’ flying is aimless is some people’s concernmingles in the winged sunshine, where sky is the end.

Each bird is the neighbour of humans, adjacent in positionthey sing as per musical notation, keeping intimate warmth on their beak some birds don’t have any name, love is what some of them lack Where is she whom you thought a bird? flying relentlessPoets are akin to birds. The names inscribed on the feather of letters.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

87 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KALPURUSH â&#x20AC;Ś The Tavern They hate me--friends and enemies- because I am adequately addicted one Yet, being a dead drunkard, I don't tell a lie.

I attend beggars You love to go in when you are drunkard I don't drink in Monday-- a fit guy--don't go I spend Saturday in mosque Thursday in temple Tuesday in brothel Poetry in Wednesday Friday with myself Take Marijuana in Sunday When drunk I desire to go inside you I don't drink in Monday-- a fit guy--don't go Rather we should not meet in this earthly tavern [Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

KAMAL CHOWDHURY â&#x20AC;Ś The Late-Night Train From the late-night train, there got down all the heroines of ancient fables Their sari shows the terracotta of fisherman neighborhood.

On where there raises the lady of soil on palm who has remembrance of past life-- the memory, the dreams and chaos of dawn.

In the late night, I am an ashen station.

88 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Being come from the Shalbon promenade, I am the words of monk's prayers.

Beside the tea stall, I am just like the waiting sleepless drops of fogs night long.

Me too the consequences, the drama, A town of chaos that rises from whistles. ………………. *Shalbon- A forest in Gazipur in Bangladesh [Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

…

The Expansion I can see the horizon standing on a plain land. The sky seems so close like my girlfriend’s wrist watch; its hand of moment keeps running in a straight line towards the music festival. Each and every mathematical term spreads widely after they touch the periphery of silence and solitude of alphabet. Standing on the spot then, I can cross a long desert. In the age of night fall the desert looks like a catkin; the catkin looks like the wings of an egret. The grayish moonlight keeps on flying everywhere as if it is a crystal-clear stone’s beautiful and intense dissipation.

In this moment, the spot expands, the silence deems to me a latent wide river. Then the endless wrist watch of the horizon gets going again and keeps on moving towards the music festival.

The realization becomes real that no human being is alone.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

89 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KAMRUL ISLAM …

A shady nook of a garden I saw my muse-figure in a shady nook of a garden which belongs to a dark horse.

Nothing can be done in such a dismembered theme of a white lie that would be cooked with human bones.

A file long unused mirrors the sins that may lead you to the path of silence.

A father-like child hails me to eat up the crimes amassed in the granaries.

My heart breaks into the house of a mason Talent is not a cup of tea served by a tokai I solve some questions I forgot, I looked at the tree where flowers bloom in poetic attire Let’s move to the evening haat in the moving darkness…

[Translated by the poet]

KAMRUZZAMAN KAMU …

Lunar Eclipse: A Cosmic Comedy 12 at night, some medical rep from North Bengal Pharmaceuticals wakes me up.

He drags me to the terrace and tells me in medical parlance: Lo! how the moon’s getting effaced by 16 May!…Of course, of course!

You’ve had me stand in front of the sun and cast my shadow on the moon!

90 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

You have truly dumbfounded me, Mr Medicine Company!

You have uncovered to me a great sight!

There – I can trace my fair shadow on the lunar surface, my lean legs, my gender throbbing thereabouts – All as clear as day!

It’s a most fascinating game indeed!

[Translated by Subrata Augustine Gomes]

…

Custard Apple Tree One day--I will reach here crossing a wide-open land Will cackle like undressed hair on the fine chest of the wind.

If a couple of frogs jump over the pond I will too get down there at Lead-shining noon.

At the sound from flinging of fishing net by Sadek's father It seems that shakes the last twenty ninth century rather.

Oh Asad! I will be a tree when I will be older Beside my home, a custard apple tree- smaller.

2.

Friend What a craggy path and fields!

I didn't travel with you I was not even caught in nocturnal delight With him, with him Here in the former Bengal Still I sing and eat die rice Ever craggy my friend!

3.

Song of Earth Excavation I take out earthworm digging earth Who knows how much of the soil turned lame Oh soil, why you are not as pure as gold You see the beaten-heart of Tonu's Mom I take you out digging soil, oh mother!

Wake up once, only once.

…….. *Tonu- A brutally raped and then killed girl years ago in Bangladesh

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

91 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KAZI NASIR MAMUN …

In Spring Mummy’s Word-Flower-Clot Once in the pathway of oil-smell Was mustard’s yellow home seen.

In eye’s labyrinth, it seemed In flowers night has fallen in Road’s gallery.

Someone a flame has lit in the roots touching The dust-corridor.

That hurricane is in mum’s hand.

Light burnt when forehead is touched; Rows of palm, trees and tomal were seen.

Such man-tie-crowds are seen no more; If draws near the dream-bliss The river only divides.

Mum used to say, He who knows to drift has no conflict.

Be a fugitive before that. Tear through My achal.

In rive-mouth you’ll get me Shadow-like in the sun’s graveyard.

You’ll see then, In vagabond leaf-land birds are soldiers, Sitting in shimulforts burst they into march-past, In spring’s fire-games.

They’ll go back in pairs, In wings, they’ll hide Fagun’s march-past.

[Translated by the poet]

92 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KAZI NAZRUL ISLAM …

The Egalitarian

I sing the anthem of equalityReaching where united all the deterrent and disparity Where mingled Hindus-Buddhists-Muslims-Christians I sing the anthem of equality!

Who are you?- Parsi? Jains? Jews? Santals? Veel, Garos?

Confucius? Charbak Chela? Go on uttering, keep uttering those!

Comrade, as you wish, assume that roles, Carry in your stomach, back, shoulder, brain any scripture or punthi whatsoever goes Qoran-Mythology-Veda-Vedanta-Bible-Tripitok Zindabesta-GranthaShahib keep reading the bulk But, why do you exert such worthless job, shooting pin in the brain?

Why such bargaining in the shop? – Fresh flowers blooms in terrain?

You possess knowledge of all time emanating from scriptures of all You envisage all the doctrines, unveil your heart dear pal!

You hold all the religions, all the messengers Your heart is a universal shrine for all the immortals Why do you search immortals or deities in the dead books’ skeletons?

He is laughing in the quietshade of the core of all hearts.

93 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

O friend, I am not faking, Here all heads go down with their crowns surrendering!

This heart is that Neelachal, Kashi, Mathura, Brindaban, Buddha-Goya is this, Jerusalem is this, Medina, Holy Kaaba Bhaban Mosque is this, Temple is this, Church is this heart!

Moses and Jesus explored the truth right here at Great-Geeta was voiced by the lad with the flute on this battle field, The ranchers of lambs became the prophets and friends of the Creator on this field In the meditative-cave of this heart Shakkya, the Saint Abandoned his kingdom listening the call of humanityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sufferings a great.

In this cave of mountain Son of Arabian Peninsula used to hear the Divine Revelations Hereupon he voiced the anthem of equality as the holy Qoran enshrines Brothers, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear any lie There is no Tempe or Kaaba greater than the heart of thy.

[Translated from the original Bangla Poetry of Kazi Nazrul Islam, the National Poet of Bangladesh by Nayeem Firoz]

94 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KHALED HOSSAIN â&#x20AC;Ś The Cloud Family If you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t speak of human being, you are nobody.

Observe the humans in the perspective pof nature.

Observe the phenomena of his evolution.

The way he keeps his head upright, How he is making friction between flints, drive the animals away, Preying over them for the purpose of survival.

You see, where the wheels are taking them from and where do they reach.

He is drawing some graffiti on the walls. Dancing hand in handin a circular cycle.

The flame of fire is glistening amid them. Black shadows are jumping around like the ghosts.

Humans are listening to the words of the river, songs of the birds.

They are thinking where the river is flowing towards. They need to fly like birds.

They are getting down to the water. Swimming like fishes.

And see the society of humans. See the rivalry and love of humans.

The blood and sweat of humans touching the body of dews go on to the Nyctanthes arbor-tristis.

The salty physique of women. Wrath of men like a livid buffalo.

Excreting Lava through inhaling and breathing.

See spear and javelin. See herbal medicine.

See canopy, see, hut, windows, balcony, yard.

See the road towards the horizon-Ektaraii in the hands of Bauls.iii Riverbanks. Banyan Trees. Humans of multitude of race and colors. Chaos.

Amalgamated spices and the flavours of proteins. Usurer and the commoners.

Puffed rice and date jaggery. Hammer, Spade, Shovel and Spud. Harrow and Oxes.

This drought, this flood, this famine. Wet eyes.

Fiery earrings and nosepins.

95 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

See the muscle of humans. Corps brought out from the gut of the soil-golden and hydrated. The leaning eyes of young girl, Feet decorated and bordered with liquid red, unleashed hair flying like the clouds of early rainy season.

See the peace, see the tiredness. See the religion, see the politics.

The Cloud Family dwells under the full moon- assasination underneath- sensing the aroma of extinct flower. See the association, alienation,no whereabouts.

If you don’t speak of human being, you are nobody.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

KHANDAKER ASHRAF HOSSAIN …

Human Being Nobody can hold a human being neither the nature nor the God and not even the love or hatred human being have blue balloon in the hands and two black flies in the eye Noboy can hold a human being, he has no father, the uproarious youth of his waist has not been inherited either.

Nobody can hold a human being neither the nature nor the God’s gown spread upto the horizon neither the river nor the motherland Human beings have no metaphor, imagery, not any same verbs, no grammar of notation, no Constitution, Dictionary or any doctrine.

Human being is self-penetrating, self-destructive blue insects One day he built the world with the bone of his ribs.

One day, it is human being who shall destroy the world too.

Not the God, No Angel, No hard purcussion, no morning Not any submerged pillow in the midnight, no fountain to vagina no sleep of ghost night, nothing at all.

Only Human beings can break themselves or adorn their lives.

For that fragile, prone to break and for the Krishna posing with a twist head, waist and legs I do hereby keep my poems.

96 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

No one else, I have no kin to sigh for, no scripture no bosom friend no fugitive not hymn of the carpenter bee no women no static spring beautyâ&#x20AC;Ś I love human being for one day, he himself will burn himself down.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

KISHORE MAHMUD â&#x20AC;Ś

Orgasm When orgasm runs The ice-cold profoundness Goes beyond the portrait of oil paints At sleepless night, the firefly back to grope by touching on raw in the linear border.

I tramp long idle path by mixing your emotions I lose everything, everything.

I float on tide, I exite My skin rubs Every pore on it gets ready Eyes get fiery red Breaths get intense I get lost in Orgasm Get you back in the holiest sin again.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

97 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KISHWAR IBNE DILWAR â&#x20AC;Ś Existential Verses Do kill me this is what my Lord ordained.

At the time of homicide on the place of public executionLord, acts in the death penalty.

Assasin.

Spectator.

And the dead beheaded skull, water chnages to fire in the air Black and White Sage-Sinner reservoir of the entity.

Do kill me by divine revelation on your order, Lord in me The feather of Love.

Getting you in the heart shall cause Love; To enliven or kill or being deceased we become more void inside the void all the time.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

98 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

KOCHI REZA …

Prayers and the Sphinx After prayer, I feel my broken voice. Prayers get granted…

With such an anticipation, I do squat again.

There are times when stony moments like the Sphinx come.

It seems as if some guys create me as well With a caravan-full of sand.

Regarding this my smile is the purest pain.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

KUSHAL ISHTIAQUE …

From the last birth time The three brothers got their face wet from rain.

Me, me and he. Who? It resembles the mirror on rolling. But it's different.

The three brothers are deaf and dumb in the rain.

We make the weighty sphere reach and make a hand to hand to take the handful volts.

The dance of the obsolete coins dances in the blood.

If someone got his knee broken, acts like a lame.

If someone is burnt I refuse myself.

With our legs, we possess too much weight.

We possess with our leg the hoofs.

As in the floor we hear the horse’s sound‘Tokor tokor tokor tok’(sounds of hoofs of horses) Our ears are bleeding.

It's the same on rolling. But it's not the same, different.

The language toward the future, We are dead in the past.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon] 99 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

LAYLA FERDOUS …

Epitaph All my amities are licking away It’s my fancy that built a utopia On a magical slate I can’t live in loveless ness How could I endure the dust of your touchy script?

I’ve got so much tears... the graves of my forefathers are onto my sigh [Translated by the poet]

MADOL HASAN …

From the Gandib of the Song O great, if you van offer Offer me some more hearts only.

I am the warm-thirst Baishakhi Waiting for the rain to come.

As the camel satisfies its quench by drinking own blood after biting the cactus, kill me offering such pleasure.

Give me more and more hearts.

Aha! I am dying! Illusory Mirage!

On which someone inscribed ‘let’s go’ I don’t know how do you aatract this garland made of manipulations.

Give me more and more hearts.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

100 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MAHADEV SAHA â&#x20AC;Ś Make My Life Pure You purify my life, like every dawn I want to renew myself, be the sun-rise.

You cleanse my life So that I can be full blown For long time, I have been depressed In the dark like dropped and distressed Bokul I have had all these doom and gloom Would you place your hand on my head?

Once and be auspicious to me In this afflicted chest of mine You come and pour incessantly like Sraban-ombro And let me be the verdant/green arbor.

You sanctify my life I become the sun-rise, The revealed sky The first spelling book in every childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand And sing like the birds of dawn; You bless my life I become some vast green island The rainy season, its inpouring new fountain For long time, I have been pained and aggrieved And a lone shrub of tamarisk You purify my life, I Become new flower blossoms The sleepy eyes first awaken in the morn.

[Translated by Razia Sultana] 101 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MAHBUB KABIR …

Madan Sarkar Madan Sarkar, the last 'kabiaal'--the versifier—of Bengal, Crooked his spine and turned into a wheel.

Now he is unable to look at anyone's face.

He can barely see people's feet and earth.

He mistakes the earth for the horizon.

If invited even at this age he rolls on miles after miles And gets to the rostrum to thrill the audience.

Now in the Bangla Station, beside the railway lines Madan Sarkar is striking his hammer under the blazing sun.

With his incapable hands, he gripps the youngest hammer on earth.

Lower class people from lower regions come to visit him To get ‘cured’ their near-obsolete mugs, water-pots, Rusty oil lamps and hurricane lamps.

Madan Sarkar fills the hurricane lamp with water And spots the cracks and cavities with his naked eyes.

He then applies hot lead on the cracks And softly hammers.

Thus, he cures the blindness of the lower-class people And that of their homesteads.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar] 102 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MAHBUBUL HOQUE SHAKIL …

Shadow When I walk, he walks beside me Also, am I followed when I halt.

Together we are one; In lieu of four, we move on two legs.

Amidst heat at noon we march Shadows along with their children are scattered on our path.

When he bursts out laughing I enjoy exhibition of his diamond teeth, He is me; through my depressing eyes he weeps.

In tears and in kissing He is with me; In dark and in storms He is with me; In bed at night and all day in love He is with me; I cherish our union all the time.

At the bright dawn of knee-long nap, vanishes the sleep Unknowingly the shadow becomes mute in the coffin.

[Translated by Anis Mohammad]

MAHDI HASAN KHAN …

Song of aimless rivers So many rivers and influents are there in my palm Nevertheless, the disbelievers say- “all of them are hand line” Those who has lost faith in the river, turned their hand away They did not let the river run They made the river lifeless infirm.

So many rivers are there in my palm… in east –in west My thousands of rivers are homeless and aimless No rivers have residence but I demand aim of them Nevertheless- My thousands of rivers are homeless and aimless.

[Translated by Borun Kumar Biswas]

103 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MAHMUD NOMAN â&#x20AC;Ś The Termite The day Borun saw my mother coming out of the brothel Words got lost in silence.

In the middle of the paddy field Like an aimless void traveler, he walked all day.

Since that day his eyes had the flow of a river Dews on the paddy buds knew they were tears His heart-beat went out of whack.

He swore by the sun of each day In the end of this winter, he will fly far away with the Siberian birds.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

MAIBAM SHADHAN â&#x20AC;Ś The Geometry Some parallel lines came across and formed angles And in the corner, made triangles Also diagram Pythagorean Theorem Yet, I am stuck somewhere in the middleThe point-circle-compass incline to the right angle And proceeds towards the radius.

As they supersede themselves towards a higher mission Who knows how linear their change happens to present time!

[Translated by Razia Sultana] 104 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MAJUL HASAN …

The Restaurant The man was swallowing cutlets of fire. The fork was made up of fire too.

While meeting the bill, he funneled the lyrics of hell into the waiter's eyes.

In his thought --his bright bedfellow was causing forcible eruption.

With the wet grenade--his young daughter was getting out of hangover.

In fact--the son was firm on this passé shout.

The son doesn’t even pee erroneously on the furious face of his father.

The man will swallow cutlets of fire. The forks will be of fire too.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

MALEQUL HOQUE …

Eden Adam Loving (Leaving) Howl The growing plant is great with the tree of bards and they are trying to give birth my satanic soul as much deceived... I conceived as all my tears are dropping with a sigh you are my adder you are the Ishita-face dark or light I can devour your amity or weep shapeless hate will send the sms so so I’m that guy not the shade beneath your power house I’m the young so we are stranger to each other always forever far from the sky Krishna and Radha loving trees only from their groaning shade The guards in Eden now sleeping behind sick with society for my joy enjoys the hunger for the greatest chill let us come to a greater way let us go for a shining star nothing tastes good as love who I’m can’t tell my Adam and Eve like twin in earthen jar Man made God so said their fairy soul should we not have what we designed should we denied with cosmic rules only fighting yields happiness on earth my look is free from envy so let us décor the fruit from the same globe promise then red eyes… then their newly shaped heaven I know what you want is anguished 105 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

soul the distance from the doubled pain is an easier to bear than a single eye does you accept my crushing down now interpreting myself I always read myself the wish in me the way we walk the way we weep all my love all my sigh where we stand digging deep my love walking feel exhausted I sailed with a walking line sweeping sweeping running by blinding wind with every cry so far hearing I hear I’m tuned my style you followed my line if we face our own self faithfully than take this time and follow my steps with a thousand sigh with a thousand sigh my skin then will be cracking inside my lust let my evil be weak enough to eat what I’ve always eaten seize forcibly the wench for whom you feel the greatness more than God or a Satanic strength No path no abysses death is not so still you wished so the path be your own O stranger you will be lost in love and danger luring than tears in every bites...

[Originally Written in English]

MASUD KHAN …

Homa-bird Once I fall, how much must I drop down before I can rise up again?

As this thought crosses my mind I am reminded of the Homa bird found high in the sky. It even lays its eggs there. The eggs then fall down. But because the bird lives so high in the sky its eggs take ages to fall. Its chicks hatch even as the eggs descend. And then it’s time for the chicks to fall. As they begin to fall the chicks sprout eyes and feathers and wings. And one day they discover that they are falling down and down.

It is then that they begin to fly to their mothers high up in the sky. They fly so high now that they emerge as specks scattered all along the spreadout body of the sky.

We are of the breed of these birds. We procreate, raise children; we drop down and rise up again!

[Translated by Fakrul Alam] 106 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

Season of Affliction It was the time of seasonal change- the time to shed skins. The two of us opted to be part of some conspicuous catastrophe. But before we could do so you contracted fever. It raged so in you! Clasping the thermometer’s mercury column, you ascended swiftly, climbing up, up and up, Fahrenheit degree by degreeone hundred and five, six, seven, eight... till you scaled the height of fever. You became the coefficient of the highest degree— all aflame! — till there were no more heights to climb, no more thermal co-efficient, no more degrees left on the thermometer for you to conquer! And having climbed the peak of desire, the thermometer exploded, ejaculating a simmering liquid fire.

Even raging, all-consuming fevers will not destroy women. All they do is make them look somewhat more awe-inspiring- like incarnations of the goddess Kali- the more beautiful, the more awe-inspiring when raging....

And came a time when making the lidless thermometer a broomstick that you could fly on, you began to disappear into some dim disaster, my dearest witch!

For the first time in my life, I experienced such definite disaster.

The thermometer’s crater was still drip-dripping steaming magma.

[Translated by Fakrul Alam]

107 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MASUDAR RAHMAN …

Shoes of the sailor This pair of shoes of the sailor is bought from the port of Athens.

Through its manufacturing process- on uncouth skin of an animal, we have the wonderful ability to understand the language of water and saline wind.

Countless lights from ports, noises from the shipmates.

Who was called to the harlot's homes like a hidden cubicle Never enjoyed the playing of waves in wind through the horizon of paddy fields.

The yellowish sunbeams walk through the dyke of the mustard field.

The farmers are, at best, the shoes of the householder.

This shoe of the sailor-life never walked through the locals.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

MASUDUZZAMAN …

When Are You Coming To Sew The Button On? Do you know, how I am doing?

Usually in response to this kind of question, I act like a deaf and blind person.

Do you know how I am doing?

If you ask me, I will act like a deaf and blind man But when it’s youI don’t weigh that in at all Rather I keep on to and fro Through my little door.

See, I am a stranger in my own abode And I turn into more like a black cat, I lift and put my soft feet on bed to lay down.

Look outside, a few sad trees getting wet in the rain 108 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I utter my voice towards the world And shout but there is no echo Trees wave their leaves, greet me They open their rinds to show their ribs I look and see their brown bodies My very own cells Also see a few giant red ants approaching from the hell.

The man, some think, is gone mad, Walks beside the road leaving it aside His zipper is open of the pants Eyes are closed and flying hair.

Only you can tell how I am doing if you return And peep in the dark only to find it deeper.

Like a bird, my wings are floating in the air and flying A mouse comes out of the hole, blinking its eyes on me And a giant cage has its door open.

Kiss me darling and get me out of this frame There are my silent pair of shoes on the floor without strings My yellow t-shirt is also wounded, Hanging from over the bookshelf A button has come off When are you coming to sew that on?

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

â&#x20AC;Ś

An Assassin (The death that offended us) Scimitar, rushing from the desolation, paradox, Cruel hands of machetes and the perverted assassin, A cowardly figure in the heavenly circle, cannot recognize The human beings but darkness and religion.

Long long ago the revelation came from above and They eat up all these crushing by teeth and the real Janganama, 109 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Sorrowful violin float away by the current of bloods.

The very angel overwhelmed by charms and alone Was sleeping, blessed man, shattered on the cot of concrete, Beside, a packed up crowd floats away far, And the killer is restless Where is that bright book, worm-fed, The envious letters become furious The silent, tired and holy body gets wet By the blood oozing from the scriptures, This country, the soil is all in one.

[Translated by Kamrul Islam]

MAZNU SHAH â&#x20AC;Ś A book has a bang

A book has a bang and a last bathe in the blue tinge.

I settled in puzzling fear to go both in the edge of the summer night.

And the fear that draws me lies deep in Snake-ladder game and I see a desert-philosopher turns to scarecrow by night.

As if immense beckoning of book seems like the peacock's call.

As if, horrified by earth--as if a hidden liquor I find jewels in his eyes through millions of skies.

The moon comes to count every particle of my body and I go to non-space where shades red.

A fake lion, a fake island suddenly throws me in the prison of thoughts We--- me and the white guard bird wait idle Craggy paths of letters of the stunned peahen and night-kneaded peacock.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

110 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

Expressions My verses are born in the silence where Zebras play with their colts. After a long expedition, I’ve found a page marker, an intense negation and the shadow of a dazzling pomegranate. Gazing at the shattered clock, I start to write. One side, my oceanography classes and on the other side, my desire of swimming with you. As I enter into this house of cards, you always ask whether I am a Libra? Are you Kanonbala– I ask her in reply. The conundrums are now at its best.

Your aroma is just like grasses. Here I open the window; and see vendors coming back from the marketplace, bruised & battered. Starlight pours into our house of cards endlessly.

[Translated from the poetry of Maznu Shah by Andaleeb]

MEGH ADITI

…

Nebula You, that hypnotic--flying quick through whom emptiness I embrace you—that you! Me, wheat colored afternoon that appears in silent canvas of our secrets.

Moving all that aside, now there is only-Quietness!

Sometimes there is snowfall, the floating pollens drenched by rain. In the unnamed path of disequilibrium, there flow endless laments.

Yet, I learnt to draw the gloves of death!

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

111 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MESBAH ALAM ARGHYA …

Magic Mushroom He said “shrooms” Shrooms collected on our guilt from last night A couch Flees with our legs A dawn-shaped Honda Accord leaves with our stomach He gobbles sitting on the couch A fountain under his neck He keeps licking the chewing gum on its nipples — Chewing, O how perfectly he shakes his jaws while radio plays the street Spiraling down to the edge of the belly button and giggling, the radio softly giggling from inside the couch The night chuckles in our legs, stomach the fountain We are without knottiness [Translated by the Poet]

MICHHIL KHANDAKER …

Shepherd of the Clouds O wind, you are driving away the herds of imposing clouds.

Are you, the shepherd of the clouds?

Have you come to this village now?

In another guise of Krishna?

Radhika stands out in the courtyard.

Go and douse her in rains.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar] 112 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MOHAMMAD NURUL HUDA â&#x20AC;Ś Freud Is Ogling At Man came from chimpanzee or chimpanzee from man Is not necessary to argue anymore But nowadays people of third world who dearth of food and clothing And all the devouring people of the first world Most of their leaders mimicking chimpanzee Freud is looking for an answer in the light years How many of them to elapse before a man can be called a human?

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

MOHAMMAD RAFIQ â&#x20AC;Ś

Tremulous Tonight. The cascade of creation has engulfed me entirely.

The snake hood of electricity fired in darkness That poured poisonous flesh in the heart of heart Enlivening, outbarsts something inside the uterus Hence, I submit, offer clemency to the premature death.

I will merge into the corpus of Behula iv of my own country And shall be washed way by the water of Gangur river.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

113 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MOHSIN CHOWDHURY JOY …

Image Swan moves- leaving the echo of its cackle back in the river. The dauntless breeze meets the river in vibrating tunes. The river knows soon the waves are dead-- the fancy of the fish dies.

The river falls in love too- meets her darling river through tidal waves.

But man becomes murderer when he loves. Sleep hides into the night after it being killed. And then the tossing about pain of dicks and vagina-- clear amorous cry is heard. Morning stands in the yard dispelling the stillness of the night. If the Neem tree comes closer the sunshine goes closer to leaves. Flies away every morning of the birds leaving the whistling on the rustling of leaves. ……………………

Neem Tree (Margosa) - a tree leaves of which are used as medicine.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

MOZID MAHMUD …

The freedom fighter I know a freedom fighter who lost his one leg He moves jumping on one leg now Before I felt sorrow seeing him Our independence took his one leg Now he is called as disabled freedom fighter Now he seems to be different Thinking that if humans want to move He needs to stand on one leg The other leg always gets up The human stood with two legs cannot move The human on two legs cannot go anywhere The freedom fighter need to reach a long way.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon] 114 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MOSABBIR AHE ALI â&#x20AC;Ś

A Humane Boat Behold, we can venture to craft a giant Ark, weaving ourselves in an interlaced array!

We could host each eeyorish cattle and we can welcome all innocent invertebrates in getting refuge to their last asylum unto us-Having sighed in utter contentment on that very day Innumerable fauna will rejoice as though they pray.

Come on dear!

Get me that big an Ark erected from all of us humanely entwined.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

MOSTAK AHMAD DEEN â&#x20AC;Ś Time The air talks lie about hairs, A bunch of infirmities which contain happiness, comes only to attack me!

I am a sorrow imbibed passerby coming with dust The body is not that much realizable that the lane-sub lanes of that can reverberate through the regime of leaves Rather the extremely slanderous and rejected Sultan left his wreckage boat and getting him beside some sex birds without reasons show excitement.

She is also an unforgiving pigeon and her false child making of words and funs, may not be consequently true-In the airy air coming through body lacerated by death sleep, the unacquainted I flee towards cantonments.

The in vain tales rise on the surreal songs, Though in mind taking the tiger tongue I like to touch his false hair.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

115 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MOSTOFA HAMEDY …

The Listener Night is the best listener Who will listen my immaterial speeches with full attention?

In this narcissistic world, such a black woman putting on scary shirt Who is inserted into the brain as fear.

Floating away to the imagination of house I threw her inside the outward garbage That’s engraved though That all accusation of an abject Tears and moan As the Lord’s commissar [Translated by Borun Kumar Biswas]

MAYUKH CHOWDHURY …

The meeting I didn't realize what I lost-- exactly what things I lost Starting from dress's button to the deep look To the last promise.

Looking back I see sighs, the pathetic sunshine in the gloomy shadows of greens, the last most past of mine!

Breeze reaches the pine trees, waves in the distant sea-- The beckoning of hand from the hills too.

I submit open my own face in front of the mirror-- only the manuscript of the book with its cover has gone to the sea.

Search him repeatedly-I didn't even get a chance to meet my mind.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali] 116 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

M U J I B

E R O M â&#x20AC;Ś

My name is Mujib Erom I shall narrate an image Dried out the water. From the base of the quagmire. Band of hyacinths.

A house of grass in hints. Cold in streams. Unbound pains and screams.

Water is like crow-eyes. Brighter the base lies. The broken boats.

Those there in rest with notes. Walking two herons marvelous. On the huge mud glaireous. Fish is caught and swallowed. Far in there a tree stood.

Sitting there two birds. They open their eye- guards. Watching in chortle. They follow their movement the way all. Want to take revenge.

Sweet sunlight rises in wide range. Over the skin farmers smear. The eternal the winter. Paddy in canals and fields. Songs are in the lips in deep feels. While drawing these snaps. The sunlight gags. Very little is known. This is Erom who have it drawn.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

â&#x20AC;Ś

Note of Pleasure Words know magic, dear, they know magic!

Whole day night I remain mad I hawk tears for your arrival to my home Suddenly being intoxicated in the boat-rowing I found my life passed in uttering words with sorrows. Won't be wobbling in the river water anymore? Won't the pleasing darling be partner of mine anymore?

Night passes to see him, but where she is staying making me cry?

Calling you constant the poor I am deep Erom is accompanied with nights of weep.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

117 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MUKTI MONDOL â&#x20AC;Ś Notice to leave the town

I send my message silently sitting over the perfume of thy wooden petals seeing the shade coming from trees hole seeing the coupling of thirteen rivers those who have entered the zigzag cave into the fire I sent the cloudy hour filled with the sharp kisses advertises flies after the rainfall poets-artists-dogs-cats-intellectuals all have slept I want sending messenger behind the wall, I got invitation from the owls to celebrate my rainy days I walk on my passage keeping the stretch mark on the hands of my armchair.

[Translated by Malequl Haque]

118 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MUNIRA CHOWDHURY â&#x20AC;Ś Mehekanonda 1 A calm salty river resides in blood and broken flashes of the moon flooded in the river.

My river, you sleep My grandmother, you sleep My God, you sleep Sashan and Goroshtan, the waves of the blue sea, the crows and cuckoo, sleep.

The rain comes in oblivious ness of Bhabanipur The rain comes The rain comes The cries of the eye broken rain I took in my lap The cries of the (har gola) child I took in my lap I made washed away the inordinate pieces of pillows in the Gangas, in the crisscross chariot of Kannakumari....

I see the rain I see the rain I feel the rain sitting in the womb of my mother I can see the rain lying in tomb of my grandmother Today I can remember that I died one hundred year ago Another two times death I embraced in this mortal world I made each single mirror before each death I searched and found the mirrors today after long days I saw the faces of rain in the inordinate mirror.

2 While I was going through the leaves of old books I witnessed the mummies of some flies and leaves of unseen trees ....

The beat of leaves and the flying of flies remained the mummies.

Nine hundred years old sea I swim in alone...

119 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Such a water of obliviousness breaks Such a death passenger covered by stories, the Sanai and the sound of horse hoofs.

Standing on the stairs of the heaven Having kissed why they threw their lips towards the hells!

My eyes blare Innumerable blood shed branches take birth in my eyes...

O my God, will you cut the branches of blood-figs in some foggy morning on the bank of the Mehekanonda!

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

…

Bereavement, Munirahena…

From the shattered moon on her twelfth day’s waning gibbous the blue lumens are downpouring on this day upon the inferno.

Opening the nine doors of the hell we two are waiting, me and a blind doe…

I have drawn the image of a tree on the moon’s surface with the color of a melted eye coming from piercing both the eyes This has been a tree of heaven on which every flower blossoms after the death happens to a child O Lord, would you please spare a time to appear before the vast blossoms the tree currently has Wouldn’t you ever smell the fragrance of Hasnahena or Munurahena!

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

120 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MUNTAQUEM AL MAHIAN …

Who knows?

A dot shall remain for good Ignoring the time.

Then one day resting on a shadow of a Montana tree You shall realize something is missing, Something is missing for some reasonsPerhaps a boat of paper shall pass away as if blue piece of paper keeping the extreme side of a river Who knows?

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

MURTALA RAMAT …

The Distant Village I want to keep distance.

That seems to be from there that the river contains water like before.

The flowers have bloomed in the Kaashban and the sky is full of stars.

Having reached nearer-one silent path.

The dust remains in the folders of letters in the marks of steps of wheels.

My mind felt unhappy, It's thought that keeping distance is good.

At least leaving a sigh it could be said that it seems to be nearer from distance. ………………………..

'Kaash', a native catkin, blossom exclusively in Autumn in Bangladesh.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

121 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

MUSTAFIZ SHAFI …

Smell of withered flowers This path has entered all alone into a lonely deep forest. Songs of withered leaves endlessly reverberate on it’s bosom. The merciless sky casts its shadow all over it. Lonely are the trees that stand there. So are the leaves that dance and swing. The saddened wayside dust and laments, that come floating from the distant fields, tend to keep hugging one another.

Now they want to fill the length of the path with black ink. Path that you left behind in doubt and neglect. As the scent of some withered flower causes a sudden oscilation in the winds, they want to swing you too.

[Translated from Bangla by Jewel Mazhar]

MUZIB MEHDY …

A philosophical contemplation about becoming or happening In an wonderful night, from the cave of moon, the way sticky dirt crawling down on the salty water and the thick and hard cover was born covering the sea through secret chemical process and the rule for which the greenery was covering the barren lands – for the same aspiration, I drop a drop of dirt and desire flower of filth, ask the fruit to come and like once the ocean heard the possibility of seeds, sobbing of the earth, I can feel all your movements – every being is of physics, all the creations twist in music of moan.

Be in force, slowly be the milk-skin on the wall of darkness, I would know all the noises, action-reaction-side effect placing my ears on the beautiful ogle.

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

122 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

‘A Twelve-At-Noon’ Poem This path leads towards the afternoon.

To a little distance There lies a gloomy, loose-hair evening.

And a peddling-maniac noon Bristling with euphoric joy We are busy now with a dragonfly, Busy with its unique, solitary look.

His diamond-hair goes frolicking with the wind.

An untimely erotic smell causes The gloomy windows of mind to shudder [Translated from Bangla Poem of Muzib Mehdy by Jewel Mazhar]

NAHID DHRUBO …

Mausoleum I met my death in a wearisome rainy night. I was almost drowned when I threwfirst a handful of earth on my corpse-cover. It seemed like the tomb is being fulfilled too fast. Then I returned to home turning into an anonymous despair.

Thenceforth  in each Friday I oft-return to the mausoleum for offering my prayers. I take a sit by that mausoleum Pray cry or touch it interchangeably on my impulse. Thus, one day calling the night watchman of that mausoleum  I ordained for a tree to plant on my grave.

The next Friday while visiting the mausoleum I find a family tree on my grave on the branches of which there I see floral blossoms. I discover in the form of the flowers my father, my mother and Bokul, my beloved sister in one or the other of these branches.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 123 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NANNU MAHBUB …

Of skies and space Rebellion for a journey to the space.

That’s why from a world of pearls I am back to the protagonist. And to him There is nothing as feigned anger, but A little rage instead---like a rosy Sherbet.

Over the mustard flowers you spread a canopy of leaves and twigs.

Under the unrhythmic sun a vehicle passes by---Cutting the road like butter.

On this very road there was once a pair of motionless eyes.

Now they come to my mind. In one go a squirrel Goes to the top of the rain-tree by climbing its breasts.

There, inside a scrap of blue, a few red flowers glitter.

And with a copper-colored moons from a distant forest Myriad space vehicles glide onwards. And from the brick-kiln chimney Very slowly a python flies away. Grasses are green and that’s why The wilderness, paddyfields and the bamboo clumps all look green.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

NASIMA SULTANA …

I want I too want that with laughter raising my fingers towards lives without God I must say that it seems to me that I am very well.

At least in some one day these impossible life expectancies be stood raising neck.

In some one day, the distractions of the moon and spring be remained within the moonlight. nger I will drown in the poison of love; nay I raise my face.

Between the sleep making sound I shall enkindle the phosphorus existence; I will also dream not.

124 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

On the road, I shall call anybody coming along and amicably I will ask, 'How are you gentleman?'

I also want that my sexual tendency be lit for eternity, Wine and play boys be removed away swiftly, At least in some one-day friends of gambling be burned by my exhales.

I will offer my hands with nice saying of good night.

The voice of God be resonated in vacant rooms in some one day.

I will extendedly cover myself in the waves of wishes but I shall not raise my face.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

NAURIN KANKON â&#x20AC;Ś Half the World Away Drop of rain conveys sound of music.

Upon the green field of grassland Nightingale sings and wings.

Life is nothing but a green pastry In life, airy fireballs are swallowed by icebergs and then white water-lily blooms incessantly.

Half the world away from western Antarctica the pioneer of new age here comes!

[Originally written in English] 125 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NAUSHAD ZAMIL â&#x20AC;Ś Blood is green Laying like a Corpse on hills greenish eyes are all around murmuring sigh from where comes the waves like an airy bow ask me laughing: Darling, would u come with me? laughing is nothing but a sharp taste who is calling me on the hills of Tarapur long hair is laying on the ground there is her long robe hands on hands, lips on the lips also, a greenish blood red lights are burning in the calm horizon saying: come to my home dear, this tea estate is my own home too much pleasure, too much joy after such a small drinking she dances with me, as a black snake.

[Translated by Malequl Hoque]

NAVIL MANDAR â&#x20AC;Ś Earth-Balcony Sign language is the univesal one so standing I on a rocking balcony/today is the day to watch a huge balcony, beneath my feet I look for it on my graveyard into the holes of my shoes I fed up myself upon a single biscuit 126 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

after that slept with a dog on a slooping yard dirty sky is being washed away with the buzzing wings, the purified custody of begging hearts' breeding is silent like a succeded dew.

[Translated by Malequel Haque]

NAYEEM FIROZ

â&#x20AC;Ś Ode to the Graveyard One day I'll take you to the Graveyard alive.

One day I'll bring you back from the Graveyard alive.

Again, One day You will take me to the Graveyard alive.

One day You will bring me back from the Graveyard alive.

And again One day.... the Graveyard will come to us alive.

Then we all shall mingle into an earthen agreement, for no one shall ever be taken to or return from the Graveyards alive.

[Originally written in English] 127 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NAZRUL ISLAM …

The sun didn’t get the sky to live In the green placid sea, the crimson illustrations of blood we see And in the secret sharp memorable blade of combat.

Grey cloud of V22 Osprey is playing in the azure, you must see that, No life resides there, only complex calculation of UN exists there.

The children of the state of Palestine don’t know Where is the flash of light in the sky?

They only march ahead owing to the command of the commando Nonetheless, how beautiful the life is!

Behold!

O ye, see: The common ducks are hiding their face behind the scars-line of the end of life.

The sun didn’t get the sky to live, rather it sought refuge to the mountain.

Nightfall on the sky of Qubbat as Sakhra.

Starvation can’t solve the labyrinth of the day, even then IDF is engaged with passionate love O ye ask, did the rock understand the language of birds wings’ anguish?

Or did he understand how long they stared at the crops to satisfy their hunger?

O wayfarer, you are a big selfish!

Only your own sake was saturated by your efforts.

You’ve become a warrior only when you exposed to the ultimate path.

You want to pay back all the dues. But do you know after all your payments you are still liable to the nature to a certain extent?

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 128 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NIHAR LIKHON â&#x20AC;Ś

Home Home tells tou the tale of solid doors whereas the yard attempts to tell the memory of kiss As I expose the pillars the moon climbs up my body However, I like to be the favourite saree of yours which you exposed in the acute sunlight which you embrace intimately for bringing into home right before the evening; Tearing in the door The flower of the life gets hindered Home separated us instead while juxtaposing under the same roof.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

129 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NIRMALENDU GOON â&#x20AC;Ś

What garland would you like offering me, go on I want immortality beneath your great feet What garland would you like offering me, go on Accept my dowry which follows my promise of blood-shed chest.

I got my purified unrest soul refreshed with rainy water as I resemble the flood.

Keep your sandal moulded hand on my forehead.

I will flag the Gandib through water land and sky.

I shall catch hills to keep before your feet.

I want immortality beneath your great feet.

My toes cling to my leg while I save myself with the fragrance of Chandan.

What I fear for?

I discovered myself as the tomb lying beside the tomb, while I find myself as the martyr looking towards martyrs.

My fingers touch the thousands of martyrsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; land and end up with human touch.

What I fear for?

I want immortality beneath your great feet, Offer your garland.

See, my inner-heart feels the pride of death and rest like the flowers of morn.

No Akanda-Dhundol, I am the Rafique, Salam and Barkot.

This is the weapon through the reflection of my heart; My revolt goes through...

My audacious fortune entangles the blood-shed emblem of war.

What I fear for?

I will be the tomb...

[Translated by Naurin Kankon] 130 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NIRZHAR NOISHABDYA â&#x20AC;Ś The Silent Train Why I am sitting down on a non-reactive table, I with my eye knife keep my bifurcated sight on scenarios.

I break the air from right side and decorate it on my left.

The perplexed drowsiness comes down in the eyes of cats.

The long-termed shadows engulf paths.

There remain crows, sub forests and extended rotten remnants.

In search of the source of smell who intends to tear the sleepy fragrance, who is sitting down on a non-reactive table.

An aged drunken sat remote and bemoaned, I left the platform silently I got a return journey-accompanying two pairs of rail lines within my shirt pockets.

My speechless train will come, My speechless train shall come.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

NITU PURNA â&#x20AC;Ś Cloud of Queries break in far lands See- someone's name is followed by history The uproar of ebb tide gets its new meaning And the birds of silver days pass chirping They too have world of fervency Yet, in the end of the days of prey The clouds of decades show clearly The sign of the sun Cloud of queries break in far lands And alphabets are written in the name all a weary.

The painter feels awaken by the treatment of Terracotta Hello, even after the song is finished, I still remind your memories in private 131 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Sometimes the breeze may wish to be a sad firefly-I knew from senses-I saw the shines of the Century Light in the sweat-drops of a black man.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

NOIRIT EMU …

Lustre of coin-surface See, the pinnacle of the tree descended to the magnanimity.

Dark deep sky— just before committing a dubious suicide you’ve thrown a miraculous coin!

In the air, towards unending void.

After adhering to the late night, the sacred dumbness has gone touching the life’s lamp.

Gyrating of the coin— one side or the other as of decisions.

The relentless gyrating coin’s glittering chargrilled the blackish of pupil You can’t reminisce anything more, O handsome.

The captive beauty of the bud of the flowers far from the filthy lust— As if it were a transformable resonance, a gradually emerging conflagration.

Why the inevitable consequence of unheard of bird is lying between death and life Is that getting aroused upon the vanity of your memory in an acute time-wave like a transparent printed artwork?

This is that coin, gyrating in the air— inducted code.

In a disrupted decision of a weird dance-posture Infallible glittering of the coin creates a pristine sense Which cause your head and mind to be oblivious, O handsome.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

132 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

NOVERA HOSSAIN â&#x20AC;Ś Waiting I am waiting for a while.

Perhaps someone will turn the pages for me Will open the collapsible gate--I am waiting for him to lift the load of the crane.

This waiting is for the evening to come Having both legs dipped in water.

Waiting for the nights to pass Having all the medicine diluted in water.

Perhaps a train will come And your hands get filled with sunflowers.

I am waiting. Perhaps the letter will arrive Before my dying by suffocation.

Waiting for the last drops of blood from my fingers.

Under the dense shadow of an Orange Jesmine plant I am waiting for your return.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

133 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

OBAYED AKASH …

Interview The question before the last question is quite preparatory!

