Wind-script, Trigger Happy & Other Poems
Walk into the eerie; and sense who drills thy tomb
with the wind-stone.
The propeller turns as a maze. On whose flesh
that maroon nightgown murmurs? Oh human-toy!
From the iron-mill euphoric airplanes ascend.
Our wondrous aerodromes howl as their wings
rapture. We have learnt, declivity is just a signal
to rise again. So the wind chimes, Ionosphere keeps
scribbling the waves on…
Fleur de vent blooms. Blue umbrella. The nocturne
is bending towards disease. Dyscrasia fluxes beneath
the scripture. We never saw the lost era, Isis, whelmed
flower. Never fathomed how the knowledge avenue
lays immobile, moribund! Oh! My monster of coins!
On your vault I store senescence, fame, suicide notes
Let clouds be burnt unto this desolation. Texts of wind.
Preach the book of eternity; and all its vague lingual.
Whose secret ciphers chime on wind! Oh papyrus!
Ignorance and vivacity of metropolis is engraved on
this witch-lantern. Deep within our conscience, reside
those solemn trees; they are worthy of depiction.
They know books of eternity are poised before the
occultist; Her third eye is blind. Her offering hands
prolong the code of cuneiform.
In this speedomaniac world, only gasoline outlasts.
And presidents are pistolero! So what do we have
to loose but nous? Who are those toying with the
Globe?! Buffoons or astrologers? Whose name’s
written on the shore of Galilei? That truth is lurked
beneath the iron, birds of ore…
I descend, slowly, within this obscure song. Hereth
blooms tunes of haze, cadence. Melody stirs; Orders falls;
Stairs of ocean climbs into our step. Songs of despair
croon on ether. Who disappear into eternity riding their
floral chariots? They know departure is but a trick of wind.
Yearnings are just murmurs of forest.
Fly away weary paper-plane, drom this desolate forest,
far away from this dolorous suburban scene. As far you’d
gaze there flies ecstasy, the radiant sun, blazing against
paranoia. Maze of shades, vegetation, spreading leaves.
The flying route, vanishing like camphor, even it bears
its own despair. Staring at that- the paper plane bows down,
closing them sad wings.
Who resides in the mountain of fire? There is but no
answer to that query. Only the monolith smiles a coin
from afar. Ashes of volcano fills the air, fills the ash-pit.
Them, birds of ore, ascends on whose fiery wings. The
amphibians crossed the margin of death. At a stone’s throw,
collapsed has the iron-bridge. Hence the mountain of fire
remained erect, desolate, an eternal question.
Let us walk towards bluntness today. There lies bizillion
corpses of rusty ships. Body of weapons, still warm from
heat of wars, still bearing signs of fall. And all the metal skies,
all the oceans of alkali – sketch those down on your pages.
And all these will fade away. Only the fire will remain,
remain will the wrath. The songs of forge and the buzzing
bellows will remain forever in my heart.
Trash your love in kincob. And all your longings. Today all the
split sporadic songs that fly towards battlefield. They cognize
the oppression of steel, they know how the trickery of bellows
enrages me. If dark night of slay comes, if the blade laughs out
maniacal; be calm, and kneel down. Under the scorpion sun,
who chimes melodies so pagan?
Wind-Script translated from Bengali by Amit Chakravarty. Born 29th November, Sylhet, Bangladesh. Currently residing in USA. Poetry-writer. Engaged with webzine of Bengali art and literature “Nocturne”.
Written In Bus
See how blue the sky is in Manikganj
See those sunny cars
hustling across the bridge
botany students I take
They get off the bus
and everything becomes dull
Mileposts turn into rows
Lies pure like the parting line
of your hair
The Aricha freeway
I see scatter of stars
Confusion of a moon love struck
O sophist, why gallop your horse so much? When it’s none
but you who the barrrel is staring at pretty. Those chasing
rabbits with that gun, changing aim repeatedly –
They promulgate fake terror. Hunting season begins
in the sanctuary so cruel.
Whatever they see they yell – fire!
Written in Bus and Trigger Happy translated by Mesbah Alam Arghya (b 1981). He began publishing poetry in Bangladesh from the late nineties. Contributed to several online and printed magazines in Bangladesh, India and USA. He is the author of four volumes of poetry.