Silver-tongued Goddess & Other poems

Expressions   

My verses are born in the silence where Zebras playy
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.


Silver-tongued Goddess

I have never seen such rumbling clouds, let us talk
about hara-kiri; or you wanna define some cosmology?
Here come the hermaphrodites! Let us now talk about
the sadness of the crotons. Desire, beauty and sin; walk
hand-in-hand.

Don’t be so shy my silver-tongued goddess, don’t ever
look at the bitter-moon. The curse-flower has finally
bloomed; I’m so lost in it. Just be a little blithe; she is
with an endless cricket-hymn, she is with a thousands of
pointed needle onto her face. Isn’t she a weedoholic,
a desperate night killer –  just like you?

The lexicon of mutes is lost in the maze of tamarisk.
Now I’m sleepy; let the old musket be my pillow. I came
here to clasp your harvest in the name of the holy King.

I don’t have talents; so, I used to follow the tweets of
yellow birds, and the narrow trail that headed to your
hexagonal granary.

On the Red Hill

One day the Moon itself will creep into your bedroom. Then you’d think
who’s gonna get those cloves and cardamoms. Here you can roll back your
grass-carpet. Text has been long dead, so do the spice charmer, and every
blade of the golden grass. We can’t foster a thing here; neither the brew-star
nor the wind-chime; a kiss, or just a gas-lamp! Here I have to stand right
before a sage tree; or jump over the Koka-Shastra and the fatal cracks. In
the slant of the Red Hill, I met the cloud-mistress. She left the cluster of
keys as I flipped some magic-circles. Hasn’t she come here to teach me?
Oh God, which door the skeleton-key is for!

Tunnel

I haven’t seen tunnels, but you. I’ve got somez
firestones, stuffed birds, bubble-making devices
and so on. Are you regaining your trust now?
Trains full of soldiers are headed to the frontier.
Let’s close our eyes and see all these. How would
you see a new world if you don’t see the stature
of your good old banyan-tree. At night, I hear
zillions of filthy flies buzz around us. You haven’t
explained yet why you used to carry a razor-sharp
hacksaw blade in bed consistently.

Transl10292237_10152043602026039_8892023357159662459_nated from Bengali by Andaleeb. Andaleeb (born: October 1978) is a Bangladeshi poet, bloomed in early-2000s.  3 books have been published so far. Presently working in a semi-government organization in Dhaka.

 

About author

Maznu Shah
Maznu Shah 2 posts

Maznu Shah's (born: March 26, 1970) home country is Bangladesh. A poet by choice and passion, he has authored six books namely, Aanka Megher Jeeboni, Leelachurno, Modhu O Moshlar Boney, Zebramaster, Brahmmander Gopon Aayna, and Aami Ek Dropout Ghora. He has tried his hands in weird combination of jobs -some of which are: Proofreading, Farming, Merchandising, Working in daily newspapers etc. Currently, he lives in Brescia, Italy and earns his bread and butter as a chemical factory worker. His family comprises wife and two sons.

You might also like

I’m a dropout horse

I always suffer from the dilemma whether poetry can at all be “translated”. These one-liners have been translated, with necessary changes in some texts, keeping in mind the main spirit

Sikkimizing & Other Poems

The Dawn Half the globe is played by the children And the rest gem-studded on rich man’s hat A poultry befitting into this little earth where morning starts with a

The Things That are Left & Other Poems

This Side, Alone The tune makes a suspect Whether it is ghostly enough The household mimics I set the debate on a tree-top   It gets fruitful Hey… Who else

Scent of Women & Other Poems

The last line Two consecutive lines of a poem Always have an ego clash. Who’ll seat beneath? Who cares? No one wants to… But one has to sit. The succeeding

Dreaming of Freedom: Palestinian Child Prisoners Speak: Yousef M. Aljamal

Shadi Farrah was just 12 years old when he was arrested in November 2015 with his friend Ahmad alZataari. They were held for over a year until January 2017 when

Manolis Anagnostakis: The existentialist silence of post-war Greece

One of the most significant poets of Greece after World War II, Manolis Anagnostakis was in reality a practicing radiologist. The distraction created by two completely different facets of life—poetry

The « Silent Nature » of Odilon Redon: Konstantina Moschou

As part of the national celebrations for the 100th anniversary of his death, the Bordeaux Fine Arts Museum proposed to pay tribute to the painter Odilon Redon by producing an

THE MONSOON GRIEF OF LOSING AN UMBRELLA : A TRIBUTE TO SAMIR ROY CHOUDHURY

What is the true identity of that particular force which controls the existence of a text – is it the encoder, I mean, the one commonly called: the writer, or

Merchandise of Camelia Sinesis & Other Poems

মনোপলি আজ মুত্তিয়া মুরালিধরনের মতো একজন ক্যানভাসার দেখলাম, শুদ্ধ বাংলায় দাঁতের মাজন বিক্রি করছে। অবিকল জনি ডেপের মতো একজন আছে, দৈনিক পত্রিকায় ফটোগ্রাফারের চাকরি করে। ফ্রিদা কাহলোর মতন একজনকে দেখেছিলাম—জোড়-ভ্রূ—বাগেরহাটের

Blues for a Black Cat

Boris Vian (1920-59) led a rather too short life on this earth. But, within that 39 years, he wrote 10 novels, 42 short stories, 7 theatre pieces, 400 songs, 4 poetry

O Tempora! & Other Poems: Amit Chakravarty

Inside The Eyes of a Fortune-teller Inside the eyes of a fortune-teller lied a rural road. Then the evening was softly descending on the village. Vincent left painted cornfields on

Excerpt from a Dream

And when realization struck the ethereal bird singing away a faint melody that scored the background of a vague dream, it muted itself. The virtual creature refused to carry its

3 Poems: Anirban chattopadhyay

Cylinder is kept at the dickey of the four-wheeler That is stockpiled narcotics; using it The four-wheeler enters a love-scene Moving lush green, scattered Sun on its way The Black

Historical memory and modern Greek literature : the case of Elias Venezis

The Syrian civil war and refugee wave are among the most dramatic events in recent years. Most of us have read or watched the news on the disastrous situation of

Sonauncle’s Home

A cycle was approaching on this late autumn afternoon. – Jugalchandra was sitting on the top tube with his legs dangling, the thin wind touching his eyebrows, hairs protruding from

MILANO-VIGEVANO-?

We know where we’re born, we can imagine where we will live and we don’t know where we will die. Well, I would say that I am surely in the

Seven Haiku

1. My dream globe encompasses Your rain-cries, summer-wrath And broken-heart yellow leaves. 2. Your silent song fills the air. It takes away my soul Into a tranquil dark world. 3.

La Revolution

The Yanks kill and me I read Mao Mao The jester is king and me I sing Mao Mao The bombs go off and me I scoff Mao Mao Girls

Christmas & Other Poems

Birth of a feeling And the dogs groan … to make them satiate and sedate a night was made Intercourses, cold – to be performed crossing the greedy voyeurs of

Don’t Fear an Apology & other poems

  MANDU Too hot to hide under sheets Mandu lay naked in bed Her back sticky from sweat A voice echoed in her head     Get up, get up,

0 Comments

No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply