Fertilized Layer
Nishikta Porot
by Wali Mahmud
Published by Megh Prokashon, Bangladesh
First Edition: Ekushey Book Fair 2023.
©
Wali Mahmud
Dewan Villa
# Matiur Rahman Mahmud Road
Jaldhup Pathon—3170
Beani Bazar, Sylhet
Bangladesh.
Logo E-mail: walimahmud@yahoo.co.uk
Tribute
Respected maternal grandmother.
Moyrunnessa Chowdhury
Whose ultimate affection or pure love,
I remember the golden mornings of my childhood.
Fertilized Layer
Swearing by poems, these are compassionate, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the heart, the soul was born here. The world divided by barbed wire lives in the south corner of the house. Even though no one has said in the auspicious moment of the census of child births as an essential element, accept the death of conscience before death. The number of human beings in the world has increased by one more person, so Dewan Villa is filled with joy. The veins and arteries owned by the hands, feet and other limbs are under the power of the planet called earth.
The body of the planet now reflects the heat of time. Time is lost to see the paper posters at the doorsteps of the visitors in the nocturnal atmosphere and the stages of death are written in the passage of time. There is neither any ice nor any water in the mountains of the world. You can ask for a little bit of land in the realm of desires- these are mine, those are yours. Such an intense appeal! The times of sunflower days are now centenarians, so these pleasures are lawfully yours. The relationship did not come with any announcement but does it necessarily mean that the poems will not undergo the cycle?
I engrave in the middle of the copperplate and write the language of the fiery feeling. I tend to write the endless end of life- the way the genetic code is hidden in the fertilized drop. The source land of the sea dates back to drops of water. Aspirations are not stuck on beach sand; they hide in the pages of life. I extended psychological support to the dear to say—I am happy. Put your hands on this soft dew-soaked dawn, Arrange colourfulmehendi with your own hands in your mind. Don’t get addicted to sleep of inanimate soul after an emotional session.
There are so many types to make the auspicious day more colourful- the declaration of desires remains pending. The longing to take a bath in the parts of the heart is the passion and compassion of the shadow men including the real ones.Youth is like having bone marrow. When he suffers from pain, he seeks shelter; when he gets happiness, he tends to become shameful. Let’s start talking about the weather as if to break the silence. Reflected utterances are washed away. It’s hard time for human rights in this dark phase of time. From soul to human being, life is the highway of dreams.
A light rain soaked the air. Now it is the rainy season when the rains are at their best. Oh, the desires for the basil leaves are really fascinating. Basic clumsiness still laughs at the misty dream. I, me and myself become a single entity. The tidal warring factions play. In the age of inscriptions or even earlier, there was no decomposition of the emotions of love. The loneliness of companionship matched and the wealth of my care, the whole life went from dark to darker stages.
The mind, playing with the resonance of the waves, expressed its incapability to take back his utterances. Thoughts have not been expressed and so the sound is non-existent with all provisions closed for the retreat. We all creatures may either be poor or entirely clan-based. Still, there is responsibility, and so is there an approval. Precarious entirety was able to catch the speed of this auspicious moment of the late life. Oh, how happy I will keep you. What can I do to make a happy environment? When it comes to giving happiness, life gets involved in many places. Please tell what the kind of mania it is. Don’t the sleepless slang languages of poetry have any leisure? No nameplate of life has been unveiled around the architect; still dear, forgive me. I haven’t come to take the bunch of separation.
Happiness reflects the delight of sharing all the difficulties and the words of all the levels of poetry, which are braided in the reckless part of the night. In the noble part of the morning, resourcefulness entreated. You know, what I mean? The door slammed shut, and the leaves fell silently. It may be that I know the source.
I swear by the physical body and the related strength my love—accept me.
Acceptance and Unquestionable Relationship
I can’t maintain the request and so you have so many complaints. The profound situation suffered a setback. Say- is it profound only? I said, I’m quite different. Did oleander (Karabi) petals bloom rightly? I failed to get it verified. When so many words faded, did I leave it undone? I feel with my heart for the invaluable treasure I have had. I dedicate my body, mind for happiness. If I could express love for the clear waves of the river! I can express love for a drop of rain. Then why can’t I say it for you, dear Lovely?
The trembling voice of the heart is filled to the brim in my heart. A square—like building is formed by the numbers of the poems. So much love in just one layer of golden emotions. There emerge desires which seek enhancement from earlier to later stages. I request, O my layer of happiness, the life of my poems suggest there is none of our own yet I compose poems, following the shadows of life.
I can be in trouble; I can go to the house of happiness. I should be approached only after confession. I’m not going to hold the fetus. I don’t want to carry careless moments. I am the fittest candidate in the realm of poetry. The heart is fully documented with self-defense. Compassion often opens the saved moments of the afternoon. Minor sins fall through the fingertips. After the suggested endorsement, I’ll go to break the sealed house of the heart. Hold on, take this Fatima Mohar. Shake the resonance of the words and say— accept, accept and accept.
This is your compassionate area of consideration. Rain flowers in bloom in shrubs in tenderness in a pair of leaves. Please tell me what gender I should opt for. Then I mingle with our pollen. I prefer to pour the final bliss.