In interview, it happens when one asks about rivers, about open fields But what matters if one is well prepared?

For asking me that final question a short earlier, you have been feeling remorseful for so long.

Sometimes sleeps break on fox's digit-- sometimes tin roof is swept away by thunders I know-- after long years, someday I will have to face those questions for sure!

Then-- the ever-worried hamlet, games of seasons those are submitted in my heartswill be adorned by me, the new voice Like beautiful brides of spreader veils.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

OMAR ALI …

In this country, we’ve heard praise about the dark-colored women In this country, we’ve heard praise about the dark-colored women She is thought to be candid and laughing faced like the herb ‘Ivi’ She gets her hair dried in the sunshine after taking bath Her face is portrayed with the mud of this country.

She stares being dumbfounded like a doe The two eyes catch the illusory excitement, The whole body of her resembles the heavy tide of the river; The saree of her body surrounds her like the creepers.

She wants the face of children as the gift of love, in one hand the new born baby, in another hand the cooker, she likes her family from mind; She becomes sad being afraid of bad happenings of home.

In the caring corners of family, the picture of simplicity and decorations bloom in numbers, In this country, the dark colored women have reputation in this regard; Strong men are surrounding that family.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon] 134 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

OMAR FARUQUE JIBON …

Towards unfathomable Into the further deep down, The serene induction that went away just opposite to popularity Was followed by all the winged handclapping The contemplating hand-shadow is left behind, The sun rises somewhere climbing on the shrinked lines of hand, Dawn comes, things become blurred, stable hides in the water of mist Eloping horses erase those lines by arousing dusts after they drink waters, A still noon, being grey by the dusts, descends holding the erased line, The unquenchable thirst of the noon and the all crimson marking of the disgrace at its edge there the sunset happens, On the doorstep stand both dusk and despair both, but a different deep thirst for a lifetime remains through night…

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

PABLO SHAHI …

The Saint and The Author An ancient saint and an author caressed my head They assume-the benumbing gloom will crush the cranium of the earth.

In the antiquity of time, mourning stayed stone-still Just like-it took half of my longevity to discover you.

Many days On one of them, my vocal cord cessations and somebody actually could make out what I said.

135 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

An ancient saint and an author caressed my head They assume-the benumbing gloom will crush the cranium of the earth.

It is time that we come out of moaning and groaning-but still I know It takes half of my longevity to discover you.

In the evening, you attract sins and let the sign say-‘men not allowed’ Still, I spend half of my longevity in vain?

I know, your will but dearth of food, the empty school-building, I will stand behind in the heap of sand with my deformed limb.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

PIAS MAJID …

The Poet You’ve come out dismantling the minaret of darkness.

You are listening to the murmuring of flowers being hooked to the edge of the flying kisses Illiterate you are; Survey on the dreams in this scented language.

On the whole night, you under the sound of stars, O you, the deceased, lit the candle by the numerous banks of corpses.

Since you alone are the straightforward pain in a world of conjoint letters.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

136 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

POLIAR WAHID â&#x20AC;Ś Classmate Kabra Para, situates beside my home.

Suriya is my classmate My name is Chand Play together-- catch fishes Sleep--play kites-- ride on cycle If anybody calls him Cobbler-- he feels it too bad!

The mighty pond-- with a girlfriend we swim!

It seems very good-Despite arguing sometimes, We were all right again.

We raise goats They raise pigs Surya, the Hindu boy takes water if he comes to my home Me, Chand, the Muslim boy take water if I go to their home.

Now we left primary to attend high school-We meet bigger classmates-- bigger girls-- bigger blackboards.

There enter goats and pigs as we grow older-And then we find human nowhere!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

137 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

PRANTO PALASH …

Darshana The afternoon is drawing to a close. Let's hang from a guava tree.

Your courtyard is getting smaller like a sparrow.

I am peeping out to the sky From a jute-stick and mud cabin, from a temple of hay.

Memory's moon is sinking into your courtyard, I see.

You are waving from the train's window.

And with a stagger I am standing on the frontier.

'Ranaghat! Ranaghat' still rings into my ears...

The afternoon is drawing to a close, the guava branch is breaking down.

Elder Sissy, do ya know, your lover-from-the-locality is now drooping...

—piling up all his sleeping-pills on the study-table?

He is wasting himself—on the rail line, into a shrill whistle.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

RAAD AHMED …

You are grinning like jackals in the rain.

You are grinning like jackals in the rain.

Like the sweet-smelling rain-drops on the streets.

Drops that take the form of a handkerchief.

Like a folded up napkin in a glass Brought by a waiter with shaky legs.

Hey waiter! Go fix your tie Wear it right.

Be a man, be the one that belongs to the soil.

Inside you an illuminated pond flashes.

And outside an aroma of paddy goes paddling a bicycle 138 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

And Jingles sounds of bells and rain falls to make a chorus.

And up there stands a hut that's half wet.

And the shrewd jackals still go on grinning.

For they are natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s offsprings.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

RAAT UL AHMED â&#x20AC;Ś Fallout For the first time I effuse, failed I got the sound of falling Second time I effuse, failed I went to the sound of falling By the evil spirit of falling sound I fell down I count the fallen frequency of our selves Once, twice, repeatedly Doll For the first time I bought, failed Flower For the first time I bought, not found Oh Every day I get the sound of money back I failed to fall, failed.

[Translated by Borun Kumar Biswas]

139 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

RAFIQ AZAD …

The definition of love The love means the madness of twos, Taking each other near to the heart...

Love means taking risk of life, walking on bare feet on the sands of estrangement...

Love means having a close leaning to each other...

Love means incessant rain, walking of twos throughout the rain towards a straight the inside and outside…

Love means talking restlessly before the cold coffee cups ...

Love means sitting face to face after finishing the final talk.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

…

Thinking of you Thinking of you makes waves in bloodI like to think about you all along, I find only you on my wayWhen I think of you, a fight begins in my blood throughout the heart.

We could not walk together for miles, We were committed to walk together, The life surrounded ways which are way less which went to the hollow.

[Translated from Rafiq Azad’s Bangla Poetry by Naurin Kankon]

140 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

RAHMAN HENRY …

Transitory Calling We used to earn our living by painting horses to make them look like zebras; But the kings were suspecting politics outside this profession and sabotage within So, they put us on trains run by coal and sent us to exile.

We took their advice, crossed our native land and continent.

We are here but what about our jobs of painting?

Now we have company to converse with but only the deads.

Those deceased companions are the ancestors of the kings.

They said-“nowadays our successors are experts at your worksThe land you left will have no horses anymore They all will turn into zebras.”

We could return if we wanted to but what about our jobs?

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

…

Travelling Experience I have a little experience of travelling the world.

I even don’t know how to jump And never stood before a waterfall for real But nowadays in my sleep I’ve weird dreams, none of them happens in the soil of my land The night before last I was drowning in the Victoria Fall in my dream Did you think I was trying hard and fast to float?

I didn’t-how could I benefit?

I had my confidence in the laws of physics when it comes to floating how it works for matter and liquid 141 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I knew I was drowning I even didn’t throw my hands and feet I was stoic I was breathing the water in the fall in my sleep in the dreamI was drowning.

I was trying but my memory didn’t help the ‘kolemah’ I knew by heart didn’t come to me But I remember I uttered your name three times before I drowned.

[Translated from Rahman Henry’s Bangla Poem by Razia Sultana]

RANAK ZAMAN …

Looking back at Ourselves An endless meaninglessness lies before me.

So I look back Look at my back and see Our monkey-faced forefathers Who stood in the past. …Countless, numberless forefathers.

Having our images within Their eyes- - as smooth as mirrors…keep on gazing.

And they might be contemplating...

Ah, their offsprings exactly learnt to imitate The gestures and acting of humans...

Speechless and mute they don't utter anything.

142 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

This silence is like a new language Rich in grammar.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

RASHEDUZZAMAN RAJA â&#x20AC;Ś The fruitless peace trials When the age flees climbing on the wing of time I sit to make a peace treaty with the old age. " I shall tolerate you if you assure me about good health " Unless I will build up a surreptitious relation with the left youths.

We shall fight with your obscurity till death we shall ignore you with immense audacity.

That day,do not conspire.

In the Kuthi of Moronbazar your Clive -Seth waits to finger pointing.

At last I became awaken laughing in mind And I think that what else my old age can do in helping me Or what capacity I possess in ignoring the life circle!

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

143 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

RASSEL RAIHAN â&#x20AC;Ś Sequel Like the tail of a fish, like the wings of flies-- my father awoke. Then he rushed to the market. In the night when he returned with the smell of fish and flies, I wished, one day, he could bring the smell of sandal (It was not even known to me that that custom was no more valid, only death could bring this smell). Tonight, when I smell sandal scent from my father's body I feel the smell of fish and flies would be much better.

2.

When I was in opening grade and asking for fees, father was staring at me with a dying eyes, like he called the memory of last night when I was reading with shout in candle light ' Fish means Maach, Fish means Maach' He was slicing fish. As he was staring at me, suddenly he found one of his finger cut. As the fees were not managed, I rather started an adventure. I wrapped that finger with colored paper and submitted it to school. Eventually there submitted ten finger in the next ten years.

Before leaving school, my Physics teacher took the role of a surgeon and he joined those wrapped fingers to mine. Then I realized I would teach my children to twenty grades, and then they each would teach their children thirty more grades......

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

144 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

RAYHAN RYINE â&#x20AC;Ś Death Enterprise The loot one night and bury them in our flesh; This night was in Falluza city In Manzir city One Friday Was in Raka, Polimier, in Aleppo; It was taken out of the past One night in a year, This night was from the fifteenth century A brutish Viking He was born through the eyes of some Tatar one Friday They looted and buried the night in our flesh.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

RAZIA SULTANA â&#x20AC;Ś Illusion I stopped abruptly before the sight Fervently wished to see The night through the open door The window without blinds Saris-ornaments-vermillion stacked in cupboards The cleaned-up table Poetry notebook-and a jasmine plant on the porch I stopped abruptly before the sight Fervently wished to see-the insides from outside.

[Translated by the poet]

145 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

REJAUDDIN STALIN â&#x20AC;Ś The Poet and the King To entertain the frustrated king with couplet, there assembled country's all renowned poets.

With engraved golden buttons and voice fashionable My dear king! I have penned all of strength and valor of your ancestors, You will get back your lost morale.

And will resolutely rule Great India!

The royal court broke into huge claps and cheering--- thousands of gold coins for him The poet of mane with laced Panjabi came forward with Cap made of fur on head Hey, my noble, worshipful lord of India!

I have penned all wonderful verse Through each reading, you may feel anger Killing the frustration it will raise the enmity The royal court is hugely shaken by the claps.

He was awarded two thousand of gold coins.

With long silk coat, caps with precious stones sewn, with shoes of deer-skin and with a bell in hand, the poet slowly came Hey, dear great King!

I have penned such verses that will make fanfare of the expedition much tireless and inflamed.

And my king, you will remain winning ever-Innumerous claps and deafening ejaculation for you; He then gripped three thousand of gold coins!

There came slowly at last, the poet of oblong eyes, bearded, with white tire, well dressed-Honorable king, I was sleepless for many nights But I couldn't have written a single couplet on the favor of your satisfaction.

Pardon me, my king-- I failed every time.

The court got filled with fearsome silence.

The king was stacked and dumbfounded Long after, we came to know that The name of the poet was-Mirza Galib!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

146 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

RIFAT CHOWDHURY â&#x20AC;Ś The flute I have a flute, but I am not a composer, someone else is giving melody in it. The flute is nowhere but in my heart. And the tune is in everywhere in my senses, all through the blood.

The dead fish One day, I found a dead fish.

I fried it on fire, get to eat washing in river water, and suddenly it escaped away from my hand.

Skeleton of memory The alluvium of memory settled in mind There have been formed so many sorrowful dreams I wanted you to keep that bracing secret.

In your mind, in deep dark.

The words dark in the mind will shrink in light.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

â&#x20AC;Ś A Man like an Overbridge A man is standing alone on top of the overbridge, Staring at his home.

A solitary man on top of the bridge, staring at his home.

A man is standing on the overbridge staring alone at his home Utterly alone.

[Translated by Mesbah Alam Arghya]

147 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

RIMJHIM AHMED …

The Wayfarer Most of the people who came, left.

Who leave, they take their shadows with them The part of the road that was muddy and known Only one traveler left his footmarks there everywhere His sorrows that he didn’t know, the air seemed charged up where he breathes hard.

Few of them halt Those who did not return, dead flies rest on their chests, The man to whom preferred to talk about printed saris Under his tongue, he had cyanide concealed.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

RUDRA MUHAMMAD SHAHIDULLAH …

Corpses Stink in the Air Still today, I smell corpses in the air Still today, I see the death dancing naked on the ground.

In stupor, I still listen to the timid screaming of a raped lady Have the nation forgot those nights of nightmares, those blood-shedding moments?

In the air, there stink the corpses There are blood marks on the ground They, once, who promised on touching that blood-wet soil. are ultimately destined to the forbidden darkness in the mass of the worn-out life Now, they awake inside the cave of night loving the dark cage This is like a benumbed virgin mother feels bashful of giving bad births.

Independence -- Is it a bad birth?

Is it the outcome of the shame from a fatherless mother?

That very old vulture has nipped in the nation’s flag.

Corpses stink in the air Under the neon light, there blows the storm in the dancer's flesh.

148 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Blood marks are on the soil Still there deposit the bones of starving people in the rice depot.

Sleep has left the eyes-In stupor; I still hear the timid screaming of a raped woman.

Like water hyacinths, the rotten corpses floating on the river I see--there floats the horrific headless corpse of a girl half teethed by dogsrise inside the eyes- I can't sleep, oh, I can't sleep.

Wrapped with shroud of blood--- he, who is fed to dogs, who is fed to vultures, is my brother, is my mother, is my beloved father.

Independence-- this is my lost kinsman found back Independence --is the invaluable taste that purchased by the blood of beloved ones.

The Sari of my raped sister reflects the flag of my sanguinary nation!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

RUHUL MAHFUZ JOY …

Geography I stare straightly at my mother’s face when I want to visit around the world Poverty driven despairs crystallized on the forehead Africa-Asia The chin at the lower part of the face resembles Latin America Between both the cheeks mingled Americas Europe and Americas Concerning the snow-falls my father left the drawings of winter in my mother’s eyes.

Wishes are grandiose Siberia thencedforth.

I stare straightly at my mother’s face when I want to visit around the world I find, my father was all those barbed wires.

Ignorance of my father- is the name of a continent that we inherited.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

149 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SADI KAUKAB â&#x20AC;Ś Runu Either my half-shut eyes to be closed, or look deep into her. Runu wants thus. I'm in between.

Runu, a keen blown ray; after all the amortise, got come to my yard, tried me to smear with warmth.

Said, 'Come on! Book your ticket for Kolkata.'.

I couldn't say her even; my feet can afford sheerly to the end of the Gali, where anyone left his inamorata, in fear of lost in a maze!

Nevertheless, Runu promised me- with her adorable words to take refuge in a neuter city, our dear secret to us both. The breach is all mine, and now I become shrink seeing those known cubits in other's folds. I can't take me off from innocence. Though knowing, Runu's having her nightmares, to be longed for someone else.

And me- want a dream of buying Mother India, with all those money with my penniless pocket.

[Translated by Dalton Souvato Heera]

SADIA SULTANA â&#x20AC;Ś Do come back Do you remember? Shuvongkor or Nondini?

Who though did not start their conjugal life portrayed as Parboti-Poromeshwar with the pen of Purnendu.

When on the feathers of cloud, the tanpura of rain sings, In that very lovely night keeping the aspirations of being pairs in mind they were in distance for eras!

And a bond was created through the illusion of love making.

They were in one place being in the distance.

Following the same way, you come back removing the stages of oppressed pain.

You come through the golden warmth. You come back, be submerged by the Love.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon] 150 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SAJJAD SHARIF â&#x20AC;Ś The Nymph I met and came to know you in the wild.

You who had been a nymph, tearing apart your wings, Have now become a human.

You have knowledge of secret scriptures and mystery's green hills.

Now on pretext of seeing humans you are out to look for me.

For you know when it becomes dark, it becomes a necessity To squeeze lover's neck and suck up the blood.

That's why dark clouds approach so fast.

Yet I come to sit by you ----meek.

You are an accomplished detective, a thief Who steal vision and decode footprints.

Out in the street all my secrets you made public.

Yet close by your knees I sit; When forests will overcast cities I will lower my neck on your lap.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

151 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SALEHIN SHIPRA …

Some petals of Neem flower Where to see all that rues instead of seeing myself infront of, you are the mirror of mine.

'Let you be my sorrows, either you want to be something of, or be emptying 'nothing' “...

Smearing and falling upon a desire of becoming nothingness a Neem flower told me that.

Then she rolled down to somewhere.

I could see some drops of doles in this part; though couldn't see something else on the other side; but I know, innumerable petals of those neem flowers, embracing each other had marched before you.

[Translated by Dalton Souvato Heera]

SAMTAN RAHMAN …

I was standing there Trough lonely walking mingled into crowd I keep in mind the geographical range from the point Tying the twinkling anklet of mountains to the legs Abruptly a young guy fallen into the manhole becoming frostily The steps being made on the earth The clatter removed the long Being alone…

After leaving everything which is residual, Today I met [Translated by Borun Kumar Biswas]

152 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SANJIB PUROHIT …

DNA and the Azure Azazil A spread of new colour is sensed among the kids. Covering all the colours seen, I feel such anunique heavenly spectrum, alien feature not of the planet earth. Like a colour-blind doesn’t know a particular colour; as you didn’t know my plucked Jarul, being colourblind; you didn’t understand the violet ache emerged from the rose. Yet you tried to understand the applicability of pain and practicality.

I sense a new trend among the kids to inflict pain and cruelty. The stone that was thrown to Muhammad, knew the matter, as it was known to confined poet Shadab.

I knew like the grasshopper tied with strong string. So as the kid and white wall pasted with scattered pastel – None can inflict pain with lovelike you, None can paint like you do Even then, I dreamed to be of you and dad.

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

SARKAR MASUD …

Return to the Sea On the pretext for a change I shall make it to the sea again.

With man's sad songs of separation in their beaks Noisy seagulls will make frequent dives into the salty water.

Big Sampans will sway back and forth out of hesitation.

Out of the huge glow of twilight-hour sea-pigeons emerge.

Constantly they float on water like sponge.

What lurks in the depth--- I wonder!

Going past the smell of rotten fish I'll reflect: had I been the fragrance of a flower! Shall I really ever?

153 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I love sunrise. Yet sunset has a deeper imprint I feel; I call out to him in vain who won't be back like the blind lover!

I long to be back to the sea again; Cries of an afflicted heart I want to put on infinite waves.

I'll fill my eyes with a scene of mountain birds flying in flocks.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

SAYED UZZAL …

Elation of Salt Trampling over the bones of the dead I set for the garden of light. I am awake beside a deadly saw with sharp metal teeth. Putting the the bed and the corpses side by side I longed to slip into an Uthenera. In a halfslumber do I dream! Inside of it I see: the musk-gazelle’s musk gets cracking open and the panicked creature escapes fast into a blind forest.

I become awake again. Piety of a startled heron falls apart and elation of salt spreads. The Blackhole is our destination into which ‘gamaka’, the graceful modulation of voice in singing, spreads through a thousand light years.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

154 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SAZZAD SAIF …

Pal Thence one day white ants shall approach smelling the earth, tiny-grassy grasses shall lean towards each other, being thwarted by windy breeze on my grave; That words which I couldn’t take to your heart will resonate that day in your psycheThat day your psyche shall resound as a ringing hourly bell And which shall eternally echo as if I am crying, and that crying was unheard of you.

Would you like to embrace me just another time in that time?

Could you do that indeed?

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

SHAH MYDUL ISLAM …

My Poetical Lifestyle Too heavy compared with my slim body.

I have exhausted enough with my age mom gets older looking at my face here’s nothing to glaze, here’s no sword, here’s nothing to feel tiredness of the whole day falls upon a fugitive who sucks my blood, inner pain mom serves bread made by/poems, I devour that closing my eyes, I don’t ask the whereabouts of Rimbaud who is the smuggler of dreams.

[Translated by Malequl Hoque] 155 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHAHED KAYES ...

Echoes Clamor of hooves, neighs and then motion and speed.

A lost path and at every step lies a wind’s domain.

A life’s covertly ruled and all that verdant is ruled by an axe…

Something causes the trees to reverberate. Is it an echo then?

Enigmatic cities of the East, salty luxury of bricks, Night of Dol Purnima —the 'Swing Festival'.

A sweet-perfumed Hasna Hena Beside a ‘yorubangala’ architecture.

Hands get busy with its embellishment.

Your ancient forest starts to swing.

What lies stored inside the temple then?

Neighs, speed, motion and a gust of wind Ajanta and Ellora Caves—aha!

O, the constellations, O, the fireflies, O, the waves of corns!

And the inebriated moon of the spring!

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

SHAHID QADRI …

The Revolution In Monzur Elahi’s garden In a shadowy evening, We, a few were sitting.

We talked about many things Some talked about Bongobondhu, In the same context, dead Alende’s name came up The incident of Chile’s military coup – some mentioned.

Needless to say, the facts of Iran-Iraq also were uttered And after Castro – uncertain future of Cuba Global power domination of the corrupted corporate And the imperiled people of Bangladesh Starving till death – we talked about all these 156 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

While we had cashew nuts and coffee.

Gradually, like a black cat, night approached in silent steps.

Around the chairs and tables, the fireflies kept scintillating As if they would remain, forever, like this We got up and went to the dinner table.

Monzur Elahi said again: barrel of a gun is the source of power.

Class-equilibrium is impossible without bloodshed Nobody would compromise class-interest easily I looked through the window and witnessed The fireflies had taken over Monzur Elahi’s entire garden Without a fight, without a bloodshed.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

SHAJAL SAMUDRO …

The Empyreal Rain Losing the wings and the key-that wasn’t allThe tales went beyondThe buttons that I found in shivering cold Of the century in the end of December, some were those.

The ticket I bought, to this day-it has been kept secret, because I missed the train.

