above my milk home,
that delicate asylum,
I ate you up.
All my need took
you down like a meal.
What you gave
I remember in a dream:
the freckled arms binding me,
the laugh somewhere over my woolly hat,
the blood fingers tying my shoe,
the breasts hanging like two bats
and then darting at me,
bending me down.
The breasts I knew at midnight
beat like the sea in me now.
Mother, I put bees in my mouth
to keep from eating
yet it did no good.
In the end they cut off your breasts
and milk poured from them
into the surgeon’s hand
and he embraced them.
I took them from him
and planted them.
I have put a padlock
on you, Mother, dear dead human,
so that your great bells,
those dear white ponies,
can go galloping, galloping,
wherever you are.
Oh, she is not!
II
A house with
And without a woman,
Think you.
III
What is she saying,
Have you marked it,
What does it her face?
IV
I am like you,
Today am here,
Next time will be there.
V
Before calling myself talented,
I would like to see,
How does it get wasted
If the opportunities are not!
VI
Learn from the flowers to smile,
Keep smiling even
In the sorrows of life.
VII
How desperately is she struggling
With life,
A desperate attempt to bail out of
Adverse situations,
Which come in no doubt!
VIII
What is she saying,
The face of that one
Standing at a distance?
VIII
Stand you, pause by and think it
Before you take the steps,
Where are you going?
How the path to be chosen?
IX
Wild flowers bloom they
And fade away too
Before their beauty is appreciated,
Wild but ravishingly beautiful.
X
How does genius get it wasted,
You cannot guess it
Laden with ego and puffed with pride!
XI
Stand, stand you before taking to guns,
Fire them not,
They are the Buddhas, Buddhas,
The Bamiyan Buddhas,
O Talibans
In turbans, loose shirts and pyjamas!
XII
Is this the India
Where the female babies are neglected,
Daughters are subjugated to poverty and impoverishment?
XII
My daughter,
What is it in your fate,
That I don’t know it?
XIII
I shall not stay here,
Come that someday.
One day I shall not remain here,
Shall have to go away.
My life is short, very short
That I know it.
XIV
I am not what see you,
Call you,
Shall mingle with clay and dust one day,
Turning into coals and ashes.
I do not exist.
The clay’s body will return to clay,
Clay and dust
And it’s all
That I want to say to you.
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Mother tongue
..Honorable;
…….So
…..Honor.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza │21 February,2018
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In her womb with great care,
For that long time she much suffers
From pains.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza |20 November,2017
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Dicky, are you ailing?
Dicky
Even by this fireside, mother,
My heart is failing.
To-night across the down,
Whistling and jolly,
I sauntered out from town
With my stick of holly.
Bounteous and cool from sea
The wind was blowing,
Cloud shadows under the moon
Coming and going.
I sang old roaring songs,
Ran and leaped quick,
And turned home by St. Swithin’s
Twirling my stick.
And there as I was passing
The churchyard gate
An old man stopped me, ‘Dicky,
You’re walking late.’
I did not know the man,
I grew afeared
At his lean lolling jaw,
His spreading beard.
His garments old and musty,
Of antique cut,
His body very lean and bony,
His eyes tight shut.
Oh, even to tell it now
My courage ebbs…
His face was clay, mother,
His beard, cobwebs.
In that long horrid pause
‘Good-night,’ he said,
Entered and clicked the gate,
‘Each to his bed.’
Mother
Do not sigh or fear, Dicky,
How is it right
To grudge the dead their ghostly dark
And wan moonlight?
We have the glorious sun,
Lamp and fireside.
Grudge not the dead their moonshine
When abroad they ride.