After the endorsement, I go to break the shackles of the sealed heart.
In Memory of the Poet[1]
With the passage of time, O eternal time, our poet is no more. There is a painful wave sweeping through the country. The poet is absent. The poet’s name had an inevitable presence in our literary critique. He was the personality whom the country indulged in as one very close. His demise washes away the sigh of the distant lands.
Then
Much of the artist’s story is told throughout the prose-verse summary. Where the dream seeks the vision along the ground and the safe of the cherished promises is broken. Yet the undeclared desires come back like a river.
Then
Putting aside the burden of depression, you have taken silence as a companion. Universal Abdul Mannan Syed is always an open area of study. That death makes us impoverished in poetic discourse.
O great literary friend, I pay my best respects to you.
Memorial Tributes[2]
In the bosom of the Nabadwip, O the illustrious personality, in the procession of freedom struggle from the Holwell movement, the convincing hand was raised in the slogan which took an oath of breaking the chains of the exploited society. This is how 1947 passed. 1971 was the time when Bangladesh would be independent. Mother, land and the people living in the land would get their birthright. That is why everyone participated in the war. Besides, people were united in the spirit of liberation.
As a freedom fighter of the fortnightly Muktabangla, you had inspired the warriors and contributed to making success an enormous strength. We owe a lot to your work. Baul Kamar Uddin had composed all those words. Beginning from the role as a craftsman of grassroots-level literature to that of the life-painter, your unique writings appear in the pages of stories and novels. ‘Sabur Duniya’ emerged in the crowd of basic fiction. The character of ‘Naya Duniya’ survives in the very existence of people in the neighborhoods of Bangladesh.
The paternal habitat has been burnt and so has the ancient library. The children did not see the father’s face. This was how nine months had passed. O, the struggling Siraj, there is no fear. Remember, the Bengalis never forget Surya Sen, Khudiram Bose, and from Netaji to Mujib.
We hold that flag in our hearts of the map that had the blood of the martyrs on it. You are still awake in the middle of it, still immortal, amazingly endeared in eternal flowers.
The Poet
On the way to a perpetual time journey of the favourite poet.
The flow of the Surma adds to the verse. The fire of the chain-breaking rebellion burns which is a configured burn. That burn attracts the masses. In the souls of the exploited masses, the resonance of an eloquent song is well-sounded. Joyfulness is pronounced in the corner of the heart. That very death is still pending and is likely to continue forever.
O, the poet, the emotions with which you touch the eternal roots are significantly relevant. Water droplets fall silently, you touch it, poet. Imperceptible obituary comments of respects fill the pages of the papers of the obituary reference book. The pages of the paper are filled with invisible mourning comments. Early in the morning, I plant prayer-poems on the gravestones.
Insignificant Wali Mahmud says that he who has emotions for compassion will never be exhausted.
Nabadwip: Discussion
The Surma, the Kushiyara and the Sunai remain well flowing
Kanai always stays at the northern ghat
Barlekha in the south and Golapganj in the west
The eastern border is India—Karimganj.
In the shade of many evergreen leaves, various triangular issues are described in the literature. Human beings who are in a fluent but innocent fondness attract sensitive issues like the physical and mental stresses of the parents. There is an inner area of the big unfamiliar city where many nights and thousands of hours have been spent. The mindset has not stayed at any particular point or any place and there hasn’t been any adorable entity in this gross time period.
There is no myth or idea of source among the common proverbs. The dialectal accomplishment period will be added to the centenary of glory as a secular region. May the sixth part survive all over the world by becoming the bridge of Panchkhanda which literally means five parts together. It works as the waves of the river wash away the soil of the waters. Post Office Road is still open in the reality of referendum. The speech of Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman together with resonance sounded by the sloganeering symphony of Akaddas Siraj was dominating emotions affecting the entire locality.
The sense of gratitude has several interpretations. The neighbourhood of multiple solidarity is still awake. The birth hierarchy is just an informal setting. In the utterances of the ever-familiar offering, there is the embodied form in the numbers and rhyming, affecting the impeccable soul. There is upstream and so is there downstream with many traditions. The Almighty has decorated my hometown with abstract water colours. O my hometown, that one sunflower day comes back to the village surrounded by the growing big hillock. There the ancestors are lying in the tradition of Bani Sheikh Mohammad.
Citizen: Inheritance[3]
On the path of earthly life, the footprints of men are left in proportion to the obstacles they faced. All the familiar faces of life remain on the back foot. Time is the best healer. This is the touching tale encompassing streets, roads and avenues as against the developments from the morning to evening… involving the accumulated help of cherished memories with many colours in the sky of speech in a flow of north-south wind. If anyone knew—would they believe so in such a day?
The ticking of the weary clock of the dream touches the arena of hopes. The words that had been distanced started coming back to compassionate emotions. The waves are like flowing currents – far and wide.
The prime time of life was delegated to the new generation like the lighthouse of the dynasty.