Letters were burnt into ashes, but one could decipher Sanitorium-solitude in the songs of lost days Snakes committing suicide and ombro ceaselessLet all these remain unuttered; Some shirts-if the sleeves folded up-look ravishing and brighter…

But trying to hold the empyreal rain in winter and in the summer In my little diary, they do not accommodate at all…

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

157 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHAMIM AZAD …

Bargain (to József Attila)

Goodbye József I’m leaving – Cutting through the metallic Danube Piercing through Jibril’s rays of light That smells so of combustion – For that copper-coloured Bengal Floating off in sunlight Now On Andrassy Street My evening sari will leave no trace In the folds of water-wrung cloud.

Decay in this brown skin, Newly-sprouted body hair Or sudden alarm in a dream – These you will no longer sense, Nor the trace of a new poet In this city where you are The supreme one This is your city Where gothic earth & piers, Medicine fountain & smell of carbon, Fatigue solidified as granite With my hair’s mask left there swished And my intimate clothing, love, I’m leaving all this, along with My senseless poems This Christ-yellow dawn This symphony of Margaret Island The body-bread that is of this city I am taking with me & The heart of these stone eggs, This red-showing sweet rain.

Apart from this – 158 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

From today you’ll turn into a piece Of derelict unfruitful land A sperm-less pot A paper goulash.

So tell me, Do you want this back again Words wound round with cellophane Words steamed together by my emotion Or your jaundice?

Don’t you know that you fathered them!

[Translated by Shamim Azad and Stephen Watts]

SHAMIM KABIR …

Shamim Kabir The name, looks so gross like a mask. Like a gross glittery whale – the name of self kept sleeping, in my deep, the purest flames. (All of its pride gone while sleeping) – the dearest physical name chews my sun of very existence, all the time, like a dentate fly; Became barbwire all around the silly name SHAMIM KABIR. Secretly, under the skin, opaque trapped with nice name of a hurt hunter.

There is no eternity in the history rather numerous bullets marked the scull, entire valley is of burned dead and comes down the anthem of weightless poor flushed-out from the blue. Just a plotter the name, seems eternal like a seasoned hunter, built ambush in all my ways, with unknown oath.

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

159 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHAMIM REZA …

Mom ‘Son of a harlot’--somebody once slandered Jean Janet back in his childhood days.

From then on at every brothel’s gate his one invisible hand roams about beside the statue of his mom.

Perhaps somebody saw him turning into a full-blown Carambola tree.

While, on seeing a wax-apple tree, Some others think, ‘‘It must be none other than Jean Janet himself.''

He who had always been vocal against ugliness, he who thought himself as the dancer of ‘Le Fon Bul’ and ended up passing several gay-nights with a crippled man, whose heroes were all hardcore criminals, murderers and convicts awaiting death--They, the criminals, too search for beauty!

Somewhere between the visible and the invisible.

Jean Cocteau and Jean Paul Sartre Once spoke of Jean Janet's mother.

Afterwards said Sartre: '' As if his pair of melancholic eyes were the tides of the Pacific Ocean and the Arab Sea.'' Right at the next moment, from within his eyes, a strange desert-storm ensued.

The mother who fed Janet with cow's milk for one year, her every drop of milk was, as if, Jean Janet's lake of blood.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

160 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHAMMO RAYAN …

The White Butterfly Here I am, by myself-the lone traveler.

I know she is still here Like threshed grains from the shell she has kept her purity She is somewhere close by, didn’t bloom yet but a butterfly A white butterfly is like a living airplaneIf I extend my hand-her voice go insane A melancholic monotonous mood is sets forth.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

SHAMS AL MOMIN …

Nobody Saw Me I have seen enough brotherly gesture in men but I hate those faces who conceal the corpses in the holy scriptures, I hate those faces Who take away lass’s lonesome mood I hate those faces who snatch children from their mothers.

I witnessed life; all those chatters on earth May be someone has already written my secrets in them My thoughts spread from coffee table to every corner and between farmlands And encounter with everyone in the sidewalks Yet, the rumor is, I was not seen in the crowd.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

161 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHAMSHAM TAJIL …

Maya Reproduced Buddha is indebted to Hermann Hesse; I wish I knew what Marxist economics says on this.

Siddhartha was not a poet; he was rather a lover instead; The fire burns everything in immense pleasure; it is also the saint who drives the darkness like the sun!

Goutam was so immersed in meditation that he forgot the dessert; Hermann Hesse gathered much knowledge; slightly less than what Rahul achieved.

Rahul Sankskrityan forcefully turned Buddha into a marxist I initiated a debate with myself on these things.

The other mind nagged me to ponder over this: Rahul Sanskrityan transformed Marx into a Buddha to some degree.

Did Hesse know anything about Rahul?

Out of his charity, Buddha gave away all his belongings in silence, Causing us to get involved in a fight with ourselves under the tree of knowledge.

With a slight cough Darwin then uttered, “My theory, then, has not turned into ashes” [Translated by Mahmud Imran and Shamsham Tajil]

162 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHAMSUR RAHMAN …

Renaissance Renaissance dazzles strong in mind like a spirited horse.

There flashes an irate sword, a sunlit battleship dances on waves, a wheatfield burns, black epidemic spreads Across the horizon, an obscure lady appears by the atrium, everyday's passing horsemen, boatmen—are all vivid in memory. Splendid trophies, scenes of waving and brandishing swords or playing with spears–none of these

But thrill of wisdom of olden days still fascinates me.

Writing a few sonnets to you, gazing at the waning lights of the penultimate hour of night I will heavily drink the white sunrise and go on like a knight-on-horseback indifferent to the deadly plague. Splendor of civilization will get startled and the horse's neck will shine so bright in moonlight.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

163 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHANTANU CHOWDHURY …

Metamorphosis

I have learnt how to make a coffin this day.

I now know how to make a coffin!

The, wood carpenter, who taught me, with all, He knew for crafting coffin – thus, upon making each empty coffin, I spread his sighs over every coffin, To the silence of coffin career takes to pyre – So that, with all the dead, Sighs mixes across the earth.

So that sound of million wood carpenters could be heard From all the shadows would emerge from the earth, So that sound of million wood carpenters could be heard From all the shadows would emerge from the earth, In the green mystery of steppe, And from the bright liveliness of silent shadows Jingle of the coffin could be heard!

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

164 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHARDUL SHAJAL …

The Magician Much before my previous birth I had lost my future, my God! What you see inside this bony skeleton, Here is a Philosopher.

Who got death sentence on your research work about circus.

This is why I took the form of a wizard in this life To make people blind offering lies and greed’s Don't take it as a sin--my lord From now I will start jugglery like you!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

SHARAJATO SOUMO …

Poems of trees

Despise so high as my door days goes on saying adieu I called my mom as the maker of wooden bird.

You will never get it- its died by loving touch by the bite of hair pin it’s a touching tune-calls anytime, any day this garden fills by the raging fireflies by the falling star a crying baby- behind the scene is it me! the fanatic insane has claimed- all men will be dead it’s his foretelling, it’s his sigh!

[Translated by Malequl Hoque]

165 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHASHI HAQUE …

Before I abate Gambling wheel is slowing down.

Just before it stops Its grind, imbalance, and anxiety Slip into me like a squashed voice You are the arm on the wheel. I am abating like a drunkard to feel your touch.

[Translated by Mesbah Alam Arghya]

SHELLY NAZ …

Love of a male Male, your love tirelessly rolls down the lie-machine; The tank's getting filled n getting empty; Vainly you make Images of goddesses’ time andagain. The elated machine's Bosom throbs n rattles; You're building a Takshila Out of stones. What a sweetened flow of pleasure-water!

The tree dons an olive-color nightie. unaware of it's Silent music, you strike it with your axe; Inside all her Chasms n cavities you poured your waste n alkali.

Your upright beast has taught how to bow in a salute Before the kiss. The poison-jar knows how to pour its Willing pollen under the radiance of dawn and dusk.

It's always an accident that I fall in love. The machine parts Attract me and hold me tight, they swallow me.

Then comes ejaculation; With my eyes shut I Still keep on taking in me the cascade of lies.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar] 166 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHIDDHARTHO HUQ â&#x20AC;Ś Barisal The steamer along the bank of the Padma carries eternal Barisal by itself.

As if the river searches its childhood using search-light Part of the village becomes lighted Coconut trees, bank of the yard, walking path to the bazarThe search light shed lights on parts, But the dimness of the light in the end Reaches the heart of the people in the entire village; The city steamer floates, keeps on floating towards the destination.

On the deck, people and animals wake up from sleep time to time They hope what they wish for would come true and sink again In the endless halves of the search light chicanery; Mist and moonlight combine a mystery-everything seems immaterial Men and constantity- want to reach their joint destiny but deviates from it.

In grey field of water, in silent thirst the steamer shades long light on The unknown stories of the village part by part it becomes a poem; The calm serang thinks-how far is Barisal from his distance?

Will the steamer ever reach there?

The propeller moves and revolves and keep on rolling inside the water The wheel of water -from its very own source it deviates and-where does it float away?

The passengers on the deck who are awake watch the searchlight on and the familiar Ghats keep on moving further; it seems they are not there.

Some temporary lights of shadow, sense the incomplete nature of men and keeps moving away from them.

The steamer keeps on searching Ghatless way from partial to complete sight in range; From everyday river, it fades away and in the end, lights up in another mystic way But never makes it to Barisal.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

167 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SIKDER AMINUL HUQ â&#x20AC;Ś The pain of a Georgian poem Today the sea has no phosphorus You left Today the lips of sea also have no phosphorus You left.

The broken chocolates went under your teeth, The white sands are under the forwarding heated steps of you...

You remain not The darkness of the end of the day remains not under your NAVEL....

â&#x20AC;Ś Standing before own pole What people say, is not trueWhere are the known symbols lost in a lower direction of a decadeThe yellowish orange water cannot touch your footsteps!

Is it true my lord?

Need to find outBut not in this way!

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

168 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHOEB SHADAB …

The happiness is a Assasin to Aesthtics To and fro The bitch and her dog dissolves in their consummation In the broad day light Fighting over fighting One Droupodee and five Pandavas My beauty you have been caught in the trap of reality Surprise! Surprise!- It’s sheer surprising!

The happiness is nothing but an assassin to Aesthtics Man and Woman stops by the roads The poet’s thought got cleared with a spur of the moment the luxury of reality bonding and ignorance Ferociousness in the way to emancipation they hit and break the staircase of heavens Trees are like demon-naked and bizzare Unruly eyes are in every leaves, autocratic My beauty you have been caught in the trap of reality Surprise! Surprise! - It’s sheer surprising!

Paleolothic Sun spreads Cholera-Beam The horses of inferno shouts that breaks out the piece of stones My beauty you have been caught in the trap of reality The goddess of fate searches lost image in the mirror in a quietude Epilepsy’s marks are on the face-photo Is metaphor her afterglow?

The spirit searches spring, harbor in the stomach of burners Torn apart the Eagl’s wings in the lap of the caerulean Surprise! Surprise! - It’s sheer surprising!

The happiness is nothing but an assassin to Aesthtics [Translated by Nayeem Firoz] 169 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHUHRID SHAHIDULLAH …

Eye [For the workers burnt alive in the garment factories in Bangladesh]

Look, my body is burnt into coal.

I had jumped from the blazing sewing room, And was falling down… down and down, still burning; Just before being fully vanished, in a flash, I emerged out and flew up in the air, And took lodge on a cell phone tower.

I’m looking down from there, as far as I can, you too may do.

My mother has come; Failing to recognize my body coal-blackened, she is calling my name around.

I’m not responding though, as I’ve got a new name now, a number, 38.

Yet, look at my body; I’m also looking at you with my burnt eyes.

[Translated by the Poet]

170 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHUMI SIKANDER …

Call me now I never want to let you become pale.

Frantically I wipe off the mist of weariness From your brown cheek.

And from your countenance I rubb off The slanted shadow of distance.

I cast a sylvan net to capture needle works of agony From inside your ruinous eyes.

With two fingers, I remove flying black petals From your chin…on which an anonymous letter was written.

Call me at least once ….

At least give me a hug from a distance.

I will not fail to grasp its meaning.

I shall swim across the Teestaa—your three-stream river.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

SHUVASHIS SINHA …

The Arrow With daggers of thunder in my chest Beneath the tattered-clothed clouds of Baishakh I lay.

To a distance there flies a fly-whisk of wind, Electricity's Illusive virgins are all smiles.

With songs of deception in their throats The ghostly birds Cried out: Love, this is love!

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

171 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SHUVO NIL …

Rhythm is Lost in Silence 1.

After-birth seventh mask; Nothing else, Yet in the womb of mother Unsettled and standing.

2.

Because the third eye still kindles Some people still finds hope in the evenings And flocks of weary hawks can return their nests.

3.

Elora didn’t die Instead, it was The Someswari.

In the ferry of outstretched transformation In fact, some islands turned into metropolis.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

SHUVRO SARKER …

A reflection of Death while on the Firing Squad I, prima facie, saw death approaching fiercely in the firing squad.

I was lamenting of the fact that there exists no gown for the death.

I swore in the name of the Lord, I would show you a cause for the demise of the earth.

I didn’t get introduced with all the golden afternoons of this earth andLiving, to me, is an unnecessary practiceDeath, to me, brings the grand silence In your clandestine eyes, 172 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I saw gratefulness to the Lord for taking birth on the earth.

In a bizarre pleasure, you wiped out the sweat of a nightlife in a sacred napkin.

Before getting too obsessed with your aroma Lord proclaimed just before the dinner that“WORLD can only escape Armageddon since WOMEN lived here.”

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

SOHEL HASAN GALIB …

Blood Memorandum Dodder of your house is in the bending translation machine in my heart.

All the words are obscure, beyond any meaning. Oh my Bangla language. A hilly boy climbed down-wrote on the machine by own nailed finger-all setback stories-sign of swollen heart. Not just rust, bloody breaths of butterfly are lodging. Apparently, its all about observation. As it appeared, uncovering the underwear of aspiration. All sub-conscious aspirations of life come back tom-cat—flying fiber—and sometime dance of a dumb peacock—currents twist the water to become brush of colour. On an earth of dance, I awoke, like a colour-blind after a nice moment, pushing aside the sleeping late night guard. Still, all around me, there are the firefly’s canvas, song and saga of silence.

I ask the one who is disappearing to the afternoon, quite in the deep of words carrying wind, the one having doves’ feather in the hair dropped from the sun—oh, fading one, have you got the blood memorandum of Bombax Ceiba, kept under the pomegranate tree. Just doesn’t like to read, came to understand all. Came leaving behind the translating machine.

[Translated by Ashique Reja] 173 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SOHEL RANA …

The Invocation Oh girl, come and let’s play archery!

Let’s wake up in the name of going to sleep!

Let’s enjoy our mutual discovery Oh girl, lets softly graze our chicks.

Let’s be hijacked through the quick notes of breaths.

Come on, lets cause a loving match drawn day and night long.

Let’s make a goal in our own goal-post.

Let’s borrow breaths Let’s be a bankrupt to the Oxygen!

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

174 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SUBRATA AUGUSTINE GOMEZ …

My Poems Sanity?—not my cup of tea.

A sane heart is as plain as it is white, As if two mirrors set up vis-à-vis, Too cold—too quiet—

My poems—hyenas in the dark.

…

Red Moon 1 No, do not fade out of my sky, O Moon!

Moon, Moon— as red as my heart— Every twilight hour, every hour of dawn Proffer me your boon And wash away with your crimson light My dimmed day, my fog-fuzzy night.

2 I sit open-skulled to allow heaven’s curse Permeate my neurons— a black dove, a forget-me-not That’s lost its shadow, I. The distance your light Travels, and the distant spot where it stops At that farthest nowhere you have turned me into stone In your Haram, a sinister world apart from God.

175 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

3 Without you not only am I death, not only thwarted birth— I am death-before-birth. It’s a second paradigm Created by a second God— in a second, ruddy sky; Underneath, a silver mast soaring above the tide A second Babel to hook me down: For a negative arse— a negative pike.

4 And I’d had a glimpse of that mirage in the womb, Not through my eyes— but my whole body had heard That Morse code of fright— Then, suddenly, you beckoned!

Fireflies of lust gamboled in my head— A second face of the starry sky...

5 I came out. God,— infinitesimally ill,— You lie inflated between the two of us like ether; Not even the prism that refracts all light Is so crooked, nor does a serpent engender such terror.

You have raped my Moon in your vacuous height, Pray do not also violate her man’s honour.

6 Waters swarm in— sulphur-scented, dark; Pungent, rancid murmuring engulf the horizons— Liquidity’s acid curse!

O Queen Moon, please do suck me dry, Shatter this mirror to smithereens— Let God’s pentagonal throne disperse.

[Translated by the Poet] 176 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SUMON RAHMAN …

Cloud Baby Little, moving a piece of cloud Hesitant Flies low and alone, antennas Empty, no crow then!

He is being searched by Himalayan Restless air Of the volunteers, cold and consecrated, The uniformed air!

The style is personalized, it seems Little, ambitious Sometimes hiding, this, Inside boiler’s smokes Thence, huge preparation in the sky Noisy Rainy season starts in the plain Kadam to the girl, not being bossy Who could gift? the flute alone Speak of Radha then Alas, the restless air, call him, as he is the cloud baby Call him to mother cloud, don’t allow, in the farm, pee!

[Translated by Ashique Reja]

177 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SYED SHAMSUL HAQUE â&#x20AC;Ś

My Identity I was born in Bangla I speak in Bangla.

I walk for thousands of years through the field ways of Bangla We have our steps on the soft silt leaving the marks of steps.

The thirteen hundred rivers ask me from where you are coming from?

I came from the letters of Charayapada.

I came from the group of boats of merchants.

I came from the rebellious village of Kaibortya I came from the paint arts as the age of Pal Dynasty.

I came as Bangalee from Budhistbihar of Paharpur I came as Bangalee from the pulpit of the temple of the pairs of Bangla.

I came as the Bangalee in the land of Varendra from the Sona Mosque.

I came as Bangalee from mystic bards and muddy walls.

I came from the sovereign twelve Bhuiyans I came from kamala's pond and Mohua's Pala I came from Titumir and Haji Shariyat I came from Gitanjali and Agni Beena.

I came as Bangalee from Khudiram and Surya Sen I came as Bangalee from Joynul or Aban Thakur.

178 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

I came as Bangalee from the red coloured main road of the State Language I came as Bangalee from Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.

I came from the lightening voice of Joy Bangla I came from the freedom fight of 1971.

I came here leaving thousands of footsteps Ask me with which inspiration you came a long?

Then you rather did not listen to the history of Bangalee nation'Human beings are true above all, nobody else is above him.'

We stay together, we live together, we must reside together We will draw the picture of equality wiping all marks of discrimination.

I am Bangalee by identity, I possess the history of prideI never am afraid of a raised horn.

I fought with foes, I lived with dreams; I have sharpened the weapons and I have also cultivated the crops; With the same laughing face, I played the flute and also hanged myself; I never compromised-and this is the history.

This history am I going to forget, am I a child like that?

When the name of my father is Sheikh Mujibur Rahman; I walk in my Bangla with the history and inspiration of himThe eyes belong to the blue sky, the chest contains the beliefs and the legs step into the fertile silt land.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

179 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

…

Guerrilla

...............Relentlessly ..............you are marching through .................South Vietnam .................Cambodia ...............Bangladesh .............Angola .............Mozambique ......Through the nature being vigilant and silent through all day and night when the villages are empty with the fractured terrace and premises of prayer getting covered by fallen leaves gradually ……………...through sound of breathing .......you all trek as if ....you are some of our replica residing in the center of everything as if the songs of Rabindranath ......and you are resonating hills of sufferings of Africa......................................... Asia amidst nature you are............................. new tree .............new rainy season..................................new flora .....................in the horizon...............................a new mainmast ...................painted sceptre............................of ancestors ...............amidst the fierce..........................NAPALM ..............you pass......................................through .........unyielding.......................................all alone ......a dazzling leopard................................in a depopulated land.

[Translated from the poem of Syed Shamsul Haque by Nayeem Firoz]

180 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SYED TARIK …

Immortality The king is dead—after this statement prayer becomes a sine qua non; Long live the king.

The king never dies.

He who proclaimed the demise of God had strong apathy towards prayers.

It’s long since Nietzsche too is dead.

He has got an extended life.

This prowess of him is divine indeed.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

TANVIR MAHMUD …

Golden Whale My whale gazes at rains Ah! My hunger You are calm and beautiful as you erect Mute.

Like a complete correspondence, from the orient, you came to my golden whale.

I will take you from the tower to a shower I will take you to a winding flight.

[Translated by the Poet]

181 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

TARIK SHUJAT â&#x20AC;Ś I embraced death before my birth (A baby in its mother's womb was fired in a terrorist attack in Dhaka. In the baby's memory, this very poem is dedicated)

I embraced death before my birth I have no land, no language, no nation I know nothing of religion--sins and vices I swallowed tears before I born Seeing the ugliest face of life.

My first breath didn't harm the atmosphere where you live in.

My first breath is the last gift from the earth Maa, You, my sandbox, my school, my coffin.

Before my eyes were bloomed, I saw my nave cut by the sharp nail of the killers.

Before my ears were working I heard the closing bell.

That unknown sound slowly got to stop after being echoed on church, temple and mosque-tower.

Your womb is my first and last bed.

This womb-- my only recess of the unseen world.

And a thick darkness blocked that womb too.

I tried to resurface on the stream of blood sticking to my mother's nave.

I found nothing to cling with my tiny hand and soft finger.

My unlooked eyes saw the Quran-Bible-Geeta-Tripitok are swept away in the events of deaths in the flow of blood-No letters of vice are read in this dark colorless world by me.

Yet, I embraced death before I born Mother's womb is my first grave--coffin or pyre The world is burning high with blazes With my few blood drops It's thirst can't be quenched.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali] 182 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

TARIQUE TUKU …

Lighthouse The blue peahen is the lighthouse of this place.

The eyes of stony hills which keep eyes on the boat waysAvoiding which I reached the door of fort.

I see that he also has glittering eyes, sudden exhale.

The life time remains.

Within the lifetime the sunflower is jumping.

Because the love song is more beautiful than the love making.

The gardens are colorful.

