এবার কবিতা লিখে, সুনীল গঙ্গোপাধ্যায়/ Poetry will give me these, Sunil Gangopadhyay

এবার কবিতা লিখে

এবার কবিতা লিখে আমি একটা রাজপ্রাসাদ বানাবো

এবার কবিতা লিখে আমি চাই পন্টিয়াক গাড়ি

এবার কবিতা লিখে আমি ঠিক রাষ্ট্রপতি না হলেও

ত্রিপাদ ভূমির জন্য রাখব পা উঁচিয়ে -

মেশপালকের গানে এ পৃথিবী বহুদিন ঋণী!

কবিতা লিখেছি আমি চাই স্কচ, সাদা ঘড়া, নির্ভেজাল ঘৃতে পক্ক

মুর্গীর দু ঠ্যাং শুধু, আর মাংস নয় -

কবিতা লিখেছি তাই আমার সহস্র ক্রীতদাসী চাই -

অথবা একটি নারী অগোপন, যাকে আমি প্রকাশ্য রাস্তায় জানু ধরে

দয়া চাইতে পারি।

লেভেল-ক্রসিং এ আমি দাঁড়ালেই  তোপধ্বনি শুনতে চাই

এবার কবিতা লিখে আমি আর দাবী ছাড়ব না

নেড়ি কুত্তা হয়ে আমি পায়ের ধুলোর থেকে গড়াগড়ি দিয়ে আসি

হাড় থেকে রক্ত নিংড়ে এখনো দাঁড়িয়ে আছি, ভিক্ষা চেয়ে মানুষের

চোখ থেকে মনুষ্যত্ব খুলে -

কপালের জ্বর, থুতু, শ্লেষ্মা থেকে উঠে এসে

মাতাল চন্ডাল হয়ে নিজেকে পুড়িয়ে ফের ছাই থেকে উঠে এসে

আমার একলা ঘরে অসহায়তার মতো হা হা স্বর থেকে উঠে এসে

কবিতা লেখার সব প্রতিশোধ নিতে দাঁড়িয়েছি ।

Poetry will still give me these

This time my poems will build me a palace

This time I want a Pontiac car from the proceeds of writing all this poetry,

This time I want even if I cannot be the President -

To raise my foot in a goose stepping stride.

This country has been herded like sheep for too long.

I have written poetry so now I want Scotch whiskey, a white horse,

Two chicken legs cooked in pure ghee, (no other meat will do)

I have written poetry and so now I want a thousand slave girls -

Or at least one woman who does not hide

To whom I can go down on one knee in public seeking indulgence.

I want gun salutes when I wait at level crossings

This time I am not going to give up my rights

This time I am going to roll in the dust like a stray dog and return

Blood drained from bones I still wait, stripping the humanity from your eyes

For poetry I have risen from fever, saliva and phlegm

And for poetry I have risen phoenix-like 

From drunken stupor and blinding rage

And from the lonely echoes of my bare room of verse have I risen

To exact all my revenge for writing poetry.

Neem gach/Neem Tree by Bonophool or Bolai Chand Mukhopadhyay (1899-1979)

=

Neem Tree

Some strip the bark and boil it.

Some rip off the leaves and grind them.

While others fry them up in hot oil.

To smear it on itches and skin rashes,

Infallible in skin problems.

Many also eat the young leaves

Sometimes even raw,

Or fried with egg plant.

Very helpful for the liver.

So many break off the young branches and chew them – keeps teeth healthy.

The traditional healer cannot praise it enough.

One growing next to the house makes the wise happy.

They say, the breeze blowing through a Neem is good, let it stay, do not cut it;

So no one cuts it, but no one looks after it either.

Rubbish collects about its base.

Someone paved around it – another kind of rubble at its feet.

Suddenly one day, a new person arrives

They gaze upon the tree with wonder, they do not strip off the bark, rip off the leaves

Or break the branches; they just gaze!

They say, ‘Lovely, how lovely the leaves, how beautiful!

And the clusters of flowers! Like stars that flicker in a sea of green!’

After looking on for a while, the person goes away.

Not a healer of the body, but of the mind – a poet.

The Neem tree wanted to go with him; but in vain, for its roots were deep.

It remained in the pile of rubbish behind the house.

The same as the domesticated, docile daughter-in-law next door….

Image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azadirachta_indica

Adbhuth Andhar Ek/A strange darkness has descended on this earth by Jibanananda Das

A strange darkness has descended on this earth

A strange darkness has descended on this earth

Those who are blind, they see the clearest today,

Those whose hearts hold no love nor affection, unstirred by compassion,

The earth is at a standstill today without their advice.

The ones who still have deep trust in people

Those who see as natural

Great truth or rules, or art and effort,

Today their souls feed the jackals and the vultures.

Purnendu Pattrea: Kokhon Ashcho Tumi and Joriye Porechi Tomar ChoRano Chuley/When are you coming and Entangled in your hair

When are you coming?

All the doors are open
On each tree hangs an invitation
Like a deep kiss for the river the sky leans in
Sunlit and sparkling.
Tell me, when are you coming?

The day passes, it is getting late
In the garden old flowers wilt
Everyone else walks self important
To distant festivities too big to miss.
Will you be even later than this?