The Conviction of Remonstration[4]
Even today the blood of martyrs touches the soil of Bengal. We are also a vigilant army. We are still alive. We will protect the country as vigilant guards even at the cost of our lives. Why should we be afraid of it? We swear we’ll stay close. The story of liberation will be written through the united efforts of the people. O, the independent country, wake up in a fuller form. Does anyone get stuck in the call of mother—earth in any corner of the earth or someone’s chest? We know how to fight, we know how to die. We also know how to realize our rights. We even know how to defeat with arms in the comprehensiveness of the Second Liberation War.
Heroic Bangalees, stand in the fighting spirit. Raise your hand in the peaceful conviction of liberation. We will meet one another everywhere, be it the fields, ghats, paths, borders or any other arena of the society.
In the power of youth,
In the procession of liberation,
Joy Bangla is the inspiring slogan.
The Consciousness Platform has demanded the execution of razakars. All Bangalee bloggers are unanimous; they are steadfast in their demands in earnest sensitivity. Dear Bangladesh, our own map is drawn all over our heart. The red-green flag of pride is ingrained in the blood of millions of martyrs.
Detailed Narrative
Poems keep on awaking until dreams are surveyed
Marginal relations extend their hands,
In the propitious time of silent reading
Even if held in the afternoon, the meet is potential.
O my motherland, thirty years of my life— led so far
Covering the sun and gazing at the door of silence, like a darling,
Life owes a lot to the country, featuring the soil-led path
The village is a long way, good days are pending which we can assume for sure.
In the range of evergreen nature, I see the fields, ghats and even childhood
With all barrier removed, dear homeland is full of love and solidarity
One day, after the autumnal moon, I too will take shelter
What a wonderful combination of rivers, canals, beels, trees and shadows!
When the new moon is over, the fourteenth day of the moon laughs
A well—defined frontier, bought at the cost of three million lives,
We are the only nations in the world to know the premises comprehensively
We are living with the traditions of the Bengalis and Bangladesh, which should last forever.
Behag[5] of the Circle
The sky of the mind flutters in the full moon of the month of Kartik. Primitive energy is endangered in the company of Jajati. It touches the heart with irresistible desire. New dreams and inspirations are utterly needed unless life is drowned in death bed. We had better open the deep veil of darkness rather than open the approach edge of the evening.
Sitting at the study table meant for writing poetry in the sixty watts of light, the sum of the sad moments, folds even the slightest pause of thought in the cupboard—like memory. The Aksharbritta (multi-syllabic verification) stares at the window with a silent gaze. When the Swarabritta (tetra-syllabic verification) advances beyond the configured line, Matrabritta(multi-syllabic verification) takes hold and maintains the scale.
In one corner of the blocked mind, I tend to put a touchstone on the living stick and write—Musical Behag. The seeds of olive tree fail to give a good quantity of olive pollen.
Forbidden Layer
As I was chasing the left-out impact of dreams, I saw the unbearable heat and the art of intense burning. The ‘houshi’ texture of the centre point of ‘Baushi’ poetry, has touched the tradition, and adores it passionately. The poet composes numbers rhythmically along the banks of the river, Sunai.
An emotional safety pin opened, and the two-crop cycle of life sweated and walked to the Godown Bazar one day. Along the way of the grassroots, a group of people walked towards a crop field on the western side with thousands of footsteps. I too walked along that way, making the ridges, mud, grass and shadow close companions and on the basis of a contemporary compromise. That was a familiar environment for me related to my everlasting cow—lessons. The broken image of its shape floats in the flowing current.
I also speak the truth. In the guise of aesthetic motivation, under the balcony of the whitewashed old house, I say, ‘Suyachan is the symbol of love. Ranging from the otherwise civilisation, we came across issues like the stone hills of Shillong, the touch of the youthful waters of the Muriahaor. The last drop slipped off the palm of the hand in the warmth of ‘lukluki’. I compassionately say, ‘Alas, the familiar but typical waves of of mine, if your impatience stops one day like menopause, the last resource of feeling will run away in the rain and sun. You know, the tender body too becomes seasoned like sandalwood, or the unfinished page of the binary understanding lasting the whole of night. Lots of grief while lightning strikes the layer of her womb. A colourful sensation works in pulse and nerves of those involved. The undisclosed fact of the occupied land rising in the middle of the deep waters loses its basic character.
The day of losing my personal happiness, hobby and virginity resembles the flying of all the ducks of the Norfolk County in the sky, symbolising many pleasant moods. The day of losing my personal happiness, hobby and virginity resembles the flying of all the ducks of the Norfolk County in the sky, symbolising many pleasant moods.
Dimensions
Time has taken hold of the country and seeds have sprouted.
The nation had planted an illustrious tree where people harvested the fruits of the movements of 1952, 1966, 1971, 1990, and the trial of war criminals. O the gigantic tree, you are the red-green flag of the country entrenched in the chest of the Bangalees. Unruly cranes fly over the Shaheed Minar and Smriti Soudha. Every dimension of my poetry is against violence, communalism, arson and murder. All dimensions of poetry are in favour of humanity.