[Translated by Naurin Kankon]

TOKON THAKOOR …

The Last Minstrelsy to Birds Love is such a bird that its wings prayed to be touched by lucky lovers.

An elusive feather of the bird is dreamt to be taken out.

Love is that bird in which eyes reflect a mast of marine boat.

Undoubtedly, there on her smooth neck--'Romeo Juliet' can be staged.

Love is that bird which lips show how fearsome, thirsty and cruel can the bio of a lonely man be!

Falling in love is like falling in that bird.

Then that love wishes to touch the bird’s feather Because his unconscious sense prays for self hiding under its wings.

Having burnt by the 21 century's pain, this hiding is not over in love even.

But soon that bird flies away, the lover hiding under its wing falls quick.

Like birds, loves fly too.

That cherished bird and love get lost forever.

After then-- I see other birds but I can’t forget that bird of love under 183 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

which terrific wings I tasted a disappearance, experienced a warm meet.

Today, the chirping birds around me don't know that I love to disappear though I am available in body.

So, now I actually donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know under which wings of birds the warm meeting can see light.

Which bird will not fly anymore, beyond its nature?

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

TRISHAKH JALADAS â&#x20AC;Ś Song of a Suicide

After the falling of leaves is over I see an unfinished tree that inclines towards loneliness.

And all around it God gets immersed in water.

After darkness descends God plays with the full moon.

Then a born-blind emptiness keeps touching the void.

Emptiness is but a number I keep on counting it on a flowing void.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

184 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

TUSHAR DAS …

The Lunatic I have been throwing up anger like a handful of dust.

I've been guffawing all day in a desolate field.

Not even a bark on me, both my hands are up in the air.

With a squint eye I saw: Out of the moon's grip like a black bear A chunk of cloud jumped right on my head.

Tearing down the edge of the sky a bit of blue glass Getting deep into my unruffled brain's chamber.

On it's dead teeth a skull spreads its wide grin Guffawing all day have I been in a desolate field.

With no lunar module I am all alone in this fathomless space.

Look! An unbearable saw is cutting through my ribs.

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

UPAL BARUA …

The onlookers Suppose, away from so called upholders of culture Dallying with images we sit and bite our nails.

Suppose, an accelerator rubs its nose on the ground.

And along with disparate winds Swiftly we let fly all our self-reproaches.

Suppose, we two -- ‘X’ and ‘Y’ --are a pair of lunatics Ripping the blades of grass; Grass with green smell.

And we spread out smoke-rings of cigarette in the air.

But in the winter even the lunatics do wear Down-to-the-knee overcoats.

185 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Drowsy bloodshot eyes And all those erotic talks.

Why do we shudder Eyeing those breasts instead?

[Translated by Jewel Mazhar]

VAGYADHAN BARUA The Memory of the Phoenix Bicycle My father used to say, “Son, I will buy everything for you at the end of the year.

New shirts, shoes from Bata, full pants, sunglasses, and the Phoenix bicycle.”

But he could not buy me anything.

He couldn’t because I lay him on the southern grave yard in a the Winter evening in November.

On that day, Winter and mist embraced each other for a long time.

As they mixed together, they looked like white school uniform.

When I walk by the known path Phoenix bicycle rings the bell And says, “Son, come, come -I really don’t have all that time.”

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

186 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ZAFAR AHMED RASHED …

Don't say No to me today Rashly I got injured exactly by moonlight.

It was spring, the winter fog was late to go I feel that cold; Hearing to the rare rickshaw bells I am sitting on the corner of a ramshackle bridge; A few gentlemen are returning from Bhattacharya Mart.

I feel addicted seeing fire from far.

I was waiting with cigarette in hand.

And the gentleman went past me throwing the cigarette in the stream water.

I failed to say, “Dear, do you have lighter?'

I fear. If he says 'No' even after it is available to him!

I am really in fear Please don't say ‘No’ to me today.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

ZAFIR SHETU …

Civilization Human being has immense feats Say, Human being managed to make a bread from the wheat Humans learnt to have breads baked in fire even he can pee having seated on the knee Humans know how to manufacture and use the arms it should be regarded as one of his successes- needless to disregard.

[Translated by Nayeem Firoz]

187 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ZAHID HAYDER …

Compared to Clothes You have nobody standing in the back, nobody If you are ahead of us, how far ahead is that?

If you had a bird, you could tell-I am behind the wings, ought move forward.

There is light. The sun is missing and the shadow.

The sides are blue walls.

The sky doesn’t know how far ahead it is The road left behind also forgot how far you have come.

Poor people are untested just as much They are compared as clothes.

[Translated by Razia Sultana]

ZAHIDUR RAHIM …

When poet dies When poet passes away, some of ducks who forgot to swim, forward their beak early morning, out of exhaustion; at dawn, few stars dropped down becoming ashes, mixes with the inevitable food cycle of nature; the news spread over the plants, moisture mud and all the pop holes; down the water, fingerlings think about unusual formation of duck beak – as they are wide, level – apparently they hold illusionary water bodies in every fold of the ash pasted beaks.

The example of duck is more real than the dropped down star, like death of poet is leveler than the [Translated by Ashique Reja]

188 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ZAKIR ZAFRAN …

Moonlight Community Alexander! Stop right here. Here starts the territory of Bengal.

Not an Arabian Merchant, I am a lover man from our community— They, who speak in birds tone, in struggle, in silence They, who rinse their hair in the moonlight rolling down the coconut leaves, I am that inheritant of original tawny blood who makes her tryst in the days of hunting and accumulation He, who makes her bun apex with ornaments, made terracotta, the Dravid woman opens her repository of nectar— Hey Alexander, hold on for a while, here starts the territory of Bengal!!

Don’t dare to cross this territory; here you will meet fighters sitting inside with a brown lady.

This lady, when the pet bird flies away finds her lost sky inside home Finds her golden stream, sense and autumn Garden.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

189 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

ZUNNU RIEN â&#x20AC;Ś Anonymous 6 You fall immediately after you bloom The fragrance runs out Consequently then earth finds you Nowhere!

If you're missing Nothing happens to anyone Stars find no sky Each moment dies And starts breathing Someone gets from nothing Someone lose you high!

The afternoon wishes to stay idle Like shadows beneath a tree in your sitting with you!

Roadside tea stalls Close their shutters obeying the will of noon And rain sings in cigars smokes Like you sell yourself Departing from memories Birds depart same from mankind as well Love runs far far away.

[Translated by Mosabbir Ahe Ali]

190 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

INDEX OF THE ANTHOLOGIZED POETS [This index of poets and brief information of their poetics are drafted under an extreme time constraint with the information provided by the living and available poets and information available in the new media viz. social media and in alternative online sources with the probability of existing herein some inadvertent spelling and other issues despite our sincere efforts. The unintentional errors (if any) which will be found shall be rectified in the next edition of this publication. We are solemnly apologizing for any error contained hereafter and positively affirming that this Anthology will be gradually developed in future making it more flawless]

Abdul Gaffar Chowdhury [1934-- ] is a prominent Bangladeshi British poet, writer and columnist. His most famous work is the theme song of International Mother Language Day what was first written as poetry in reaction of the 21 February 1952 in Dhaka. Some of His notable works: Dan Pithe Shawkat(1958),Chandro dwiper Upakhyan(1960), Nam Na Jana Bhore( 1962).He was awarded with Swadhinata Padak(2009), Ekushey Padak, Bangla Academy Literary Award etc.

Abdul Mannan Syed [1943–2010] was a very influential poet, academic, author and researcher. Some of His notable works: Janmandho Kobita Guchcha (1967), Jyōtsnā raudrēra cikitsā (1969) Matal Manchitro(1970), O Shongbedon O Joltorongo (1974).He was awarded with Ekushe Padak and Bangla Academy literary Award(1967).

Abid Azad [1952 –2005] was one of great poetic figures, critic and literary editor. Azad was the author of about 19 books of poetry including Ghaser Ghatana(1976), Amar Mon Kemon Kore (1980), Banotaruder Marma (1978), Shiter Rachanabali (1983), Tomader Uthone ki bristi name? Railgari thame? (1988) etc.

Abu Hasan Shahriar [1959-] has been of influential poets since his prime time 80’s emerged in the 70's. He won Bangla Academy Literary Award (2016) in the category of poetry. His notable literary works are: Antaheen Mayabee Bhromon, Obyertha Angul, Tomar Kache Jai Na Tobe Jabo. He is also the editor of one of the most circulated Bangla daily published from Dhaka.

Abu Zafar Obaidullah [1934–2001] was a poet of 60's from Barishal. His poetry has influenced millions of Banglalies during the Language Movement following the February incidents. He is known for his long poems. He was awarded with Ekushey Padak(1985) and Bangla Academy Literary Award.His notable publications are 'Kokhono Rong Kokhono Shoor', 'Kamol-er Chokh', 'Ami Kingbadontir Katha Bolchhi', 'Shohishnu Protikkha'.

Abul Hasan [1947–1975] was short-lived yet a must-read poet in Bangladesh till date. He could publish only three anthologies but got classical value. No new poet of even these days can think of going ahead without reading him. His creations are Raja Jaay Raja Ase (1972), Je Tumi Horon Koro (1974) and Prithok Palongko (1975). He received the Bangla Academy Award (1975) for poetry and the Ekushey Padak (1982) posthumously.

191 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Aditi Shimul [1969-] is a poet from first decade. Mrito Jyotsnai roder mognota, Uronto Saiyaguli, Surjaster lila are her published pieces.

Ahmad Muzahid, born 08 April,1987 in Noakhali, yet to publish any book, however, his creations are frequently published in various literary pages and magazines.

Ahmed Nakib is a poet. He also does not have any published book yet, however, his creations are frequently published in various literary pages and magazines.

Ahsan Habib [1917–1985] was a poet and literary editor and very influential in either role.

Many of the poets who started writing in his time, had dream of publication through him.

His approval of any new creation was assumed as pass mark for new poets. His notable works are 'Chhaya Horin (1962), Shara Dupur (1964), Ashay Boshoty (1974),Megh Bole Choitrey Jabo (1976).He received UNESCO Literary Prize (1960–61),Bangla Academy Award (1961), Ekushey Padak (1978).

Al Imran Siddiqui [1983-] is poet from Nilphamari, a northern district of Bangladesh bloomed in 21 century 2nd decade.Katthokrar Ghordor his maiden poetry book published in 2015. He is well-known for orientation with and inclination to the classical Sanskrit metres. His notable and maiden publication Kaththokrar Ghordor.

Alauddin Al Azad [1932-2009] is poet, novelist and critic of 1960's from Dhaka. He was awarded with Ekushe Padak(1986) and the Bangla Academy Award in 1965.His major publications inter alia are Manchitra,Teish Nambor Toilochitra (1960), Shiter Sheshrat Basanter Pratham Din (1962), Karnafuli (1962).

Altaf Hossain [1949-] is poet, critic and lyricist from Kishoregonj. For his contributions to Bengali poetry, he has beenawarded with the Alaol Awaward (2010) Bangla Academy Award in 2013. Among his many, Sajal Bhairabi (1972), Lajuk Octopus (1977), Boli je tarana hosse (2000), Pakhi bole (2008) are notable.

Altaf Shahnewaz [1981-] is poet and literary editor bloomed in the First decade of 21 century. He is also the Literary Editor of most read Bangla new paper Prothom Alo. His notable publications interalia are 'Ratrir Odvut Neemgach(2009), Nrityaki(2015) and Aladiner Gramey(2017).

Amir Khasru Swapan [1971-] is poet and editor of little magazine ‘Obbbaye’. from Bogra.

His notable works include- Ghum porboter haoa (2006), Bibostro dupurer shobgari (2009) and Biraler Moto Ghore Fera(2016).

Amit Chakraborty is a promising poet of the days. His poems are being published regularly in the literary maganizes and pages though yet to have any publication to credit.

Ananta Sujon[1977-] is poet and editor from Brahmanbaria of Bangladesh. His notable publications include 'Jail Series', ' Sondhar Osomapto Agun'. He also the editor of Shunner Sampan a compendium of poems of the poets emerged during the first decade of the century Bangladesh.

Andaleeb [1977-] is poet, translator and editor. His notable publications inter alia are 'Brishchiksurjer Nichey (2016), Totem Sangeet (2011). Frosted Glass er Oipashe(2008).

192 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Anina Tahin Nevila [1984-] is a promising poet and a mountaineerHis poems are being published regularly in the literary maganizes and pages though yet to have any publication to credit.

Anis Mohammad is a poet of the second decade. He is regulary publishing pieces in the literary for a.

Anup Chandal[1973- ] is a promising poet, essayist and an editor. emerged in Opening dacade of 21 century . His notable publications inter alia areShokoli Shomadhilipi (2-15), Keu tobe gahitese gan-vromakul (2017).

Anupam Mondol [1988-] is a promising poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Khulna, Bangladesh.His only poetry publication is ' Dakiniloke' published in 2016.

Arabinda Chakraborti[1977-] is a promising poet and an editor emerged in 2nd decade of 21 century . His notable publications are 'Chaya Kormoshala(2013) and Saramukhe Bandage(2016). He has edited a collection of the Poet from 2nd decade in Bangla.

Ariful Haque Rokon is a poet of second decade. He is also a lawyer and theatre activist.

Asad Chowdhury [1943-] is pioneerpoet and literary figure of Bangladesh. He won Ekushey Padak in 2013 and Bangla Academy Literary Award in 1987. His notable literary works inter alia are 'Tabak Deya Pan(1975), Bitto Nai Besat Nai (1976), Ekka Dokka l(1980), Joler Madhye Lekhajokha(1982) and so on.

Asad Mannan is established poet emerged from 70’s. His notable publication inter alia are ‘Surjaster Ultodike’, ‘Sayed Bongsher Ful,, ‘Valobasha Aguner Nodi’, Sundar Dakkhine Thake, Je pare par nei shey pare firbe nadi. He has been conferred many prizes and awards for his invaluable contribution to Bangla poetry.

Asad Zaman is a poet emerged from 90’s. He is still actively engaged with poetry.

Ashique Reja [1982-] is poet of reversed periscope and researcher, was born in Gaibandha, a northern district of Bangladesh. He has four published pieces. He is the Chief in Editor of the literary magazine "Kalerdhoni" and the originator and propagator of Social Calendar, now engaged in collection, research and translation of texts of 11th century great Buddhist master and Bengali poet Atisa Dipankara Srijana(982-1054).His notable publications are, inter alia, ‘Adomer Mon Valo Nei (2006, Novel); and two poetry collections titled ‘Baiu Poragi Noibeddo' (2011), 'Dolonkal' (2014) and What does Social Calendar mean? (2016, Collection of Essays).

Ashraf Jewel [1978-] is poet, story writer and cultural activist from Chapainababgonj, Bangladesh. He is the Editor of 'Purboposchim' literary magazine published from Bangladesh and India. His notable literary works are 'Zuddho Chara Shuddhota Osamvab (2014), Otita Dukkhora pakhi hoye gelo (2015).

Asma Odhora [1981-] is animportantpoet of her time as well as the sub-editor of Vinnochokh. Her notable publications inter alia are 'Ekdin Hetey Jabo'(2013)'Haawakol(2016). She is being regularly featured in the literary pages of national dailies and manazines.

193 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Asma Bithi [1980- ] is a promising poet, photographer and an ediorfrom 21 century from Chittagong. ‘Adhkhaowa Foler Jiboni’ is her maiden poetry (2013) followed by Tukro hoye soriye pori (2016).

Aysha Jhorna is a feminist poet from Dhaka emerged in 90's. Her notable publications inter alia are 'Andhar Jan(1996), 'Matromanush(2003), Ununer gan(2005), Ayna rokto holla(2007), O hawa O kobita(2014).

Azfar Hussain is a poet and important intellectual personality of Bangladesh. He is also a teacher in a renowned University in the United States. Azfar Hussain teaches Liberal Studies/Interdisciplinary Studies at Grand Valley State University, USA and is VicePresident of the Global Center for Advanced Studies (GCAS).

Azizul Haque [1930-2001 ]was a poet from late 50’s. His notable publications inter alia are ‘Jhinuk Muhurto Surjoke (1969)', Binoster Chitkar(1976) and Ghum O Sonali Igol (1994). He had been awarded with many prizes and awards for his contribution to Bangla literature.

Badruzzaman Alamgir is a Bangaldeshi poet living in the USA. Belal Chowdhury[1938-] is a poet editor, translatorand essayist. His notable publications inter alia are Nishad Prodeshe(1964), Swapnobondi(1984), Botrish Nombor(1998), Sfulingo theke Dabanol(2001). He was awarded by Ekushe Padak and Bangla Academy Padak.

Bidhan Saha [1984-] is a promising poet from Dhaka bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century. His publications are Obyktyo Sondhir Dike( 2015), Eso Botgaach (2017).

Bijoy Ahmed [1983-] is a promising and talentedpoet bloomed in 1st decade of 21 century from Mymensingh. 'CircusTabur Gaan' is his first issue with what he has already attracted the critics.

Biren Mukherjee [1969-] is a poet and story writer from Magura of 90's.His publication includes 'Udvranto Somoy(1999), Gucchoghaser Ondhokar(2017).

Bishnu Biswas[1962-] is a poet from 80’s came from Jhinedah. His only book of poetry ‘Vorer Mondir.

Bodre Munir is a poet of 90’s. Mayar murti jatnar jati is his important publication.

Borun Kumar Biswas is a poet emerged in the 21 century. His publications inter alia are Doibojuge Beche Achi,'Voot o Goyenda Mukhumukhi(2017).

Chanchal Ashraf[1969-] is one of importantpoets, novelist and a critic of 1990's from Feni.Notable publications of this very talented poet include 'Chokh Nei Drissho Nei(1993), Osomapto Shirdanra(1999), Shahitter Poribhasha (2014) Je Motso nari, Kon o ek gohbor theke, Kothao na othocho sobkhane, Khub gan holo-chalo, Goponotakami aguner prokassho rekhagulo, O mudra rohosshe meshe.

Chanchal Bashar[ ] is a poet bloomed in the 21 century.

194 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Chanchal Mahmud[...] is a promising poet from in Second decade of 21 century. His published books are Kolpito Bindur Dharona(2017). He has already invited attractions of critics for his language, imagery and expression.

Dalton Souvato Heera is a poet from in Second decade of 21 century. His published book is Dalton more jao. His poems are being published regularly in the literary maganizes and pages.

Daud Haider[1952-] is a poet from Pabna emerged in the 70's. PEN International has described him as "distinguished poet. He has been awarded by Poetry Society, London in 1973 for this poetry. He has a good number of publications.’Jonmoi Amar Ajonmo Pap’ is his best one.

Delower Hossain Monju [1970- ] is a poet, essayist and critic emerged in 90’s from Sylhet.

Dakkhinamrita, Sap O surjomukhi are his notable works. ‘Biddhut Bagan Somogro’ is his compilation of works. “Kafer’ and ‘Jotsnar Beral’ are two novels by him.

Dilu Naser is a poet poet, writer and a TV presenter lives in London, living in the UK. Dipan Chakroborty is a poet of 90’s.

Elius Komol is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade from Mymensingh. His poetry includes ‘Otirikto Baganbari(2017)’. His poetry is also regularly featured in literary pages of national dailies as well as literary magazines.

Emel Nayeem is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade. His poetry book ‘Shobder Micchil’ was published in 2013.

Emran Mahfuz[1990-] is a promising poet, editor and researcher bloomed in the second Decade of 21 century. His poetry book published is 'Dirghosthayi Shoksobha (2017). He has separate research publications on renowned Satirist, Politician and Journalist Abul Monsur Ahmad and freedom struggle of Bangladesh. He edits the literary magazine Kalerdhoni.

Faisal Adnan is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade. His poetry is regularly featured in literary pages of national dailies as well as literary magazines.

Faqir Elius[…] is well-known poet and essayist of 1990's. Meghahoto Chandrer Prokar, Onirbachito Kabita are notable poetic anthologies of Mr. Elius among about 16 publications.

Farhad Chowdhury is a poet living in the UK. Farhan Ishraq[1977- ] is a poet and story writer emerged in the late 90’s from Manikgonj.

His publications include Hangare Jhule Chand(2003), Kalo Josnar Kokil(2004), Jobaier drishyabali (2017).

Farid Kabir[1959- ] is renowned poet, essayist and journalist from Dhaka emerged in1980's. His notable publication includes ‘Om Prokriti Om Prem’ Elusher Golpo, Amar Golpo(2017), Farid Kabirer Shrestha kobita, His recent autobiography Amar Golpo has long been talk of the town.

195 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Faruk Ahmed Roni[…] is a poet, essayist emerged 90's. His notable publication includes ‘Projonmo cottore Birangona Mithila’,‘ Bisrito Flashback’.

Faruk Wasif [1975-] is is mostly known for his prose that are being published very frequently in one of the most circulated Bangla daily published from Dhaka. He emerged during 90’s from northern district of Bangladesh, Bogra. His notable publications include ‘Jol Joba Jaitun’(2015), Saddamer Jobanbondi(Translation,2013) Ferdous Mahmud [1977-] is poet and journalist emerged in the 21 century dawn. His notable publications includeSatsho Train Ek Jatri(2006), Neel Paglir Shish(2009). He is being regularly featured in the literary pages of the national dailies as well as literary magazines.

Ferdous Nahar is a poet of 80’s, a lyricist and paiter. Her important publications are namely, Rupantorer Ghora, Chire jai bingshoti bandhan, Shomoy vengese shongshoi, Dehoghor roktopakhi, Uddhoto Ayu, Navi O nondon, Pakhider dhormogrontho etc.

Firoj Ahmed [1983-] is a poet bloomed in 1st decade of 21 century from Gopalgonj. Gohine Shunyota, Jolbari, Diper Sobuj, Nirbasoner Aage, Nishiddho Sundor, Jol O Matir Golpo, Jeeboner Podaboli are his notable poetry books. He also has couple of notable essay collections to his credit.

Girish Goiric [1987-] is a promising poet of the generation bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Gopalgonj. His books published are 'Khudharto Dhaner Namota' (2016), Ma Series(Adi Porbo,2017). His Ma series is quite a book readers of Dhaka talked about for some time.

