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  //Dreams Unfulfilled Forever//   That is not impossible, when Our life is cheaper than a rat, or a cat When killings become a culture.   Yet some deaths haunt our conscience Cost a great deal from us As the Death of our Father did. The beauty of a drop of dew on a grass leaf The smiles of a shapla on a lake water The whistles of a  doel sitting on a wall Were all more charming to you than The charms of a General’s badge.   You wanted to find a meaning of your life In a madly pursuit, few could understood. The dream to showcase your motherland beyond Remained beyond, unfulfilled forever. Come down on wings of angels Pass some time with seagulls at Teknaf Become a scholar gypsy, avoiding us enough.     
     I am Khuki What are you doing professor? Why are you gazing at me this way? Why are you calling my hair, golden fibre? It is no more golden– simply call jute fibre! What are you searching into my eyes? It is no lustrous with a woman of sixty. But I know you are sad, tired of Looking at vultures tearing off heads Decomposed flesh out of the grave Disfigured, grim bloated after postmortem.   Professor, do not grieve, this soil is holy Look at the trees, at the blue sky I am khukhi, my name rhymes with pakhi.
  Juggernaut  Something dearest was in my heart I left it somewhere. A desperate attempt was to return to it. But I got lost, I didn’t know how. No mobile phone, no address could I remember Modern ICT baffled me. A juggernaut in disguise on my way.   A graveyard I have crossed Met some dead people Some known some unknown A little solace have I got When my dearest friend with awe, Peeped from grave’s foot, and saw.   A rarest heart was he God’s favourite die young! A line of worry in his face   Thinking of human race.   ‘Haven’t  you read Waiting for Godot ’ said he, ‘All absurdities you must ponder normal But my friend fight against juggernaut  The evil must be defeated at last.’  
  Fruitless Love  I have given you much You gave me little But I was in need of that little Corporate interest of give-and-take!   Once I risked my life for you Taking   you on my back I flew up Like a spider man. My flight was the peak of Everest.   You didn’t like that flight That spell of an Iblis possessed you Jealous of my strength! –And then came the advantage of coronavirus. Their wish was fulfilled Separating me from you The death of a relationship!   Day in day out You will continue disturbing Blaze my heart with love and hatred But I am not revengeful Will not throw acid on your face   In solitude, like Sisyphus I will roll the stone up Only to fall down and try again Days, months, Years, centuries and millennia.

Man behind creation: A tribute to Shamsur Rahman

  Shamsur Rahman has depicted almost every aspect of life and often his poetry becomes very personal, but ultimately this personal emotion turns to general and herein lies his success as an artist It was a typical day of August 17, 2006, the sun was setting down behind the flaming clouds with all its glory, birds were finding their nightly shelter in the nearby Ramna Park, and after... CLICK HERE TO READ MORE

Rosy’s Story: Not to Give in, Not to Give up

Sobbed with grief and humiliation she ran out of her school-gate and walked fast towards the Ramna Park which is a short distance from her school. She was so emotionally agitated that she damned care the traffic signal. If a microbus had not braked so hard and stopped instantly it might have run over her. She did not bother the driver’s grimy remarks, and stalked off. ‘Something awful might have occurred if the driver had not braked so hard, but it was better to have been run over by that microbus than my present situation, ’ she thought, and began to walk angrily along the shady pavement. The Ministers’ lodges are on both sides of the road. These posh areas of Dhaka city are well-known to her. She looked at her watch. It was 11-30 am. One hour and a half has passed since her exam started. It was her Class Nine final examination. Now she is out of the exam! Not only that, she was threatened to be out of the school with a transfer certificate. She is a plucked bud, a half-slaughtere

Not to Grow Old

I don’t want to grow old, at least In my kink and my all being. I’ve crossed fifty, so what? I colour my hair black carefully, and regularly Clean-shave every morning Control my diet to prevent fat I like to look young, though my Thin hair exposing a naughty spot on my head And a dark foul mark below each eye So what? I feel young and cent present young The secret is that – My business is with the young – mainly between 18 and 25 It’s wonderful to enjoy the company of these bubbling youths It’s wonderful to talk to them, to listen to them It’s wonderful to teach them and be taught by them It’s wonderful to dance with them, to sing with them It’s wonderful to get lost with them to some Nature’s bounty beyond Dhaka’s poisonous air - Jaffflong, Cox’s Bazar, St Martin's, Sajek and so on - It is really wonderful to stay with them to feel like them Because they are YOUNG and BEAUTIFUL.

Song of Coronavirus

                                       I I still don’t know where and how I was born, Hmm, was I born at a lab at your hands, man? Somewhere at China or USA? Or, mother nature released me as an offshoot? I came to your world only three months ago, You gave me the name Coronavirus When I compete you, you call me COVID 19 Whatever my name and origin, I don’t grieve, for One becomes great not by birth or name but by action My fame rests upon my performance I need not anyone to eulogize me.                                      II My maiden WWE match was at Wuhan, China So, you may identify China as my homeland But my victory was taken by the storm Across the globe, overnight. The advantage of aeroplanes, people’s travelling Succeeded my mission of a global celebrity. Obviously, celebrity of all celebrities. My competitors fell upon my feet Because my mission is to tear their lungs To lead them to the gate of Hades I keep no accounts of how

Shamsur Rahman: A poet of the soil and beyond

Poet: Shamsur Rahman August is a month of grief for the people of Bangladesh. On this day, 17th August, of 2006, Shamsur Rahman closed his eyes for ever fighting against death for more than a week in the BSMU hospital. The time when his life-breath extinguished was a pleasant dusk with no cloud in the sky. It was the day and weather about which Rahman wrote a poem titled "Bibecana"  (Consideration). More read CLICK HERE

Lost Love

r  It was a mid-Baishakhi noon and the sun was burning overhead. Rahmat was waiting at the Malibag bus stand for catching a Motijheel-bound bus. Buses were not scarce, but all were awfully crowded. Rahmat had made several attempts to push through but failed to get into any one. In the last attempt he gave space to two girls who were behind him. The girls seemed to be students. He felt the pressure of their body on his back and sideways and made them space to go ahead. Rahmat was enamoured having a glance at the face of one of them, and perhaps that was the reason that he was distracted for some moments. He thought, why should the girls struggle to get into this crowded public transport? They must be poor like him. Scarcely had this thought crossed his mind when the bus moved fast away, and Rahmat was thrown off the gate. His knee was badly hurt. He had a narrow escape from a fatal accident. His legs might have gone under the wheels, he thought. Rahmat took a deep breath. With th

When the Wheels Stopped

As the sun was setting down Monira retrieved her father’s lungi and panjabi from the rope hung across two poles in the yard. She folded the clothes with much affection and kept neatly on the wooden alna . Azan for Magrib prayer resounded the atmosphere. A soothing spring air can be felt earlier in that late winter evening. Monira’s mother Kulsum Ara was performing ablution to say her prayer. For some days she was angry with herself, angry with her husband Rustum Ali, angry with Monira and angry with everyone else. Perhaps it was due to Rustum’s sitting idle for more than a week. In her prayer she seeks some consolation. She nurses the belief that sufferings in this worldly life is temporary, and that real happiness is decided by Allah in the life hereafter. No sooner had Kulsum Ara finished her prayer than she heard the cry of her little son Musa whom she had sent to a shop. Sobbing and angry, Musa complained, “Why have you sent me to Montu Mia’s shop again? Yesterday he hesit