Who are those who give fire to the innocent site of the country? This burnt body is my brother or sister or child. Will the wailings of the deprived people reach the door of justice? Common masses become speechless in anger and grief. Even then the announcement comes—hartal today! The sigh of the frustrated men is mixed with tears. The midday sun stops in that field of crops. The sky of Bengal is filled with unpardonable sins.
The citizens of the country turn destitute in the fires of violence. When will there be betrayal in the wake of conscience? All protesting fists will be united in processions and slogans. My dear homeland, have they forgotten the history of the struggle? By the way, we have not forgotten. Identify them well and bear in mind that they are born as weeds; they are the sons of Mir Jafar. Under the siege of conscience, one day they will be the part of the graveyard of the Rzakars.
People shall wake up and hence Bangladesh shall stand.
An Earnest Companion
Beloved, in our life of good wishes based on overall welfare, let us recap our settlement in ‘Snigdha’ with reference to the 28th of March. We were in eight hours full of fields, swayed by the silver harvest of Paush month. We had several matches beginning from the birthday of the 22nd to the three red roses given in advance on the condition of an intensive session. Utterly speechless! Thereafter, I try to uncover the number in the particles of full—grown paddy. It was specifically in binary mode. Sometimes the results were inconsistent while in other cases they were harmonious. We prefer to build a new configuration of a contented life with the sickles of the farmers, bunch of crops and other rustic elements.
O farmer, cultivate crops for two crop cycles. Give us the option to be sweated in each other’s company. I will sponge it with my own hands. Weeds will be found in the bed of meadow grass. I will see all the thirty-six bindings as opened in that unseen morning.
Unpublished[6]
What the hearts of the audience say in a memorial meeting is why I am overwhelmed, without expressing any feelings. Poet, we are admirers of your poetry, which spoke of the struggle of life and living.
Although time passed by, Asad’s shirt is not yet decomposed in poetic dimension. Millions of souls still sing in the consciousness of ‘Swadhinata Tumi’. The youth of the language vibrates with the inspiration of liberation. In the grief of irreparable loss, the Bangla—speaking people draw a memorial marker on their chest to the effect that a life has passed away. A procession of alphabets flows from the Paltan Maidan and the remote premises of Dhaka University, saying I am the protester, I am rebellious.
The agitated words were uttered with the Shaheed Minar as the witness. The utterance touches the ground and floats, here lie Salam, Barkat and Jabbar, and here lie innumerable anonymous martyrs. Your departure is felt as a part of the background.
The title of ‘literary activist’ was accorded because of the uncompromising relentless voice reacted to the protests against exploitation and the demands of the time.
Fond Memories[7]
The death news that left me standing and still. My moments died out for some moments…
This was because I saw in your sight the inspiring eyes of Hasan. There are ups and downs in poetry; there are joys and sorrows too. Municipal street lights go out in the moonlight. At the end of the Upaban journey, Jalali pigeons are greeted at dawn with a view to showing the moonlit night. In the morning, a large number of literary activists gathered in all parts of Hasan Nagar, paid respects to you, and bade you farewell.
I also wrote to you. O, dear, you got it too late. I can give a polite excuse of a hundred engagements; it will not match my failure. The sky of Bangladesh is filled with sighs of losing people of a particular group. With it, thousands of readers are inspired by you. O poet, you had better sleep in peace. The sleepless poems do not cry now, and the entire town doesn’t move in the front lines as fast as it did earlier. The sound of utterances floats only on the shoulders of the literary enthusiasts. The silent text of the memorial meeting overwhelmed all the periodicals as they did cover them as well.
The water of the Surma is also an important issue on the banks of eternity. O dear, come down and cross the estuary of the river and then approach the haors and baors where you are mingled in the field like a poetic grain
Hail, O departed soul, may you have a permanent home in the wilderness of peace.
Expatriates walking down the High Street
This is the truth. This is not at all a lie. It was December 1971. There were burn scars on the blind paws of a dark night. Many suggest, forget it. There was intense pain of losing parents, children and siblings during the nine months of struggle. Some were missing, some were raped, and some were mutilated. This is a tale of my blood, my legacy. But how people can say that we should forget it?
It was Sunday. The city next to the city wakes up. The street was quite busy. All the other public services sections were also busy, be it motorways, highways or the underground. Snowfall in the morning helps everyone’s pulse exceed sixty-nine. Oh man, M 25 dealy… Lazy time fell out of the book of life at the sight of the traffic signs.
Seven days a week with no holidays.
The whole year too is having no holiday
It was endless and interned.
Believe me, the sun of that day did not set. Swearing by his hand, I say only here we have night only, elsewhere it is dawn. There is the noise of the awakened people there. There it is twilight, here we have had the rising glow in the neighborhood. The hand on the steering wheel of time tends to touch the brow of emptiness.
Three decades after her birth, unconfirmed reports revealed that compassion shed tears at home. The river suffers from extensive erosion with the onslaught of violent waves and excessive flow of water. O dear soil of my country, I touch you and this is the touch of my genetic mother. Freshwater inhabited oceanic terrain—the pulse of rustic silence. It is compassion which broke down in tears and went home.