Hasan Robayet [1989-] is thought to be a promising, regularly being published in the literary magazines,poet from Bogra bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century. His first book is poetry one 'Ghumonto Mercury Fule’ published in 2016.

Hasnain Hira is from Shirajganj, emerged as poet in the second decade. He yet to have any publication, however, is regularly publishing his poetry in different literary magazines and supplements Hasnat Soyeb [1988--] is poet from Chittagong bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century.

He has two poetry publications so far 'Surjastogaami Maach (2015 ) and 'Bryan Adams O Mermaid Bishyudbar' (2017).

Helal Hafiz [1948-] is another living legend poet of Bangladesh era poetry from Netrokona emerged in 1960s. His 'Je Jole Agun Jole (1986)’ is one of the most read anthology in Bangla revered by readers and critics.. His second publication ‘Kobita Ekattor (2010?)’, came with a long self imposed silence, well accepted by readers again. He was awarded with Bangla Academy Award(2014).

Hijol Jobaer [--] is one of the talented new generation poets and filmmaker from bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century. His first book is poetry one '...’. Followed by recent publication ‘Adim pustoke ja lekha hoesilo(2015) appraised by the readers and critics all around. He has been conferred with couple of awards for Adim pustoke ja lekha hoesilo (2015).

196 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Hujaifa Mahmud[1993- ] is a poet from Habiganj, Sylhet, bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century. He has no publication yet, however, is being featured regularly in the literary supplements and pages.

Humayun Azad [1947–2004] was thought to be one of the greatest mind Bangladeshi literature has ever seen. He was renowned at the same time as author, poet, scholar and linguist. His notable titles inter alia are 'Oloukik Steamer',Shob Kichu Venge Pore', 'Shuvobroto O Tar Shomporkito Shushomachar', Pak Sar Jamin Sad Bad, and 'Naree'.

Notable awards he received are Bangla Academy Award(1986),Ekushey Padak(2012) posthumously.

Humayun Kabir [1948-1972] was a poet and socialist worker. He was also a teacher of Dhaka University. Though he couldn’t publish any book during his short span of life before ended up, by his own party people as has been done in many cases elsewhere for communist workers, two books (Kusumito ispat and Rokter Rin) were published for one of which he himself prepared the manuscript. He has been called as Lorka of Bangladesh by his comrade poet Muhammad Nurul Huda.

Imran Majhi [1981–] is a poet emerged in the opening decade in 21 century from Bhola.

His notable poetry title is 'Dudhvai'.

Imrul Hassan [1975-] is a prominent poet and short story writer from Bangladesh. He has been publishing regularly since the 1990s in various literary magazines and webzines in Bangladesh and India. Imrul has authored 7 volumes of poetry so far: Rituchinhoguli ( Signs of Seasons, 1998), Kalikaproshade Gele Ami Ja Ja Dekhte Pabo (Things I will see in Kalikaprashad, 2005), Oshottho BoTer Kache Eshe (Near Peepal Banyan 2010), Tomar Kothaguli Ami Onubad Kore Dite Chai (I Want to Translate What you Say, 2011), RanGamaTi (Rangamati, 2012), Boshonto 1419 (Spring 1419, 2013), Shopner Bhitor (Inside the Dream, 2014).

Imtiaz Mahmud [1980-] is a very talented poet from Barishal. His notable publications inter alia are 'Manush Dekhte Kemon'(2010), Pentacle(2015), Kalo Koutuk' (2016)and 'Maxim(2016). He has already achieved short of fame for his magical story telling in the poetry and attracted the critics.

Jabbar Al Nayeem [1986-] is a poet from Chandpur bloomed in the 2nd decade in 21 century. He has three poetry publicationssuch as Tara Khawa Macher Jibon(2015), Biroddho Procchoder Pekhom(2016),'Esechi Mitthe Bolte(2017). He is also a literary editor in a renowned Bangla newspaper.

Jahanara Perveen [1975-] is a poet bloomed in the 1st decade of 21 century, born in Kishoregonj. Her major publications inter alia are 'Nongorer Golpo Pathacchi, Nidrasomogro.

Jahir Hasan[1969-- ] is a poet from Jessore. His major publications inter alia are ‘Pakhigulo Maro nij Hridoyer Tane(2003), Goster Dokane(2007), Patabaharer Bristidine(2012).

Jannatul Ferdous Aleya is a poet and renowed official of justice department of Bangladesh.

Jayanta Jillu is a poet of second decade. Prithir kothao rasta dekhina, Saya, Kobul koro dakhkhina pronoyer pap, Calendar series are his published pieces.

197 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Jewel Mazhar[1962-] is a poet, translator, critic and essayist emerged in the 1980's from Mymensingh. His major publications include ' Darjighore Ekrat2003) Megasthenes-er Haashi(2009) 'Durer Hawaa(2016,Translated world poetry).

Jwel Mustafiz is a promissing poet. He yet to have any publication but regularly publishing his poetry in the literery magazines.

Kajal Shaahnewaz[1961-] is one of the renowned a poetic figures and short story writer and editor from the 1980s Bangladesh. His notable publications inter alia are ChhatKagojer Molat(1984), Jalamagna Paathshala (1989),Sangeet Poribare Shatir Attohotya (1998).

Kaler Likhan [alias Abdul Hannan] [1984-] is a poet and lyricist bloomed in 21 century from Jamalpur. He has 6 publications.

Kalpurush [aliasTarikul Islam] is a poet and translator from Barisal. His major publications include', 'Ei Sohore Rajhas Nishiddha (2015)', Rohinir Jonno Ekti Rastra(2016), Mod O Chumur Majhlhane Ekti Rifle (2017), Ori Miso: Nirbachita Onubad (2017).

Kamal Chowdhury [1957- ] is a major poet of 1970s hailed from Comilla and He is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award in 2011. He has 15 publications. His major publications inter alia are ‘Micchiler Soman Boyoshi(1981), Ei poth Ei Kolahol(1993), Rod Bristi Ontomi(2003), Panthoshalar Ghora, Mukti o Shadinotar Kobita.

Kamrul Islam[ 1964-] is a major poet and editor from Kustia bloomed in 1990s. His major publication inter aliaare Seisob Jhorer Mondira (2008), Bihongokhochito Lonthon(2017).

He has edited an Anthology of English Poetry from Bangladesh.

Kamruzzaman Kamu[1971-] is a poet, filmmaker and lyricist emerged in 1980's. He is quite a popular figure for both his poetry and lyrics. Cheye Aso, Mamuji’r noukai, Bangla boi, Nigar Sultana are few of his many notable publications. He has been conferred few awards for his contribution. Kamu’s debut film ‘The Director’made a case for various issues apparently being gossiped in the film city, therefore, blocked by interest group for quite some time.

Kazi Nazrul Islam[1999-1976] is the Rebel Poet of Bengal and honored as the National Poet of Bangladesh who was born in Churulia, West Bengal. He is one of the legend poetical figure of Bangladesh and India. His poetry became theme for armed personnel of Bangladesh. He was also a prose writer, musician as well. Among his huge literary masterpieces, notable are: Agniveena (1922), Bethar Dan, Sanchayita. Notable awards of which he was honored with are: Independence Day Award (1977), Ekushey Padak, Padma Bhushan.

Kazi Nasir Mamun [1970-] is a poet bloomed in the first decade of 21 century from Mymensingh. His notable books inter alia is ' Lokkhindorer Gaan'.

Khaled Hossain [1970-] is a renowned poet, and Professor of Bangla literature at a renowned University of Bangladesh, emergedin 1980s from Narayangonj. His notable inter alia are 'E ami na onno keu', Kabita Shomogro 1 & 2.

Khandaker Ashraf Hossain [1950 –2013) was a renowned poet, essayist, translator, and editor of 1980s from Jamalpur. He wrote more than eighteen titles. He was the editor of 198 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

famous Little Mag 'Ekobingsho'. His notable publications inter alia are Tin Ramanir Qasida, Partho Tomar Teebro Teer, Jibaner Saman Chumuk. His Ekobingsho was quite a trendsetter for Bangla poetry.

Kishore Mahmud[1991-] is a talented poet bloomed in the first decade of 21century from Mymensingh. So far he published only one book called ‘Shurjer bajna’, however, he is quite familiar in the literary community.

Kishwar Ibne Dilwar [1962--2006 ] is son of another renowned poet Dilwar, Kishwar was a short-lived poet of 1980s. His works has been compiled in compilation called “Kishwar Ibne Dilwar Rochona Shomogro”.

Kochi Reza is a renowned poet and story writer emerged in 1990's. Her publications include ' Obisshassho Beraler Nupur(2009), Kofinvorti Kolahol(2015).

Kushal Ishtiaque [1987-] is a promising poet bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21century from Barisal. His poetry books are 'Uipokar Shopner Vetor(2016), Chander Dike ural(2017)' Layla Ferdous was born on 19th September, 1980 at Mertinga Tea Estate in Moulvi bazar, Sylhet, Bangladesh. Publised books of poems: Noishonger Uttoryan (2007), Purboprajanmer Dak (2015), Tranlated works: Interview with Allen Badieu on evil (2014), Beyond Good and Evil (2015), Legends from China (2016).

Madol Hasan [1976-] is a poet and editor bloomed in the first decade of 21century from Mymensingh. His notable books inter alia are 'Kannadaygrosto' ' Ghum Ekti Nishshorto Premer Desh'.

Mahadev Saha [1944- ] is a poet and editor bloomed in the 1960's from Sirajgonj. His notable books inter alia are 'Ei Griha Ei Sannyas (1972), Chai Bish, Amorata (1975), Awards: Ekushey Padak (2001), Bangla Academy Award.

Mahbub Kabir [1970-] is a poet bloomed in the first decade of 21century from Mymensingh. His notable books inter alia are ' Lokkhindorer Gaan'.

Mahbubul Huq Shakil [1968--2016] is a short-lived poet and politician bloomed in 80’s Tangail. His notable books inter alia are ' Kherokhatar Pata Theke’, ‘Mon Kharaper Gaari’.

Mahdi Hasan Khan is a poet of 21 century 2nd decade. His first poetical publication is ‘Ghunakkhor’(2017) of special prose haikus genre of poetry.

Mahmud Noman is a poet bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21century from Chittagong.

Maibam Shadhan [1984-] is a poet and translator from Sylhet bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21century. His notable publications include 'Roghu Loishangthen (Poetry Translation,2016) Majul Hasan[1980-] is a poet and editor bloomed in the first decade of 21century from Dinajpur. His notable books inter alia are 'Ghasher Restaurant (Poetry)', 'Tiamantra'(Story Book)' Malequl Hoque [1976- ] If you assume that the beginning was somewhere, some million years ago, you are not wrong. If you say the beginning was exactly thirty-nine years and 199 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

some days ago at some place mentioned herein, you are not far from the truth either—he was, indeed, born in 1976 on 25th August in the remote village Moinpur of Chatak, Sunamgonj, Bangladesh—Malequl Hoque, is well known for his poetic spiritual essence.

Masud Khan [1959-] is known as ‘Khan Shaheb’ in Bangladeshi poetry. A renowned poet, writer, and translator emerged in the 1980’s . He has, till date, authored three volumes of poetry: Pakhiteerthadiney (1993); Nadikule Kari Bas (2001), Saraikhana O Harano Manush (2006), Deho otirikto jor (2015) Masudar Rahman [1970-] is a poet of 1990s from Jaypurhat.His notable publications include 'Haater Kobita' ' Uttorbongo Series' and 'Somudra'.

Masuduzzaman [1954-] is an important poet and literary critic. He emerged as a poet in late 1970's. His notable publications are ' Udito Dukkherr Desh', 'Aguner Dalpala' Maznu Shah [1970-] is a poet, bloomed in 1990's. Six books have been published so far.

Anka Megher Jiboni(1999), Lilachurna(2005), Modhu o Moshlar Bone(2006), Zebramaster(2011), Brohmander Gopon Ayna(2014), Ami ek Dropout Ghora(2016).

Megh Aditi[ 1970--] is a poet bloomed in the first decade from Dhaka. Her publication includes 'Jol Dumurer Ghum’ (2012), O Adrishyita He Anischiti (2014), Probeshadhikar Sangrokkhito (2016) Mesbah Alam Arghya [1987--] is a poet bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21century from Barisal. His poetry books are 'Uipokar Shopner Vetor(2016), Chander Dike ural(2017)' Michil Khondoker [1970--] is a Bangladeshi poet bloomed in the first decade of 21century.

Though he has been long contributing to the literary pages of various national dailies and literary magazines, Megh Shamanno Haso (2015) is his first ever poetic anthology.

Mohammad Nurul Huda [1949- ] is a poet, editor and novelist bloomed in the 1960's from Cox'sbazar. His notable books inter alia are 'Shonite Somudropath (1972), Amar Soshotro Shobdobahini (1975), Shobhajatra Dravidar Proti (1975).He was awarded by Bangla Academy Literary Award (1988), Ekushey Padak Award (2015).

Mohammad Rafiq [1943-] is a poet bloomed in 1960's from Bagerhat.He was awarded by Bangla Academy Award in 1987, Ekushey Podok in 2010. His notable books inter alia are Boishakhi Purnima(1970), Dhulor Shonshare Ei Mati(1976),Kirtinasha(1979), Khola Kobita(1983), Shodeshi Nishshash Tumi Moy(1988) and Meghay Ebong Kadai(1991).

Mohsin Chowdhury Joy [1984-] is a poet, prose writer, editor and translator bloomed in 2nd Decade in 21st century from Narayangonj. His only book ' Somaptir Joticinho) published in 2013.

Mojid Mahmood [1966-] is a and renownedpoet and journalist emergedin 80’s. His notable publications inter alia are Boutubanir Fuler Deshe(1985), Mahfuza Mongol(1989) and Goshther Dike(1996), Ball Upakhyan(2001).Dhatri clinicer Janma (2007) and Singha o Gardobher Kabita (2012) Mosabbir Ahe Ali [1987-] is a poet, prose writer, editor and translator bloomed in 2nd decade in 21st century from Brahmanbaria. His only book 'Irshagaach o Prarthonasomuho'(story) published in 2017.

200 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Mostaque Ahmad Deen [1974-] is poet and story writer of 1990's from Sunamgonj, Sylhet.

His publications inter alia are 'Had o Kothar Bedona(2001), Jol O Trikaldorshi(2004).

Mostafa Hamedy [1985--] is a poet from Chandpur bloomed in the 21 century. His only publication is 'Megh O Voboghure khorghosh'(2015).

Moyukh Chowdhury [1950-- ] is a very important poet, critic, researcher of 80’s. His notable publications include 'Kaalo Boropher Pratibeshee (1973), Ardhek Roechi Jale,Ardhek Jale (1999), Tomar Janalay Jege Aachhi Chandramallika(2000).

Mujib Erom [1971-] is an identifiable poet of the nineties. He has, till date, authored thirteen volumes of poetry. He got Bangla Academy young authors project award 1996, Songhoti literary medal 2009, Poet Dilwar literary award 2014, BRAC Bank Shomokal literary award 2014, and Citi Anondo Aloo literary award 20016.

Mukti Mondol is a poet. His notable book is Unmad Khulir Pristhaguli(2011).

Munira Chowdhury is a prominent poet of 90’s. She is the Director of Bangla Academy, UK. Her notable publications are inter alia, Mehekananda Kabya and Noy Dorjar Batash.

Muntaquem Al Mahian is a poet of second decade. He is regularly publishing his pieces in the literary magazines and suppliments.

Murtala Ramat is one of the popular new generation poet and translator. He has translated many important, classic and popular international publications in Bangla.

Mustafiz Shafi emerged during 90’s as poet and journalist. He is also an editor in a popular Bangla daily.

Muzib Mehdy [1969- ] is known as a poet and essayist marked in nineties from Mymensingh. He started writing poetry at his young age and concentrating in androgynous text since last one decade. His growing interest in Zen philosophy inspired him to translate Zen Koans in Bangla and compose Bangla haiku. Number of publication of him is thirteen.

His notable publications include ' Momi Upottoka(2001), 'Moidaner Hawa(2007), Soturi Laver Golpo(Translation,2009).

Nahid Dhruba [1991-] is a poet from Barishal marked in the 2nd decade of 21 century. His only book poetry is ‘Mrittur Moto Banoat’ published in 2017.

Nannu Mahbub is a poet of 1980's. He has many significant publications.

Nasima Sultana [1957-1997] was an important poet marked in the 1970's from Kustia. She could publish only two volumes of poetry before she died early.

Naurin Kankon[1985-] is a poet, writer of 21 century dawn. She is a translator and editor as well. She is the member of the Royal Society of Literature in the United Kingdom.

Naushad Zamil [1983-] is from Mymensing, emerged during the first decade. He has several publications including the award-winning poetry collection ‘Dheuer Vitor Dabanol’.

Navil Mandar is a poet emerged in the second decade. He yet to have any publications, however, is publishing regular pieces in the literary suppliments.

201 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Nayeem Firoz [1983-] is a poet, editor, translator from 21 century. His publications are 'Greenhouser Bondini(2008), Ube Jao Jolochokh(2016), Prithibir Shesh Koekchotro Meghapatra(2017). He is a Commonwelath Scholar and the member of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and the Royal Society of Literature in the United Kingdom.

Nazrul Islam is a poet is a poet emerged in the second decade. He yet to have any publications, however, is publishing regular pieces in the literary suppliments.

Nihar Likhon is a poet is a poet emerged in the second decade. He yet to have any publications, however, is publishing regular pieces in the literary suppliments.

Nirmalendu Goon [1945-] is a famous poet from Mymensingh emerged in 1960's. He was awarded Ekushey Padak in 2001 and Independence Day Award by the Government of Bangladesh in 2016. He was also awarded Bangla Academy Literary Award in 1982. His notable publications inter alia are Premāṃśura rakta cāi (1970), Nā premik, nā biplabi (1972), Caitrera bhālobāsa (1975), Tar age chai shomajtantra(1979), Dhaboman Horiner dyuti(1992), Shiore Bangladesh(1998), Muthophone'r Kabbo (2003) Nirzhar Noishabdya[1981- ] is a poet bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century. Mohisher Hashi, Akash Furie Jai, Rajhash Jevabe Mach Hoi, Pakhi O Pap, Kapaliker Chokher Rong are notable works of him.

Nitu Purna [1983--] is a poet from bloomed in 1st decade of 21 century. Her notable publications are ‘Horin Sotorko Poth’ and ‘Agun o Bodhir Onuvuti Take Koreche Chonchol’.

Noirit Emu is a talented poet, editor and blogger emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century.

Novera Hossain is a poet and writer from 90s. She has several publications.

Obayed Akash [1973-- ] is a poet of 90's from Rajbari and among his publications notable are 'Biralnritto, Preter Moskora', Uddharkrito Mukhmondol ( Collection of poetry), 'Nashtar Tabile Projapotigon'. He has been awarded with many prizes for his contributions, in Bangladesh, India and UK. Omar Ali [1939--2015] was a famous poet. He was awarded Bangla Academy Literary Award (1981) and Ekushey Padak in 2017. His notable publications inter alia are Aronna Akti Lok, Temathar Shesh Nodi, Ful Pakhider Desh, Khan Mansioner Mey. Omar Faruque Jibon [1969-- ] is a poet bloomed in the first decade of 21 century from Chittagong. His notable publications include 'Sundor Tomay Ki Name Daki(2004), ‘Bornil Mach o Balerina’ and ‘Chumbontirthe (2015)’.

Pablo Shahi [1965 - ] is a poet bloomed in the 1980's from Jessore. His publications include 'Doot Suronger Bij', Khomo o Nisshashjan Vurjopotro'.

Pias Majid [1984- ] is a poet, essayist and story writer emerged in the 1st decade of 21 century from Comilla. He has published a good number of books including 'Nach Protimat Lash' (2009, poetry), Khoto Atmar Biggopti(2010, story).

202 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Poliar Wahid[1985-- ] is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Jessore. He has published a good number of books including Prthibi Paper Palki(2015), Shiddha Dhaner Om(2016), Manush Hobo Age( 2017,Juvenile) Pranto Polash [1984-- ] is an important poet marked in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Chuadanga. His two poetry books are 'Shadhukhalir Rat(2012),Jorayur Kanna( 2015) are available.

Raad Ahmed is significant poet emerged in the 1980’s. ‘Brothel Maliker Car Park’ is his poetic anthology.

Raat Ul Ahmed is a poet of first decade. He has few publications.

Rafiq Azad [1942 –2016] was a famous poet, editor and journalist. He is credited to 45 collections of poetry including Prakriti O Premer Kabita, Asambhaber Paye, Sahasra Sundar, Haturir Nichae Jiban. His was awarded by Bangla Academy Award (1984) and Ekushey Padak (2013).

Rahman Henry [1970-- ] is a prominent poet and translator of world literature marked in the 90's from Natore. His notable publications include inter alia, Prokrito Sarosh Ure Jay(2000), Pronoysomvar(2014), Odhikrito Vukhonder Kobita( 2012, Translation of Palestinian Poem).

Ranak Zaman is a poet and translator of the second decade. ‘Ghamgulo of Shishir Fota’ is his is maiden anthology.

Rasheduzzaman Raja is a poet and a senior judge in Bangladesh Judiciary.

Rassel Raihan [1988- ] is a poet, prose writer emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century. His publications are 'Bibroto Moyur( 2015), Shukhi Dhonurbid( 2016), Tritio Oshwarohi (2017) Rayhan Ryine [1971-] is a poet and story writer emerged in 1990's from Sirajgonj. His publications include 'Tumi O Sobuj Ghora(Poetry, 2007), Akasher Kripa Prarthi Toru(Story Book, 2004), Agun O Chaya(Novel), Patano Mayer Paharh (2011), Maddhomokolongkar (2017), Necropoliser rat (2017) .

Razia Sultana is a poet and translator living in the USA. She has several published pieces.

Rejauddin Stalin [1962-] is a poet emerged in 80's came from Jhinedah. Purnopran jabo (1983), Firini Obaddho ami (1985), Darao Pothikbor(1986), Somvabonar Niche(1996), Ora Amake Khujechilo(1997) are few of his notable publications. He has been awarded with Bangla Academy Award 2006. He was featured at the fourth issue of literary magazine Kalerdhoni.

