In this room, a deaf bed sleeps Sheafed in a corner, like the pens on her desk The world here stands still, as if a shaft No maudlin tale, no sad song plays A monument of trials stems from her breasts Be careful not to touch her, She is lucky to have made it this …
বিষাদের হাজার রকম চিত্রায়ণ করা যায় শিক্ষক, চিকিৎসক, ব্যবসায়ী সবাই ভিন্ন ভিন্ন ভাবে বিষাদের চিত্র আঁকবে রাজনীতিবিদ হলে অন্য কথা সে আঁকাআঁকির বদলে তুলি ও ক্যানভাসটাই পকেটে পুরে নেবে। উচ্চবিত্ত ও মধ্যবিত্তদের বিষাদের চিত্র ভিন্নতর আবার নিম্নবিত্ত হলে অন্য কথা সে আপনার কাছে বিষাদের মানে জানতে চাইবে জানতে চাইবে, আগুন ক্ষুধা পেটে নিয়ে ঘুমোতে …
Naked scales and serrated wants fall around me like inlets of a vertical body of water. Sound is the lizard in me, anhydrous its eyes; slide a finger down its lizard tail and feel irate grooves— centuries old—rising away from fear under its violent epidermis. Take me to your calm place and I will sink …
It hurts. Twisted, gnarling, rooted pain that knows no age, no boundary it envelopes into me, into others, and I see it reach out with a radiated hand pain is so familiar. I have become desensitized to it. I only know it needs me and that my corporeal and incorporeal existence beckons to it, like …
A raconteur unto himself His deft tales he did not tell Any man or any beast. A self-appointed philosopher Trapped inside his own skull, Thoughts expressed to no soul. They came for him nonetheless, The thought police who patrol These dark, depraved streets; He stands tall, he does defy The higher power of this land, …
i. What domestic image are you scrutinizing this morning, Carlos Williams? What line break have you devised on your carriage, hastening from a measled simp to the hospice gent who attempted, more than once, to so rudely slide into your work through your breathtaking enjambments? ii. I am changing the tire this morning and I …
-মা অপেক্ষায় ছেলে ফিরবে স্যুট-টাই পড়ে বাবুমশাই হয়ে লাল জিপের গাড়ি নিয়ে। -ছেলে ফিরলো সাইরেন বাজিয়ে মস্ত বড় এম্বুলেন্স সাদা কফিন বন্দি লাশ! ছেলের শেষ চিঠি, মা কিভাবে পারলে আমাকে একটা অন্ধকার কসাই খানায় একা ছেড়ে দিতে!
Few words and a starting line You’re not a poet Using commas, abusing aroma You’re not a poet Trying to rhyme with words that don’t align You’re not a poet Forget rhymes, putting emphasis on life You’re not a poet Using abstract rigid words as an idiom You’re not a poet Philosophical pondering, meaning lost …
Thirty minutes to midnight And he approached me, steadily with tired bare feet, Spotlighted by the full moon; He was wearing a white shirt, Top two buttons missing, Unwashed for at least a month or so, Fashionably knee-cut faded jeans, However, the cuts resemble Years of capitalist abuse; His eyes were intriguing, With his iris …
Where are the men?’ I asked her. ‘In their proper places, where they ought to be… We shut our men indoors.’ Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain’s seminal science fiction short story ‘Sultana’s Dream’ depicted a feminist utopia, and was one of the first fictional works in India to do so. However, it never really received the fame and recognition that …
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