We sing the praises of love in a munificent voice, the peak of excellence. The evening glow swings with fearless contentment. I differ on this memorable day because I disagree. The stranger suffers from extremely shivering cold, forgetting all his desires. Now tell me dear, how do you always relieve? Forgetting the misery of separation, take me with you. Wherever I saw the bruises, I saw the pile of corpses. The wailings of women losing husbands and mothers losing their sons were unbearable. I saw the cries of relations, and the blood—stained Bangladesh.
The state was divided in 1947. The state body was divided with two sides lying 1200 miles apart from each other. There was a constitution, there was a parliament. Even the majority could not survive a connected death. The effort break the ridge emerged at one point. What did you take? What did you give, either? We sacrificed lives for language. We gave old clay crop for twenty four years.
Mother stopped and stood in the terracotta of the baby tent. The books that his father had accumulated in exchange for land were burnt to ashes and Jafar Manzil was spotted with smoke. Smoke seems to draw alpana. So happily is suited freedom!
Maybe five years, the sedimentary rock freezes on the ground. A mixture of clay and nature leads to muddy cultivable land. Give it away, give it away. Distribute everyone—the joyous parade of freedom.
The Psychology of Philosophy and the Poet
The intent of the search source is degraded by suspicion and hypnotized as well. The abundance of nature’s reproductive organs works significantly. In the negligence of the mind, for the centipedes at night! When the two eyes freeze in the decomposition of the self-chosen mind is beyond one’s idea. What an intoxicating whisk of the breeze! All what of the nature is related to life gets significance. Born in the nudity of psychological philosophy, which is one of social reforms and transitions.
Youths aged over thirty get lost in the procession of hardworking workers. When will the slogan of the demand for basic human rights be stopped? Highways shall not be maps of blood. No elegy will have to be written. Sitting in the crowd of simultaneous waiting, one may think of the probable sympathetic character.
The insight of direct sensation is a faultless reminder of the transmitting profoundness, very specific. As went to the perimeters of the words, the tone of the poem gets trembled at the fall of the gleaming mystery.
The Ground of Freedom with Life
The cycle of that time transcends the man lying in the blood-stained body. Red blood soaked his favorite cigar pipe, lungi, and full-sleeve shirt. The heart of Bangladesh had declared, ‘This is the struggle of our liberation, this is the struggle of our freedom.’
Tell me who wants to get separated? The regime could not stop the resentment of the masses because it did not respect constitutional rights. The bullets too failed. Indiscriminate killings gave birth to resistance and revenge. It also gave birth to mass protests. The rebellious common angry mob became militants. ‘I fight for the liberation of the motherland,’ he said, dreaming of a map in a battle-winning script.
2.
March 26, 1971. Dhaka is like a city of corpses. There were corpses everywhere—in the varsity campuses, drains, streets, alleys, and even by the door. The land of seven crores Bengalis got a perfection in the realization of freedom through the nine-month-long carriage in the canals, lakes, hillocks, and bushes.
Martyr Mujib! House number thirty-two got spotted with your blood and the guile of the lessons of political science on the stairs. The soil of Bengal and the red and green flag hold you ardently.
The golden redness burns in the fire of time, and the emotional fortitude of remembrance. The cycle of time goes beyond the man lying in the blood-stained body.
Mournful 15 August
This land of ours has been occupied again and again for centuries. The Bengalis have fought against exploitation, and in the process, many have been martyrs.
August 15—Bangladesh started to get murdered. The history of the country, the houses of the martyrs, and even the graveyards began to flood with blood. The country began to go in the wrong direction, towards the destination of the perfidious Mirzafars. Those who rejoiced at the blood of their father of the nations after killing him are vile creatures. They are evil and degraded.
O Great Father, this soil is soaked in your blood and the roots of the Bengalis have been shaken. The homeland of green is like a mournful bowed face. The sky of Bangladesh was covered with the depressing raptness of the clouds with darkness. The pain of losing the Father of the Nation became a stream of misery, merging into the sea. After the morning call of prayer, the most beautiful flower of that garden fell that day sadly. The slogan, ‘Joy Bangla, Joy Bangabandhu’ rose from the hearts of the freedom—loving people. O Mujib, you are the symbol of conviction after overcoming enormous struggles, deprivations, and sacrifices. The Bengali nation fought in your name. Synonyms rise above what is sought. May mourning be the procession of strength.
This picture is painted in the mind. Independence—Blood Red Poet’s Sun. I gave a touch to the unified green of love, an extended form of yours. Held in high esteem with words of praise in all corners of Bengal day and night.
The whole map of the land of this eternal Bengal represents your physical entity. Even after a thousand years, the grandfather of the citizens will narrate the contribution of the father of the nation to the nation.
Tributes[8]
On the way to the realization of rights, Manu Miah carried the dream of the masses with slogans from Beani Bazar to the whole of East Bengal. Thousands of people gathered under the open sky, they were basically common masses with their fists countless.
As regards freedom, he was accountable to his seven-year-old daughter, Putul. He was committed to carrying the flag of his own nation in his proud hands silently. The pain of subjugation of Bangla and the Bangalees with the fading pain of putrefying consciousness affected him and he uttered boldly: this is the demand of our survival, this demand must be acknowledged.