Rifat Chowdhury[... ] is a renowned poet and actor emerged during 80's. He has about 8 poetic anthologies. Chat Kagojer Molat(1984), Shamudre nuner putul(2007), Megher protiba(1989), Bodhir Ba-dwip (2009), Suprovat, Surjo (2011) and Ami ekjon vougolik (2015) are his notable publications.

Rimjhim Ahmed is a poet in the 21 century and known for her poetry book ' Lilither Daana.

203 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Rudra Muhammad Shahidullah [1956 –1991] is still one of the popular poets and lyricist of 1970s. His notable publication includes Upodruto Upokul (1979), Firey Chai Swarno Gram (1981), Manusher Manchitra (1984).

Ruhul Mahfuz Joy [1984-- ] is a poet and editor bloomed in the 2nd decade from Mymensingh. His first and only poetry publication 'Atmohottaprobon Khudhagulo' (2016).

Sadi Kaukab [1990-- ] is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Chittagong.

He yet to have any publications but publishing poetry regularly.

Sadia Sultana is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Dhaka. She is regulary being featured in the literary suppliments.

Salehin Shipra [1986-- ] is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century. Her only award winning publication is ‘Prokashsho Howar Age’(2017) Sanjib Purohit [1978-- ] is important poet emerged during 90’s. He has many publications Sayed Uzzal is a poet poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Chittagong. He is publishing poetry regularly.

Sazzad Saif [ 1986-- ] is a poet emerged in the 2nd decade of 21 century from Dhaka.

Sazzad Sharif [1963-- ] is a poet and journalist of early 80's from Dhaka. His notable publications include Chhurichikitsa(2006) and many translations and essays.

Shah Mydul Islam [ 1986-- ] is a poet appeared in the 2nd decade of 21 century. His only poetry work is ' Ghora o Prachir Bishoyok(2016).

Shahed Kayes is an important poet of 90’s and a renowned social worker and founder of Subornogram Foundation. Mayadwip is one of important publications.

Shahid Quadri [ 1942--2016] was a poet and writer appeared in 50's .For his poetry, he was awarded Bangla Academy Literary Award in 1973 and Ekushey Padak in 2011. Tomake Abhibadan Priyatama(1974),Prem Biraha Bhalobasar Kabita,Kothayo Kono Krondon Nai, Amar Chombongullo Pouchhaya Deo Shajal Somudro is a promising poet from Kurigram appeared in the 2nd decade of 21 century. Dalim jevabe fote (2014) is his first publication which has been well accepted by the readers, followed by Min, Mokor, Monotonous (2017).

Shamim Azad [1952-- ] is a Bangladeshi-born British bilingual poet, storyteller and writer.

Her notable publications inter alia are Valobashar Kobita(poetry), Sporsher Opekkha(poetry). Shirno Shuktara(Novel,1989) Dui Romonir Moddhoshomoy(Novel).

Shamim Kabir is a poet emerged in the 90's. He has many notable publications.

Shamim Reza [1970- ] is the author of three books of poetry including Jakhon Rattir Naima Asay (When the Night Comes). He edited the literary supplement of the Daily Ajker Kagoj.

The recipient of the Krittibus Award (2007).

Shammo Rayan is a poet emerged in the 21 century. His book ‘Bigoto Rifeler Proti Somobedona’.

204 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Shams Al Momin is a poet living in the USA. He has many publications.

Shamsham Tajil [1984-- ] is a poet and essayist bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21 century.

His only poetry book 'Adam Pahar' was published in 2017.

Shamsur Rahman [1929--2006] was a major poet, journalist and editor from Dhaka emerged in 1950's. Frequently he was referred to be the principle poet of Bangladesh.

However, himself along with his comrade Al Mahmud, Shahid Qadri are considered as three musketeers of Bangladeshi poetry. Prothom Gan Ditio Mrittur Age (1960), Roudro Korotite (1963), Biddhosto Nilima (1967). He was awarded Bangla Academy Award (1969), Ekushey Padak (1977), Swadhinata Dibosh Award (1991) Shantanu Chowdhury is a poet from emerged in 1980's. He has many notable publications.

Sharajat Shoumo [1984-- ] is a poet and artist from the 2nd decade of 21 century. He yet to have any publications but regularly being featured in the literary suppliments.

Shardul Sajal [1984-- ] is a poet marked in the 1st decade of 21 century from Tangail. His books include 'Matal Mrittur Ishara(2016), Deholikoila(2017).

Shashi Haq is a prominent poet from 1980's. He has many publications.

Shelly Naz is a renowed feminist poet marked of 90â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s from Chitttagong. Purush Shomogro, Shob chabi mittye bole, Shucher opor hati, Momy O Madhury, Shekole Somudro baje are her notable publications.

Shiddharta Haq is a poet from emerged in the late 80s. He has many publications.

Sikder Aminul Haq [1942 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2003] was a poet. Haq is a recipient of the Bangla Academy Award , 1994 for poetry. His breakthrough came with his work Satata Danar Manush . His notable publications are Duurer Karnish (1975),Teen Papreer Phul (1979),Parabat Ei Pracheerer Shes Kabita(1982) Shoeb Shadab is a poet from 1980's who came up with different poetic tone.

Shuhrid Shahidullah is a poet emerged in the 21 century.

Shumi Sikander [1972-- ] is a poet and story writer emerged in the 21 century. Her notable publications inter alia are ' Esho Hat Dhoro (2011), Nodita Rekhe Jao(2012) and Ekapona( 2017).

Shuvashis Sinha [1978-- ] is a poet from Sylhet emerged as a poet in the 1st decade of 21 century. He is a cultural artist. His major books are 'Dekechilam Jol', ' Bela Dwiprohor Shuvo Neel is a poet bloomed in 21 century dawns. He yet to have any publication but regularly publishing his poetry.

Shuvra Sarker is a poet bloomed in 21 century dawns. He yet to have any publication but regularly publishing his poetry.

Sohel Hasan Galib [1978--] is a poet and editor from 1st decade of 21 century. His notable publications include 'Choushotti Danar Uddoyon(2007), Doipayon Bedonar Theke(2009).He is the editor of anthology 'Shunner Kobita( Poetry of Zeroeth Decade) 205 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Sohel Rana is a poet from Bogra bloomed in the 2nd decade of 21st century. He yet to have any publication but regularly publishing his poetry.

Subrata Augustine Gomez [1965--] is a poet, translator and prose writer, hailing from Dhaka. His major works include “Tonumodhya”, “Pulipolao”, “Amake Dharon Koro Ognipuchchha Megh” (poetry); “Kalketu O Phullora”, “Matrimurti Cathedral” (fiction); “Swornodeepita” (translation), Antouri.

Sumon Rahman [1970-- ] is a poet, critic and eaayist of 90's from Brairab, Kishoregonj.

His notable books are 'Jhinjhit( 1994), Newman Books Ceramicser Nijossho Jhogra(2008).

Syed Shamsul Huq [1935 –2016] was a poet, lyricist and writer. He was awarded Bangla Academy Award in 1966 (the youngest among all to receive it), Ekushey Padak in 1984 and Independence Day Award in 2000. His notable books include "Payer Awaj Pawa Jai", "Nishiddho Loban", "Khelaram Khele Ja", "Neel Dongshon" and "Mrigoya".

Syed Tarik is an important poet from 1980’s. One of his notable publication is ‘ Mogno Tokhon Morakabay in 90’s.

Tanvir Mamud [1980- ] is a poet from Dhaka bloomed in late 90’s. His published book ‘Protibihar’ Tarik Shujat emerged as a poet in the first decade. He has many notable publications.

Tarique Tuku is a poet and translator bloomed in 1st decade of 21 century. His publications include 'Bismriti O Bishadtila(2012).

Tokon Thaakoor is an important poet emerged in 1990's also a cinematographer. His has many notable publications including Choroibeti, Ghamsutro, Rakkhos, Premer Kobita etc.

Trishakh Jaladas is a poet of 80’s. He has several notable publications.

Tushar Das is a poet of 80s with many notable publications.

Upal Barua [1988-- ] is a poet from Cox'sbazar emerged in 2nd decade of the 21 century.

His only poetry book ' Kana Rajar Surongo published in 2015.

Vagyadhon Barua [1969-- ] is a poet from Cox'sbazar. His notable publications includes 'Opor Pristhar Brittyanto(2014), Nodir Nijossho Ghran( 2016).

Zafar Ahmed Rashed [1970-- ] is a poet from 90s born in Patia, Chittagong. His notable puublications inter alia are ' Kancher Churi Balir Pahar(1997), Joggojatrakale(2001), Donamona(2010).

Zafir Shetu [1971-- ] is a poet from 90s from Sylhet. His notable publications inter alia are Bohuborno Roktobij(2004), Volter Bagh(2006), Sanatorium (2008).

Zahid Haider is poet of 1970's. Sagoto Kaler Porjotok, Khola Dorojar Din, Ognigon Shokha Amar are his notable poetic anthologies.

Zahidur Rahim is a poet, literary critic and prose writer from Bangladesh. Kothara Amar Mon, Sundar Dariye Asi Nihshongo are his notable publications.

206 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Zakir Zafran [1977-] is a significant poet and translator from Sylhet bloomed in 1st decade of 21 century. His publications include Oporhito Surjastomondoli, Nodi ek Jonmandho Ayna, Akray Pawa Pandulipi(Translaton) (2017) etc.

Zunnu Rien [1982--] is a poet, editor and journalist, emerged in the first decade of 21 century. He has several notable publications.

207 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

SELECTED ESSAYS AND PROSE ON THE POETICS OF

BANGLADESH ERA

208 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

â&#x20AC;Ś 1 LET HUNDREDS OF FLOWERS BLOOM: THE JOURNEY OF MODERN BANGLA POETRY

By Zahidur Rahim1 Newness does not originate incidentally, but has a background and is usually the fruition of many events. The coming of modern poetry became inevitable at the advent of the nineteenth century because of the numerous turning points of history rising out of the conflict and the devastation caused by political, social and state inflicted cruelty.

Kierkegaard believes modernity was born out of emptiness, uncertainty and depression and identified negativity as the gist of modernity.

Consequently, self-centrism rather than objectivism became central. The newness as manifest in the selfness had created a new arena counter to the typical stream of Bangla poetry.

Interestingly, no particular period of time is marked by only one strand of idea in a new movement. There are always movements of different dimensions and characters, birth of new thinking and consciousness that have become part of history. Modern poetry, in the same fashion, has not emerged out of any particular literary movement. In Europe, especially in France, a number of literary movements running parallel, paved the way for the modern poetry. The poets known to belong to the literary movements of imagists, symbolism carved such a destructive and revolutionary position for themselves that people did not have any other options but to embrace them. Man of the time himself was torn to pieces.

However, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think these poetic revolutionaries were able to create a position in the history so strong that the modern poets could summarily/completely ignore romanticism. Even in Baudelaire, who is 1

Zahidur Rahim is a poet, a critique and an essayist from Bangladesh.

209 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

widely credited to be the father of modern poetry, don’t we come across a romantic flair buried deep into its all-pervasive, self-destructive character? Take his poems on love - don’t they create the happy illusion of a leafy, peaceful garden?

I am a firm believer that romanticism is not just a poetic journey, but it is a basic, intrinsic human tendency saving which modernism cannot be complete. Let us take a verse-by-verse search of poetry over the last one and a half century we are bound to come across the mellow cuddle of romanticism flowing perennially. And in spite of it these poems meet all the basic conditions of modern poetry.

2 In Bangla poetry modernism was born in thirties. Modern Bangla poetry has been frowned upon by many for its being largely shaped in the European cast. But this ‘unsolicited assertion’ to create a base parallel to the world-wide literary movement seems to have helped Bangla poetry come a long way. When romanticism was in full decline in Europe, it was reigning supreme in Bangla poetry thanks to Rabindranath’s incomparable, boundless influence. Under such circumstances, the need for placing modern Bangla poetry side by side with the modern world poetry required an all-destructive force. It was a historic necessity despite some people might think otherwise.

The word modern defies to be pinned down within a certain time line, it is ever-changing and ever-flowing. Rabindranath has refused to put modernity within a certain boundary of time. “It is not about time, it is about feeling. Like the flow of river that takes a sudden turn literature also does follow a linear course. When it takes a turn that very turn is modernity. This modernity does not concern time, it is about feeling (Adhunik Kabya: Sahityer Pathe).

Buddhadev Basu writes, modernity is not an object that you can identify by certain shape or sign. It is the expression of rebellion, doubt, tiredness, search; modern poetry gives countenance to the awakening of amazement, life’s joy.

Most poets have pointed towards the post Tagore period, the poets in the thirties, while talking about modern poetry or modern poets. They are often termed as ‘ultra modern’ poetry. In fact, modernity has two 210 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

meanings and both of them imply ‘current’: in one way, it implies ‘contemporary’ or ‘recent’ and in a different sense it implies the notion of ‘universality’ or ‘something ever-relevant’. In this sense, the modern Bangla poets are Jibanananda Das, Shudindranath Dutta, Omio Chakrabarty, Buddhadeb Basu, Achinta Kumar Sengupta, Premenda Mittra, Bishnu Dey, Sanjoy Bhattacharya, Samar Sen. Rabindranath wrote a book titled “Adhunik Sahitya” in 1907 where he included work of Bankimchandra Chattapadhya, Biharilal, Sanjibchandra Chattyapadhya, Srishchandra Majumdar, Shibnath Sastri, Dijendralal Roy, Abdul Karim, Akkhoykumar, Jatindramohon etc.

Mohitlal Majumdar found only two of these writers modern when he put together his Adhunik bangla Sahitya in 1936. The new names included surendranath Majumdar, Dinobandhu Mitra, Debendranatg Sen, Akhyakumar Boral, Sharatchandra Chatyapadhya, Satyendranath Dutta.

Adhunik Bangla Kabita (1940) edited jointly by Abu Sayeed Ayub and Hirendranath Mukhapadhaya and the one edited by Buddhadev Basu carrying the same title (published in 1954) had Rabindranath’s poem right at the outset. The publication of the literary magazine Kollol in the thirties was a watershed mark in the sense that the ideas, subject-matters and style of poetry carried in the magazine largely shaped and defined the principal stream of modern Bangla poetry. The Kollol was the face of what came to be known as modern poetry; the rebellion against Rabindranath’s poetry found its most powerful expression in it.

3 The Kollol was not born in a vacuum. There had been a social, economic and political background. The First World War had been over around six years back; the war seemed to have made the traditional beliefs, values, ethics and reasoning meaningless. This tremendous, unprecedented annihilation of humanity was exacted by the developed, and ‘civilized’ nations. The façade of civilization was off and the original beastly, inhuman face was out. The political situation became tumultuous and fluid. Jalianabag had occurred and the non-cooperation movement had set on.

The society entered a process of degeneration. Malaria caused deaths in thousands. The number of educated unemployed was soaring and the 211 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

rush towards cities like Kolkata and Dhaka was relentless.

Manufacturing units were mushrooming on the outskirts of the large cities creating new values and new outlook to life.

The new generation appears no more inclined to the notions of beauty, truthfulness, joy, love that characterize Rabindranath’s creative universe.

The young poets suffering from an existential crisis under the allencompassing sphere of Rabindranath’s poetry are seeking new path.

They have been exposed to European literature, Freud, Marxism thanks to their western education. They have learnt to find delight in being sensual, pervert and debauch. Kollol originated from the desire to break free from Tagore’s sphere of influence. To them man is blood, bones, flesh, hunger, greed, thirst, sexual urge. All this got manifestation in novels and stories of Jagadish Gupta, Manish Ghatak, Buddhadev Basu, Achintakumar Sengupta, and less so in their poetry. However, in the poetry of some poets like Nazrul Islam, Buddhadeb Basu, Achinta Kumar Sengupta, premenda Mittra, Jibanananda Das a different variety of seeds was already sowed.

The Kollol-era poets seem to have set broad goals – breaking away consciously from Tagore and creating their own poetic narrative. An essay of Jibanananda Das offers insight into what these poets were upto: “Rabindranath has written many successful poems but he didn’t feel like writing on all possible subjectmatter. Some of his poems did reflect the great complications of history, but he could not or did not want to give expression to many signs of knowledge and inner-knowledge (Osomapto Alochona: Kobitar Kotha). Sudhindranath Dutta highlighted the distance of Rabindranath from the contemporary world. “There is no denying that every great poet belongs to his country and age. The picture of the country and age reflected in Rabindranath’s literature is almost unfamiliar to today’s people” he wrote (Surjaborto: Kulay O Kalpurush).

Achintokumar Sengupta found ‘new way’ and ‘new world’ by rebelling against Rabindranath: “We thought Rabindranath was the end point of Bangla literature. There is no way after him, no sign beyond him. He was the absolute fulfilment. But at Kollol we began to come out of this spell of Tagore. In the fire of rebellion, we seemed to have found new direction, new world. There are more people, more languages and more histories. Rabindranath has not drawn the end line in creativity. We 212 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

would not be doing any good by imitating him, but we need to add a new chapter in the great book of life” (Kollol Joog).

So, the modern poets got rid of what Bishnu Dey termed Rabindrabusiness and set off to a new direction. Buddhadev Basu has captured the sentiment of the time very well, “Rabindranath was the biggest problem for Bangla poets writing in the thirties and forties of the twentieth century. No doubt there is significant difference among the modern poets, in some case the distance is unsurmountable. Sensuous Jibanananda Das and cerebral Sudhindranath are at opposite poles and Omio Chakrabarti is different from both of them. But they all are still part of the same movement because they have brought new taste in different ways. They do not just enjoy the wealth of their ancestors but have actually tried to build on that wealth. Whatever we get in their writing we don’t get it in Rabindranath. They have always carried a thought, consciously or unconsciously, as to how they could stay away from Rabindranath; some poets, like Jibanananda managed to get past him while some acquired their strength from him to stand up to him. In this struggle, it can be definitely called a struggle, they got their armament from the western literature and found ingredients for their poetry in life’s uncertainty, tiredness and dreariness.

Their efforts to create a different language, disposition and personality in poetry. These poetic works bear testimonies to this: Jibanananda Das’ “Jhora Palok” (1927), ‘Dhusor Pandulipi’ (1936), Shudindranath Dutta’s ‘Tanni’ (1930), Bishnu Dey’s “Urbashi O Artemis” (1933), Buddhadev Basu’s “Bondir Bondona O Onnano Kobita” (1930) and Premendo Mitrer “Prothoma” (1930).

4 The evolution of Bangla poetry did not end with Kollol. Its course continued to change shape and take new turns which found their best expression in the ‘Parichoy’ and ‘Kabita’. Kabita was more of a movement with Buddhadev Basu at the forefront. Its objective was to give modern Bangla poetry a definitive shape. Twenty six years after its birth in 1935 Basu closed it after seemingly achieving its goal. Much to the credit of Editor Buddhadev Basu, the two opposites were reconciled – political philosophy with spirituality, loneliness with oneness with 213 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

nature, the music of poetry with the tempo of prose, feeling with intellect, sensuousness with sensibility, everything has found place in Kabita.

5 Let us now take a close look at the style of modern poetry. Realism was a particular expression of European modernism. It came into Bangla poetry through Jibanananda. After him poets like Shakti Chattyapadhya and Binoy Majumdar followed this style. However, as the distance grew that influence has ebbed. Surrealism is still very much there but its dominance has faded. There are more and as a result we have now a greater variety and there is more open space.

By magic realism I understand assimilation of theunusual or unreal wit the real. It is like a sudden mishap taking place in the course of normal events. This is basically a style of Latin American literature. The reality in Latin America is appalling. Misfortune and ordeal are regular companies of people. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why the writers and poets there want to create something beyond the realm of reality, like the HamelinePiper, to take refuge there away from the drudgery and pain of real life. It happens mostly in stories and novels rather than in poetry because the scope is wider in a narrative. If we want to judge magic realism in Bangla literature, our economic situation is similar to that of the South America.

However, there is a magical charm in Bangladeshâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nature, and this magic automatically becomes a part in whatever we create, be it poetry, novels or music.

While talking to people about modernism in Bangla literature many actually mix it up with the notion of contemporariness. Modernity is far from it, it has little relations with time period. It is a particular style in European poetry that was born in between two world wars, first in French literature and then in English.

It was not spontaneous in Bangla literature. Here it came during the colonial era. That modernism was quite linear, stubborn, dominating, even wild and destructive. It wanted to create a statue out of all the diversities of the world. It had an imperialistic mentality. While it wanted to break everything else, it itself had neither the capacity northe desire to get dissolved.

214 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Many thought the end of imperialism dealt a death blow to the relevance of colonial-modernism. They say it is the post-colonial era, some call it post-modernism. It is also said that the signs of colonialism are fading with time. Their argument is that the appeal with which modernity emerged in world literature has weakened due to the influence of modern technology and mechanical advancement. So, the new poets of the new age are no more interested about modernity, they are more disposed to creating a new movement.

This trend of rejecting modern poetry might be relatively new here, but not as recent in Europe. Those who are championing this movement in this part of the world surely are aware that the talk of establishing postmodernism as a trend in parallel with modernism started almost a hundred years back.

I don’t agree. Imperialism and colonialism have stepped into a new dimension. Maybe not as directly as before, but definitely more nakedly than any other period in the history. The characteristics of the modernism are quite dominant, isolated and lifeless in the poetry of today. Whatever happens after modernism will remain nothing but modern.

Our country is always in favor of variety and diversity. It is blessed with many states, many languages, many races, many religions, many attires, many politics and many cultural elements. However, it is unity in the diversity that characterizes our country. How is it possible that there won’t be any tension when it comes to dealing with ‘many’? The word ‘evolution’ is here because there is tension and unrest. What is static does not evolve. Bangla poetry has so many faces and looks and direction because it has evolved.

6 Let us now turn towards the recent brand of poetry. It is true that we cannot have a generalized notion of today’s poets and poetry. However, what many call lack of direction in poetry I call it diversity in direction.