Today was a very good day
Guests from near and far in every house to stay
The trees and forests cast their old skins away
To dress in new young leaves.
I don’t know whether you know this.

I am alone, in a desolate void
Aloofness swarming in my heart.
Whatever I pick from my desires ardent
Tearful, trembling.
Tell me, when are you coming?

***

Entangled in your hair

I am entangled in your open hair.
Blame this midday heat for my desire.
Long have I walked on pebbles and stone
These dark wings crave rest of their own
To bathe in shade cooled depths, casting off my old attire.

I am entangled in the blue calm of your eyes.
Feels like you were within mine always.
I have looked for you, in clouds and forests
Broken branches, torn flowers and bud
Searched knee-deep in river and in sludge.

I am caught up in your hair flowing free.
You are like full bloom upon a tree.
Failed anger bleeds from finger tip
I crave your smell on every inch of my skin
In your innermost depths I find that peace.

Kathopokathan 1/Conversation 1 by Purnendu Pattrea( An Extract)

Why are your eyes red?

Were you caught in the rain?

Why are the veins in my hands blue?

They got burned.

You said you would write to me today,

Have you got it? Great! Many, many thanks.

What is this you give me? Just an empty envelope!

Where did the letter go?

It blew away you say?

All the words in my letter too

Washed away in the rain.

Today the water knows many a trick.

Drenching the clothes on some

And ravaging the houses of others,

Knocking on their doors with obscene eagerness.

Once we were made homeless by the same water.

Pillows, mattress, bed, pots, pans and plates

All grist to the open mouthed shark.

We were floating on a putrid tide,

Brother to algae and the choking weed.

Did I anger you with this talk of water?

Let us not talk about water then

Let’s discuss life instead.

Kathopokathan Ek/Conversation 1 by Purnendu Pattrea (Extract)

Why are you so late?

Were the streets crowded?

I am a bit late too

All the streets had gaping holes in them.

Why were there so many people on the streets?

Was it a cortege? Who died this time?

Yogo went just the other day

He just ran, never coming back.

One after the other, Shankar, Bimal.

Only the ones we need are the ones who run away.

Towards the faraway sea

Just like the dark Nuliya divers go, towards oblivion.

More will go, we will too.

Death comes and goes frequently these days

Like a stepped up train service in the suburbs.

What kind of death would you like?

Me? Cerebral?

Did I anger you with this talk of death?

Let us not talk about that topic then

Let’s discuss life instead.

Why is your chin so shadowed?

Were you in the dark?

Why is my forehead beaded with sweat?

I was in the sun.

Why haven’t you worn a teep today?

I haven’t worn my panjabi today.

Why is your hair messed up?

Were you caught in a storm?

Why is there blood in my hair?

There was lightning.

There is a storm every day lately.

Trees fall, sometimes even lamp posts

People too, like birds torn in half

Fall in the ditches.

Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

I smell the blood of a human, yum!

Did I anger you with this talk of storms?

Let us not talk about storms then

Let’s discuss life instead.

Sandipan Pathshaala, Sandipan's village school

Sandipan Pathshaala                                By  Tarashankar Bandopadhyay

When one’s dreams of establishing oneself make the worries about food and clothing seem less, it is the same as walking on the earth with eyes fixed on the skies. The very real obstacles presented by the earth are completely forgotten.

There is a story that tells of an astronomer who fell into a well by chance while he was walking on a dark night with his eyes on the stars in the sky. The person who rescued him was not satisfied with doing just that but gave him some priceless advice. He said, dear Sir, learn what the earth has to say first, and then commune with the sky.

Sitaram knows this famous Western story, he read it as a child and still remembers it.

His father does not know the story, he never studied English, even the little Bengali he knows is equal to not knowing any at all, but he tells the story nevertheless in a different way. He says,

‘Son, do not look up. Look at the ground. Do not try to calculate how many people are better off or more honoured than you, the fires of unhappiness will never go out; instead if you count the number of people who are worse off than you, and less recognized than you, at least this will allow you to spend your days in peace if not happiness.’

Their family adviser says,

‘Child, there is no difference between desire and fire. Just like the flames of fire, desire is also directed upwards. Even if you try to direct it downwards, it instantly turns around and raises its head upwards. But when it is extinguished, life is like burnt wood, like a pile of ash and coals.’

These words touched Sitaram deeply. But he still does not accept them. Like other farmers’ sons he went to study at the local high school. When he grew disappointed at being unable to learn English there, he eventually went to the Normal School in Hooghly, where he failed twice before returning home with his head hanging low in shame. But the fire of ambition had taken hold in his heart at some point, he wanted to work. He wanted to be an officer. To be known as a man of learning in society. But his father Romanath said,

‘No, stop dreaming. We are farmers; our family trade has been farming since the beginning of time. This is how we have been feeding our children and giving them a livelihood in the name of the Lord without a worry in the world. You want a job at the expense of all that! And if it was a job worth talking about! Alas!’

He had been removing the grass at a base of a lime sapling with a spade in his right hand, and smoking a hookah which was in his left hand; while he spoke, both hands were still, now he left his words incomplete as he started doing both things again.