Suddenly he was shot in the right rib. Manu Miah, who was shot fell to the ground. The milepost was stained with blood. He was fidgeting in pain with the 6—point alphabet in his chest. Then Nure Alam Siddiqui took hold of the bleeding spot. The wounded hero said, ‘I don’t need to be caught, you had better tell us the tales of struggle.’ He embraced death while listening to those words and opened the window of struggle of sixty-nine, seventy and seventy-one.
The certificate of liberation was wrapped in a sheet the shroud of a map. O martyrs, the Government of the independent, sovereign People’s Republic of Bangladesh was established through your self-sacrifice.
The Last Home of Dewan Mansoor Estate
In the course of an intensive private conversation, I pass long hours. I come across numerous memories of the so long trodden ways. May the country, the children, and honesty persist with glory. May the Joy Bangla Slogan also have a vigorous persistence.
No matter what is old. Let all look at the statements of the three generations who fought for liberation. The Last Home of Dewan Mansoor Estate! The symbol of the burnt house bears the character of the forehead of struggle.
Kadam flower blooms still today. Birds chirp, breaking sleep, and the dawn is endowed with a joyous mood. The amusement had already touched the heart. History is like an algae tone. Your own house is full of life. The old verse is- when the inherent spirit and values are realized. Match the emotions with the heart and meditate being comprehensively passionate with roots duly linked. Unite your life with all feelings and emotions after the birthday. Be happy, my friend, be cheerful in the city of happiness.
Remember when East Bengal was burnt. Remember the red flag of independent Bengal. Those who were valiant freedom fighters against foreign rule have already passed away. Best regards to the welfare of those who are martyred warriors.
It’s wise of you not to recall the sadness and take the pain of nine months. It should be such that even a flower shouldn’t give a negative touch. I will decorate it with colours provided that you endorse it really. Those who are not having sound emotional state need to dream a lot. Bengal will have to remain free, so we ought to be watchful constantly. I write a lot; I have many more feelings in thoughts. Prayers for the motherland flow from the heart even unknowingly.
The Cover of Pain[9]
In the poem of concentrated theme, the focus lies in the radiance of the verse. The shadows of sadness are quite lonely with distressing outbursts being their language of expression. This can be known during night hours or in the story of a profound heart.
The whole feeling of silence from the attachment of the soil touches like an attire, the beaming time of free rhythm. It is written in the clan-free light of the faded period of the script. The hymns of that time are written in the language changing with the passage of time. The old frame of the forsaken depiction shows the face stuck. Are you fine, poet?
There is rain in the chest of the clouds, the house inside the mind. There are realities in the evening and dreams at dawn. By what name shall I address you, word artisan? That makes man careful and seasoned. It is the account of the late hour of sleep to guard consciousness. It was said, to safeguard communism in secular humanism. It resembles living in the service of surviving like the character of the poem.
The cover of the blue book flew in the sky of pain. There were hundreds of printed letters yet the footprints were on the sandy beach. It is the waves of the sea that know our past. We won’t think one day of the way our predecessors moved and did. By burning oneself, it gives a solid foundation. Even in the dark, huge processions are moving with the hands raised high. My objective is to look for you; I always seek good of my companion. It is, as it were, precisely made of clay and I will prefer to stop there.
May you sleep forever at the door of the house of peace – Literary.
Address of Honour—A Draft[10]
He is a devoted activist of the Little Magazine movement who will be available in the scene after he has done his work perfectly. Little Mag has attested to a golden jubilee plaque at various stages of his life. This is where engraved philosophical numbers draw the readers’ admiration. The introduction of the draft describes the reflection of the heart, its aesthetics, and many more things. Dedicated homage is paid to the fundamental movement of literary practice, to the assembly of poets. He is the one, whose call brought back the stranger to the editor’s table, coming from a weather distance of three hundred and fifty miles. It is a gathering of writers who have become accustomed to taking lessons in the field of culture. The Welcome Address is handed over to the Shabdapath architect by the new generation to get it printed. The Address of Honour will be drafted today. I invite you all.
The summation of the outcome of the decades is visible with the existence of the Address of Honour lying in the background. With the enjoyment of time reflecting joys and sorrows of the past, the familiar person remains just an abstract entity. This writing is dedicated to the personality who immersed himself in the compassion of Bangla language in the literary circuit of the UK. He lives forever below the outskirts of the blue sky. His modesty is well reflected in his long expatriate life. Let the whole of our relationship be dedicated to the earnestness of individuality. This neighborhood knows and so does the periodical what anxieties the soul really conceives.
Poetry is the center stage of get-togethers. By what name may I call him, or the pronoun? Even the shadow of the passer-by declares that he has contributed a lot during his fifty golden years.
Contemporary Verse
Sometime in mid-spring, Cleopatra stood with her finger on the door of Egypt
Then Ptolemy would come up after bathing in the light of the full moon.
In the sandy steps of life, the youth of that moonlight recalls, and unnamed bird calls.
It appears to be less courteous and says- Come closer in warmth, my friend.
Falgun is shrouded in Egyptian love traditions.
The last active pharaoh of Ptolemaic Egypt is the global focal point
Like his hand resting on the throne of Egypt in silence and peace.