This is not negative, but positive. The zero and first decade have not descended from the sky. (I consider a decade just a pointer of time, nothing more. The poet and poetry is timeless.) The decades are not absolutely arbitrary. They have a logic of its own. If we look back we would notice that the eighth or ninth decade started off with the thud of 215 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

a fall. It was a huge fall. The demise of socialist eastern Europe, the fall of Soviet Russia and above all the fall of one of the greatest ideologies of the modern time, communism that is. The fall has been closely followed by a rise. This rise is about the incredible technological advancement that has happened like a silent revolution. We are now seeing globalization that has arrived through economic liberalism. And when it seemed the entire world would become America centric thanks to the vacuum created by the fall of the communist block we see another rise of a very different sort. It is the rise of religious extremism. In the beginning of the new millennium we got stricken by another fall, a gift by the radicalism and bigotry, the destruction of twin-tower. However tragic this was also the end of another phase, the fall of, full-scale security, another imperialistic myth.

The new generation of poets took up writing with memories of these rises and falls. And again, the poetry of zero and second decade took a new shape.

The unethical use of words in the present-day poetry or the greyness in meaning has had some phases over a period of time. Like any other work poets also write poetry for a purpose â&#x20AC;&#x201C; some just for fun, some for fame and some for passion. However, things started to change when capital entered into Bangla poetry around the sixties. When the modern Bangla poetry was placed within the boundary of the school curriculum then writing poems or about poems became financially attractive occupation.

So, money was put into poetry. There is nothing wrong in it. Who can object to people earning money by writing poetry. The problem was, there was a development of a clientele, where some poets started being patronized at the cost of others. The merit of literary work would not matter anymore, what counted was if he or she was in â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;our campâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; or not.

Like in a capitalist economy we saw the beginning of fight for increasing market share. That tradition lives on.

Those who did not find themselves in the good books of those who controlled the market tried other means like publishing little magazines.

Countless of literary magazines were born in and around Kolkata during the sixties. In the political arena, the leftists called for surrounding the cities with villages. They failed but the literary magazines did that. Now 216 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

the social media has opened up limitless space. One does not have to bother about the editor’s prying eyes. So, no one has to care anyone, so the virtual wall in the social media is flooded with poetry.

There is nothing wrong if one wants to make a career of writing even in this ‘market economy’. But one has to comply with the conditions that make a market work. Here ideologies don’t matter. In fact, I have always been skeptical about ideologies which seem to me more like worshipping of gods. It is unsatisfying both for the worshipper and the worshipped.

Why bother about ideologies at all? We are so obsessed with saying he writes like X and he writes like Y. One can definitely be inspired by someone else’s work. Even today Rabindranath is the biggest source of inspiration of any aspiring writer in Bangla. We must bear in mind that it was art that was born before art criticism. The critics have made theories and grammar.

Writing is a personal affair. One writes as one wishes, and that is how it should be. Whatever the idea is, a good piece of writing acquires a life of its own. And that’s what attracts a reader. A poet or a write may have different ideologies but that should not make a reader like or dislike a literary work. A poet should be evaluated by his poetry and poetry alone.

7 As far poets are concerned, honesty or dishonesty are outdated ideas. A poet has to be a poet at first. Those who raise honesty-dishonesty question, perhaps from old habit, should first measure their honesty on the scale they use for poets. The poets are not some sort of strange animals. The typical daily life, its joy and sorrow, is also what moves a poet. A poet does not sit and keep looking at the sky to be stricken by a divine inspiration to write a poem. Those who believe in such divine inspiration have been ridiculed by poet Pronobendu Dasgupta, “When a poet goes down to fasten his shoelaces he is still a poet”.

The poets will have to keep doing what they do best – writing poetry.

Advertising is not their job and they should leave it to others. Writing should not be made goods on sale. Books however need some advertising. If some books sell it will keep the publishers interested.

Besides, there has to be a way so a reader can find the work of a writer 217 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

he or she enjoys reading. However, that way of reaching out to the reader has to be artistic. Time can be cruel when it comes to judging a literary work. Never has a writer seeking fame and recognition by virtue of advertisement become a true artist.

Though most art forms these days are performance based. Some people want to have the same in Bangla poetry. But it is not exactly new. The poetry in the British era was, filled with music-narrative-rhythm, often meant to provide mass entertainment. In the colonial period that trend came to an end. Let’s if it returns with a new face.

I want to mention another change, the change in language. It happens on the sly, we don’t often notice it. Poetry and poets usually have strong influence on the evolution of language. Poets’ job is to explore with the application of language. It is from poetry that we have learnt about what Bangla language was like in its infancy, or in the different phases, or its evolution over the course centuries. The poets are the craftsmen of language. It is the poets who can expand the horizon of language, create and recreate it and give it turns and new direction. Consequently, a language grows in its ability to give expression subtler and finer feelings.

The new and innovative use of language works like fresh air in man’s mind. Think about the feeling that sweeps through when you listen to Tagore’s song alone in a quiet place.

8 I write poetry because I love to write poetry. It is primary for my pleasure because I am the first reader of my poem. Poetry is the mainstay of my life. When I am tired of the drudgery and boredom of life I take refuge in poetry where I find peace and excitement. I feel like I am over the moon after I write a few lines. I feel like a load is lifted off my chest, my tension disappears and my weariness wanes. I feel like I have got a pair of wings and I can fly away if I want so.

I am not interested in the debate whether Bangla poetry is making progress or in decline. But I can tell you that Bangla poetry has a life of its own and this finds different expressions at different points of time.

218 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Every age has its own set of problems which we call ‘crisis of the time’.

Poets have to think about those crises, deal with them in their writing and find a way out in their own way. We usually cope with the problems facing us and move on. But when the problems get too big they bring about devastation. But then there is a new beginning from the ashes of destruction.

Today’s generation has its troubles. They might come in a different form and shape. It isno longer naked imperialism that assaults us, rather comes through market economy more like a friend and then instigates , ,the consumer self that resides in most people. Man becomes a consumer often devoid of human attributes. Today’s generation needs to realize this and face with his/her force within. What makes me optimistic though is that fact that despite all sorts of temptation and allurement the youths are writing poetry. So there is no reason to fear about the future of Bangla poetry. This is how Bangla poetry has lived for thousands of years and will continue to live for many thousands more.

(The author is thankful to Shamim Ahsan Khan for translating it into English)

…

219 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

2

OVERSEAS VOYAGE OF BANGLA POETRY: A BOAT OF ELIXIR STUCK IN THE MIDDLE OF SALTY SEA

By Ashique Reja2 Not just, it’s been pleasure rather excited to be part of the first ever international anthology is being published from UK, on selected Bangladesh era poetry of talented and renowned poets. We appreciate, support and pray for all the success of the team led by poet Nayeem Firoz to deal with the historic initiative. We hope that this would widely be useful for Bangladesh readers, the teachers, students, academicians of Bangla and Bangladesh study globally; and also for the stakeholders and well-wishers of Bangladeshi literature particularly Bangladesh era poetry.

Though since the very beginning of the modern age of Bangla literature, there were strong sections that preferred to write in English. Obviously being influenced by the colonial lords, education system, medium and teachers like Henry Louis Vivian Derozio (1809-1831), educationist like John Elliot Drinkwater Bethune (1801–1851) and leader like Raja Ram Mohan Roy (17721833)-these writers not only created the first ever comprehensive Bangla grammar in English but expressed their feeling in many ways including poetry.

Mentionable that early instance of publication of such anthology dates back to 1830 for which review was done by England based literary magazine. However, as pointed out by our fellow senior comrade, poet Jewel Mazhar in his precious article “Obogunthito Bibijan ebong Poetics of Green Delta onubad shongkolon proshonge or With regard to translated anthology Poetics of Green Delta and veiled bride” on http://teerandaz.com on August 7, 2017, the path originated by pioneer poet Michael Madhusudan Dutta who strived to make Bangla literature international. It was so unfortunate that such a talent couldn't invite attention of the then English intelligentsia and literary community. None the less we are indeed proud of the morning star of Bangla poetry and plays for his historic contribution and introduction of many new ideas to Bangla literature. It is very hard to say whether any of contemporary poet has that guts to compete with whatever he has created about one and half centuries ago, whether any creation

2

Ashique Reja is poet, a researcher and an essayist from Bangladesh.

220 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

of todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Bangla poetry could be compared with any of his poetry in terms of modernity.

In between Michael and Tagore, we might consider the period as the year of preparation including the contributions of Sri Ishwor Chandra Biddasagor, the ocean of sagacity. The fruit of the century long endeavor is the greatest Bangali poet Sri Rabindranath Tagore. It is a matter of joy that he managed to make sure the recognition of the unique beauty, spirit, modernity and making of Bangla poetry. With this, at last, Bangla poetry became international. In this regard, it may not be so irrelevant to indicate that though many were writing in English, it is not that Bangladeshi English literature which brought the recognition; rather it is the traditional Bangla literature more particularly Bangla poetry ensured the recognition not the Bangladeshi English poetry. We would revert back to point after discussing few other points.

Many were writing in English in the age of Rabindranath as well and the practice, of reading, writing and speaking in English, has always been there in place all the years throughout glorious years of Bangla poetry from Thirties to till date inside the country. Also following the taking over of British India by Queen Victoria in the aftermath of 1857 incidents, many Bangali started studying and working abroad. Since then a huge number of Bengalis are living abroad many of whom are second or third generation diasporas in foreign land most of who again speak in English.

Therefore, Bangalis' English endeavor is not absent as it seems! But itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a pity that they neither could invite local interest nor could create interest of global readers except little in the recent years with novel by writers like Manika Ali, Zia Haider Rahman, Tahmima Anam. Tahmima Anam is also credited to bring light to the Bangladeshi short stories written in English. Beyond the border, few from West Bengal of India like poet and novelist Vikram Seth, Amitav Ghosh and Jhumpa Lahiri have successfully gone international. Among all the name of Vikram Seth should be taken separately due to his credit to bring his poetry to the international light though there is no way call his poetry as Bangla or Bangladeshi poetry except the fact that the writer is happened to be Bangali!

No mention, if carefully considered the contrast with contemporary creators in native language it would appear that having famed in global readers these writers are not even closer to who are writing in their country in Bangla, let alone figures like Syed Wali Ullah, Hasan Azizul Haque, Shahidul Zahir, Al Mahmud, Shakti 221 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Chattyapadhya, Joy Goswami and so on. However, in the poetry sector, the scenario is even gloomier. For Bangladeshi novel and short stories there are few names uttered but for Bangladeshi English poetry there is no such name even that is pronounced internationally except little in recent times, by Professor Hassanal Abdullah, a New York based Bangladeshi poet translated poetries of a number of Bangladesh poets and edited a special issue of his magazine3 with title of â&#x20AC;&#x153;Shabdaguchha: Poets of Bangladeshâ&#x20AC;?. In introduction, Professor Nicholas Birns of New School University wrote, "Although there was great modern poetry in, say, Arabic and Urdu, there was not an organized modernism in the Arab world or in the rest of British-ruled India as there was in Bengal. This makes Bangladeshi postmodernism different from poetry written in Middle Eastern or South Asian in a postmodern time, as Bangladeshi postmodernism was following in a wake of a modernist tradition in his own language a history not available to every stream of contemporary poetry worldwide."

It appears or there are reasons to believe that possibly they were not so talented to do so! Thus, the old way emerges as an important way to talk about, to discuss upon, to advocate and to promote collection, collation and translation of other inspiring figures of Bangla poetry. Understandably, it is like upholding the Himalaya. Since the Rabindra era we had poet like Jibananda Das, Sudhindranath Dutta, Bishnu Dev, Amiya Chakravarty and Buddhadev Bose or Binoy some of who off course were European in spirit but son of the soil in sense and making and abstract in expression with very unique images of their own.

Now altogether it is literally difficult to get them in another language and culture.

No mention, passing through two turbulent decades of Bangladesh, Bangladeshi poetry re-entered to the abstract zone again coupled with anti-imagery, antiinstitution and against idea of center. With expression of all complex behavior and situation and individuality representing the thought process of the time, it could only be possible if only a group of young comrades could take up the matter to render the appreciation Bangladesh era poetics deserves.

2.

3

Shabdaguchha, an international poetry journal edited by Dr. Hassanal Abdullah, where 32 Bangladeshi poets are translated from the Bengali into English 222 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

Poetry, like all other muses extracts its essence from the formation and transformation of the society, state, socio-politico-cultural changes, challenges and interaction. Considering the formation of Bangladeshi Muslim diaspora, transformation of its Hindu dominated feudal society to Muslim dominated social and state functionaries, breaking away twice only within 30 years and wiping out colonial powers twice, creating only nation state Bangladesh in South Asia, facing three consecutive coups, democratic movement against army dictators, de-establishing army from power process, fighting religious extremists-Bangladesh is a unique and compact pact of huge changes and interaction of various social, political, local and international forces. There is no other history of all such changes in such small-time duration. Possibly, there is no other Muslim majority country in the world being secular and only second Muslim country retaining its own language and culture after Iran. Even where Iran distorted its culture and became more Muslim than Persian, Bangladesh maintained to be a multicultural, multi-religious heritage oriented secular country in South Asia. Understandably, Bangladeshi poetry emerged as one of the matured muse throughout its vast experiences and dimensions.

Inheriting the first South Asian renaissance in Bengal led by the Bangali intelligentsia in early 19th century, Bangladeshi literature particularly poetry also carry the memoire and experience of interaction with all big ideas emerged in 19th century. Many of great British Indian minds of 19th century was from Bengal who led 19th century social, political, cultural and religious movements of entire British India during their time. Notably, the first ever Communist party in British India was established in Bengal. First ever British Indian capital was also happened to be in Bengal. No mention, the history making two biggest political parties of British India, namely-Indian Congress party and Muslim League were formed, led and flourished in Bengal. The time of British India was so Bengal oriented that one of great Congress leaders, Gopal Krishna Gokhale once told that “What Bengal thinks today rest of India would think tomorrow”.

Bangladeshi thought process, poetry making, content, context, imagination, style always carry all the happening throughout two hundred years of modern Bangla literature. Are these only Bangladeshi experiences or global experience in part?

If so global why not the Bangladesh era poetry be heard? Why there is no single voice emerged like Mahmoud Darwish of Palestine, Adonis of Syria or Nâzım Hikmet of Turkey? They didn’t write in English!

As indicated before, entire 19th century Bangla literature was just preparation though the preparation given us a lot including an epic of Michael, free verse, fabulous plays and novels. Also paved the way for short stories by Tagore. As 223 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

preparation, notably poetry gone through huge changes for formation, content and for sure with exception, it took really long to attain the maturity. From the ashes of middle age dip in Vaisnav padabali, it took really long to bring in contemporary, social, livelihood related issues. I hope it would not be so wrong if we take the 19th century Bangla poetry as aristocratic poetry. As we know most of the writers were from Zaminder families and the rest were in pursuant of elevating themselves to the class and for the very reason the life and thought of the common people were almost absent therein.

These scenarios were changed with emancipation of political consciousness in Bengal and emergence of poet like Kazi Nazrul Islam, novelist like Manik Bandyapaddhya and story teller like Sarat Chandra Chattapaddhya. Even if we exclude great “Pancha Pandavs” of thirties, essentially, these three could be very important literary figures of the world. Pronouncement of Shukanta Bhattacharya, story of Somen Chand, all the creation of Roy Chowdhury family from Upendra Kishor Roy Chowdhury to Sattajit couldn’t be avoidable in any sense.

Again, after fifties, particularly at the advent of language movement in Bengal and subsequent emergence of nationalist movement, Bangla poetics gone through a totally different situation and thought process that could be missing elsewhere in South Asia. Also at the same time, the life and nature of Bangladesh started becoming visible in Bangla poetry with mighty hands of Al Mahmud, Jasim Uddin, Bandey Ali Miah and all.

There is a saying in Bangladesh that is there could never be dearth of issues for politics. Consequently, political scenario was kept changing so the content and context of Bangla poetry. It is, therefore, understandable the reason of naming the article of Dr. Rafique Ullah Khan on contemporary Bangladeshi poetry “Contemporary Poetry: unsteady dynamics”. As he spelled out in the article, unlikely to Western, poetry what could necessarily be different in Bangladesh poetry is ‘the context of individualistic poetry of Europe is absent here and the mindset of middle-class is basically collective’. The other revelation in his study could be the form of poetics that was never been in the centre rather the context, language of poetry and aspiration of the people particularly growing middle class took the centre of the Bangladesh era poetics. The matter might be clearer from many enlisted poets like Daaud Hayder, Abid Azad, Bimal Guha, Sikdar Aminul Haque, Hassan Hafiz, Kamal Chowdhury, Rudra Muhammad Shadullah, Tridev Dastidar, Abu Hasan Shahriar, Sayed Shamsul Haque, Farid Kabir, Masud Khan, Kajal Shahnewaz, Sajjad Sharif, Suhita Sultana, Nasima Sultana; more recently 224 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

poets like Bratto Raisu, Tokon Tagore, Chanchal Ashraf, Genes Mahmun, Kamruzzaman Kamu, Shamim Azad, Shoaib Zibran.

3.

Babu Kashiprasad Ghosh (1809 – 1873) has been credited to be the first Bangali poet to publish an anthology of poems in English called “The Shair or shayaris” in 1830. His work was also reviewed by New Monthly Magazine of England in 1831. What he has written for writing in English could be still relevant for Bangladesh English writers, “I have composed many songs in Bengalee, but the greater portion of my writing is in English, — and, indeed, have always found it easiest to express my sentiments in that language”. Early notable Bangali poets who wrote in English includes Sri Sochi Chandra Dutt (his fiction in English was published in 1845), Michael Madhusudan, Swami Bibekananda, Sri Aurobindo, poet sisters Aru Dutta and Toru Dutta and their brothers. The piece of Sri Aurobindo is ‘A Dream of Surreal Science’. We should not forget that also Rabindranath Tagore is considered as bi-lingual poet and brought his Nobel prize for Gitanjali which was written in English. Paul Brians rightly pointed out that “Although he wrote in Bengali like many other writers, the language in which he acquired worldwide fame was English”.

In a book titled “The English Language Poetry of South Asians: A Critical Study” the writers claimed that prior 1947 well-known British Indian poets writing in English were from Bengal and following Bengal renaissance, some of them changed to Bangla medium in 19th century, one of whom is our great poet Michael Madhusudan. The book also noted one such publication of anthology of poems composed by Bangali poets in 1974 titled ‘Indo-English Poetry in Bengal’, published by publishing house Writers Workshop, which includes name of R. Parthasarthy and G.S. Sarat Chandra. It has been rightfully indicated in the book that all these poetries represent the “landscape and culture of West Bengal and around the city of Kolkata”. And now, the biggest South Asian English writing group is from India followed by Pakistan and Sri Lanka. There is no chance (and that should be expected!) that anybody would speak for us if we don’t do that ourselves!

Another aspect of English literature has been indicated by Braj B. Kachru in his book “The Alchemy of English: The Spread, Functions, and Models of Nonnative Englishes” that is “South Asian English writers still stand out in the literary mosaic of South Asia” though “South Asian English writing is the only writing which has some market in the whole of subcontinent and outside of it”.

225 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

That is, though there have been potentials Bangladeshi Writing in English is lagging behind if India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka to reach the global readers community. Since the advent of language movement in 1950s, we focused on our mother tongue and culture that brought our beloved free motherland! Only recently, a renewed strive is being seen to focus on global market with new generation writers with the literature “Bangladeshi in content and English in form”. Does it include works of mighty writer Nirad C. Chaudhuri (1897-1999), who knows? There might be confusion; even the confusion could extend to Amitav Ghosh, Jhumpa Lahiri or Vikram Seth as they are more Indian than Bangali but there is no confusion that writers like Manika Ali, Tahmima Anama, Zia Haider Rahman are already carrying Bangladeshi flag at the front preceded

by Razia Khan Amin, Farida Majid, Kaiser Haq while few others are following like, Fakrul Alam, Rashid Askari, K. Anis Ahmed, Maria Chaudhuri, Mahmud Rahman, Farah Ghuznavi, and Khademul Islam. In Bangladeshi English poetics, name of Abu Sufian, Syed Najmuddin Hashim, Nuzhat Amin Mannan, Rumana Siddique are being heard. Yet these names don’t represent Bangladeshi literature or poetry best in their time. We wish some would emerge talented, nonetheless, we should not wait for anybody rather interlinking the Bangla writing promising figures with the global readers community through translation.

We are delighted to see that a group of promising literary activists taking up the matter and hopeful that they would be able to fill up the long-lasting gap between Bangla poetry and global readers! Novelist Tahmima Anam hoped that Hay Festival will help broaden the space for writing in English about Bangladesh while American poet David Shook expressed his optimism “I’m counting on Bangladesh’s new generation of English-language writers to recount it to the world”.

We are hopeful that in line with such hope Bangladeshi poets would set foot in the global poetics either in the form of translation or original pieces written in English. One step to that future is this initiative that could be small step for Bangladeshi poetics but giant step for global poetics.

We are very much hopeful that this publication would build a bridge between Bangladeshi poets and renowned publishers, literary agents, international readers, the teachers, students, academicians of Bangladeshi poetics to make Bangladeshi poetry international in a viable sense and visible mode.

Long live the initiative, long live Bangladeshi poetry and long live Nayeem Firoz et al.

226 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

References:

1.

A brief history of Bangladeshi writing in English by Dr. Rashid Askari, The Missing Slate, 1 October 2015, themissingslate.com

2.

Obogunthito Bibijan ebong Poetics of Green Delta onubad shongkolon proshonge, Jewel Mazhar, http://teerandaz.com, August 7, 2017

3.

Contemporary Poetry: unsteady dynamics, Dr. Rafique Ullah Khan, University of Dhaka, www.academia.edu

4.

The English Language Poetry of South Asians: A Critical Study, By Mitali Pati Wong, Syed Khwaja Moinul Hassan, McFarland & Company, USA, 2013

5.

The Alchemy of English: The Spread, Functions, and Models of Non-native Englishes by Braj B. Kachru, Illini Books, University of Illinois Press, USA, 1990

6.

Is There Room for English Literature in Bangladesh? By Tripti Lahiri, The Wall Street Journal, 15 November 2011, https://blogs.wsj.com

7.

English-Language Literature Finds Its Place in Bangladesh By David Shook, 20 Nov 2012, The Huffington Post, www.huffingtonpost.com

8.

Shabdaguchha: Poets of Bangladesh Paperback â&#x20AC;&#x201C; February 1, 2008, by Hassanal Abdullah (Editor).

227 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A

228 | P O E T I C S OF G R E E N D E L T A