The sweat of the ancient workers still persists in the folds of the pyramid, dripping too
On gravity to be precise.
The tombs of King’s Valley are glinting with the handicrafts of the artists,
The artists make it possible to cause rain and the water gets mixed that of the Nile.
Along the Silk Route, moving about of King Tutankhamun Queen Nefertiti,
And so the tradition of King Akhenaten from Ramesses.
The stories of the Egyptian soil and people cover thousands of years
The royal family was busy, keeping those appearances undamaged.
In every bandage and fold of fine cloth, there lies the power of dreams
It resembles the turning point of a river.
The people of the world still stare at the Egyptian pyramids in amazement,
Towards the pioneering history of time in the then context!
Textbooks and favourite lists of the tourists are areas of surprising curiosity
The tears of the great sons of the old city and the neighbourhood are mixed with the fire of rebellion.
Besides the windows of the science laboratory, and in the shadow of the graveyard, still blooms the hibiscus
In the land of many great departed people, Egypt stands with its head held high.
Waiting for the Sunrise[11]
Those who sacrifice their lives for the establishment of people’s rights and get last rite attire to wrap their bodies around don’t know that they have a post-worldly life of love and respect.
The whole world trembled at the cries of helpless people who in too powerless. The occupants and their friends are blind, they can’t see but the greedy gaze is on their hollow, the deaf can’t hear but they can’t move the ear of their birth—in the fascination of dictatorial power they will one day be squandered, destitute. Despite the evolution of the age, the earth has not yet lost its orbit. The baby or the adolescent who finds their father’s hands, feet, or other limbs of their parents missing after their birth or in their infancy or adolescence tends to guide his thoughts to take revenge which aims at achieving freedom and liberation. This is the land where their forefathers have been sleeping for thousands of years. That very sacred land today is illegally occupied by others like the obscure eyesight of the exploited masses of Palestine.
As nature burns in the heat of summer, human rights are burning. The demands of the deprived die in the huge field of politics. The slogans are- we want emancipation, we want freedom. Every time conviction to the firm effect is resensed, the sense that encompasses the oath given to the martyrs. Like Bangabandhu, his daughter Sheikh Hasina has stood with the State on the side of Palestine.
Those who are endangering the world are cursed, murderers. For the children who have just become orphans in the occupied Gaza, the foundations of this planet will be shaken in the prime time as a means of revenge. In that case, the banks of the sweet water river or even in the twenty first century humanity suffer miserably from helplessness. Is it a more forceful direct occupation of spheres than the one undertaken by the Semitic and the anti-Semitic dimensions?
Freedom—loving people will leave that protest mark in resistance. The united unity of the oppressed will emerge in the world one day. A society free from exploitation will be established by illuminating the eastern horizon. We all are in anticipation of the bright sunrise.
Poetic World
Like burning copper— a dazzling sight it is.
Whoever comes today has a fisted look fit for giving slogans,
In building the society, incomparable creative dimension will be left.
We spread the image of the joyous time all over the world.
I keep all the household of life in the memory cells
There is another level of conscience behind ours
Humanity is a single-unit global reality with no boundaries.
Somewhere it is sold to the interests of the people, yet
Covid 19 comes, Covid goes. Like a cloud,
Humanity loses to the people of the world.
If the thoughts be they yours or mine are unrestricted
Remember that this society belongs to ours and so do the animals.
Before the running clock stops, the weather stays approving.
In the land of love, affection affects the heart.
On a rainy day, nature washes away
May this planet be habitable for all of us, let it be poetic all the way.
Palestine[12]
In the event of the death of morality in the world, death is supposed to be quite synonymous with Palestine. For half a century, the world has been being dawned on the news of either the wounded or the killed. O Palestine, undetermined is your destiny. Humanity today is lacking in rhythm in the crowd of a silent vision broadcast. The world experiences an afternoon bare of all feelings. It watches the ground touched by the blood of genocide. It also observes various programmes of peace—loving people. The people exiled in their own country are looking for the path which will lead to emancipation.
The monsters of unforgiving politics next to power circuit burn innocent parents and children. Brit-America sees the loss of business in the face of people. Dear Palestine—an abstract picture of an exile town. The civilised society walks in metaphorical adornment, spreading the sense of responsibility. O Palestine, the brave people of the world will stand to resist one day. In this life, we also extend the hands of relations. Struggle with all its interpretations are mixed in the marginalisation of the exploited people.
The original unfinished recognition was the independent, sovereign state of Palestine.
50 years of independence
The creation of rights has emerged in the lessons of a thousand years of traditions. Various industries developed as strong slogans of the language movement. Coming to fifty years of birth, the title is the progress of freedom. Jai Bangla is the land of indomitable youth, green grass, and golden fibres.
On that long journey, there was evening, darkness, and the new moon. Though it seemed dim sometimes, the faint streak of light was never of sight. However, like the shadow of the sun, the Bangalees have not left the spot. Even after persecution and torture, they could stand again.
People are lost like fallen leaves in a gloomy forest. In that tree, or any branch, the birds call, thwarting the vulture’s attack. The dream of the year has been burnt and so has the list of martyred freedom fighters. The nation was not confused by the various uses of the movement.
The night dawns, the sun wakes up, and the entire map is illuminated. The Pakistani consciousness flies like dust. The title or character of hundreds and thousands of poems in the world is independent sovereign Bangladesh.
The France[13]
Across the vast coastal plains lies the northern region.
Mid way quite high and appears to be aesthetic.
Green valleys and the snow-capped Alps lie on the eastern edge.
As if this natural beauty suggested a fixed limit.
It’s like the shivering cold of the Loire that flows by the city
The waters of the Garonne, the Tarn, and La Seine too are identical.
My beloved once lived in that city.
The designs of Paris had connections to our urban relationships.
Merchants walked to the city of Bordeaux on the river.
The architecture of Nantes industrial centers reflects nationalism vividly.
The sweat of the workers is shed for the welfare of the civil society.
Statistics also record our times even in the midst of abundance and structures.
On the world stage, in the childhood of humanity, many dreams and emotions appear.
A name that has become the centre of the cultural life of Paris.
Marked Footsteps
Personal uniqueness and feats of blessed people
These memoirs will be housed in the Louvre Museum.
Like the UNESCO Heritage sites
The beautiful land is blessed with many ancient relics of renown.
Chanson d’Ogest finds place in the literary session
Celtic and Frankish issues come up in our discussion.
Voltaire’s La Destiny or Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables too
We try to find images of historical times in the works of Marcel Proust.
The cries of the colony don’t enter the realm of civilisation
Angry slogans get lost in the pages of autobiographies.
Abstract happiness floats on the streets of the metropolis
All the waters of the world are sea bound, looking for a permanent place.
Bangabandhu’s Epitaph
A state was formed in East Bengal with the responsibility of governing Bangladesh. This is the land where he played the role from 1948 to 1971—the best Bengali ever born. But listen, O generation, did the Bengalis who had been dreaming of independence for thousand years know that one of them called Mujib would emerge? Will live with the identity of its own flag in this world?
That dream was flowing in rural Bengal. It was flowing in this soil which is the unique form of full diversity—the Gangetic delta basin. This is where the freshness of extraordinary beauty matched. In the realm of abstract paintings, the nature here is very generous; the whole of Bangladesh is surrounded by beautiful situations. Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman has welcomed the nation intensively with this love all over the country. In whose bosom the heavenly beauty rises like the waves of vast waters. No one has come yet in this Bengal whose finger can be matched with his. He was born absolutely for our freedom after many great ages of waiting.
Even at the time of my birth, you are in prison waiting for death for the emancipation of the exploited people. He was the leader of the common masses seated close to their heart—a unique situation for our Bangladesh. The evidence of an impeccable struggling life—O Bangabandhu Mujib, you are another name for that Swadeshi conviction. I haven’t seen you; I haven’t heard your voice as well. Yet the height of your Bangalee identity and the vastness of feeling are sources of inspiration. Always wonders at the glorious utterance of the 7th of March declaring the concept of independence.
The poet of politics declared that day ‘This is the struggle of our liberation, this is the struggle of our freedom.’ There is more to deliver— there are Bihan of Panchakhanda, and gurgling water of the Kushiara, the Sunai, and the Lola river in the focus and so moonlit night of the full moon. All these lead the struggle to the doorstep of freedom. He opened the door of freedom in every corner of Bengal, be it the markets, the fields and the wilderness or the restless mindsets of the youth and the adolescents and the wisdom of the old. That day the world saw a flag flying with the map of the State named Bangladesh at the centre.
On the day he delivered his first speech in Bangla at the United Nations, the world did see hand placards with slogans of language martyrs. Every word uttered by the legend blossoms even today in the resolution book of the pages of the history of the United Nations. The sky of our country was cloudless, like a line of poetry, exulting in nationalism.
The shadow of your portrait awakens the freedom of exploited, oppressed, oppressed people and you become a symbol of peace. Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is the name of the soul that is united with the soil of the motherland, freedom, nationality, and the sovereign flag.
[1]Dedication: Abdul Mannan Syed, with regards.
[2]Dedication: Fiction writer Akaddas Sirajul Islam, with best regards.
[3]Dedication: Jane Alam, the expatriate citizen facing the test of time.
[4]Dedication: Those who are working for the trial of the razakars all over the world, with utmost regards.
[5]Behag—Raga.
[6]Dedicated to Poet Shamsur Rahman.
[7]Dedicated to Poet MominulMouzdin.
[8]Dedication: Fakhrul Daula Khan Manu Miah, the first martyr of the 6-point movement of 1966.
[9]Dedication: Poet Delwar Hossain Manju- The shua bird has flown away, vacating the cage. Dervish Wali Mahmud says, ‘listen all–how can the clan of poets survive without verse?’.
[10]Dedication: Poet Abu Moksud, Editor, ShabdapathLittleMag UK.
[11]Dedication: Those who fought for an independent Palestine.
[12]Dedicated to: The trio namely George Habash, Poet Mahmoud Darwish and Yasir Arafat.
[13]Dedication: All French writers.