Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Shofi Ahmed Jan 9
Beautiful Bangladesh naturally is pretty cute
on second thought is a masterstroke.
You gotta see it to believe how stunning it looks
as if the sunrise rendered a beauty spot
gladly put it on the morning rose!

Pop into a country of mass people
you could be walking down the singing birds
hanging low nearby our princely open doors.
Every one of us knows in the heart
we are sitting on a land of pure gold!

Should you bask in at the crack of dawn
as the crackling light of heaven stumbles upon
follow the first light that gives you your cue!
Besides the world's ******* Aladdin's
three wishes came true: the longest beach
the biggest tea gardens and mangrove forest,
in ***'s Bazar, Sylhet and Sundarbans.
Take your peep eye on in every direction
ah, moments await you on both sides of the pool!

Vividly mesmerising the Bengal of Gold,
a narrative in words can't always be told.
Sometimes it's said with whispers of old
in the shade of bamboo when that flute is heard
expect it to be carried to you by the frost-kissed air!

Hang onto your cameras even though
you walked passed the twilight in scenic Bandarban
seen the sunset in Kuakata is de ja vu ambling down this nook
you might feel walking one step down beneath the Moon!
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
The hallowed turf is a six seasonal
always one step ahead on earth.
So exceptional a land is out of the box
acutely drawn down the Moon
and sublimely unique is written in stone!

A patch of land every star loves to touch
so much so the Mintaka know they can mirror
the pyramid on the surface of the earth
but not the tucked away zenana here
the planetary gem, the earth's gold dust!

Go with the southern breeze on play with the sun
here it colours the wind gives it its Midas touch
and strikes a deal to part a silhouetted cloud.  
That a beauty spot raises the eyebrows of the day on a high,
on the shining face of the golden Bengal in broad daylight!

If that scores blowing the wrap off a geometry in reserve
somewhere in Sylhet, meet the Hebrew king David here
he would offer his thousand and one melodic symposium
and King Solomon princely his whole affluent shebang.
'Cause the rolling down sun from heaven this time
hitting the ground could sparkle right on the palm
holding up the very cherry-picked handful of the earth!

Oh, what's that? Keeping now and then the times in tune
the earthy depth's pearl or outburst of the enduring master art,
the jewel on the foundation stone from the root of the earth?
The golden ratio foot is so firm still is a wisp of cloud
hanging over the ocean of life what loses plops in it
smooths out a rainbow tantalising every looking eye!

The ascended fairy is a stealer that no hand can touch
seven colours shine on a patch of blue null to touch
took on a meaning for Sylhet in a handful of earth.
It matches the soil of Makkah the centre of the earth
the birthplace of the prophet king Muhammad (PBUH)!
One who is in the know hops on the foundation stone
and rose to heaven in the Night of Ascension.

How is it done regular soil mirrors the very pivotal one?
The labyrinth is out of this world, relate to Queen Maab
let alone a native maestro that not a genie can describe!

Every atom loves to discover the meaning of that.
It knows the constant vibrations the never-ending dance
that keeps it on its toe the choreography hails from outside.
With most polished foot and motions is butterfly dance
can't move an inch away there is always a canvas
is blank beneath the foot yet to lay on it the candlelight!

Light a candle in Sylhet I wonder is it the moonlight
spills through even down into an atom's black canvas
or lovely dropped down the sun on a handful of earth?

Meet here the open future shows up at the earth's hub
the moon's anew rallying to the untouching-sea
the Indian subcontinent's corner to the ancient wind!

Hark the morning birds follow singing deep in the midst
mellifluous-shrills fill the air unveiling the dream scenes!
Ah, the deep footed earth how mystique, every morning
the sun off the heaven's hill lays in a new diaphanous
gold-light-rug beneath it, but yet to paint a footprint,
the colourless magic let alone the centrepiece!

The times anew numerating the bounties of our land.
Craving to sip in a dew-potion on our blossoming rose
cirrus clouds dancing over the seven seas here they drop
banishing the midday blues singing the deep sea's song!

Nestled amidst the Rivers Surma, Kushiara and Monu
perched on the shades of the trees, each one is a canvas.
Glows with changing Bangladesh's unique six seasons
as they swing and leap in the branches of the trees
and murmur with the upstream and the autumnal breeze.

Stunned angels on their way heaven taking one more sunset
potted in the starry bowl look back at the wee hours.
They can hear pianissimo on this preserved perennial land.
It never falls asleep is awake with a numerically perfect
circle of 360 spiritual dynamos from the centre they hailed
with a handful of earth and lived here as it matched.    

A deep-seated truth, rock-solid Shilahatta in Sanskrit.
Clothed in an enduring vesture minted Sylhet loops in
with the Hebrew Bible's Shalet, a ruler, a shield!  

A little drop makes the mighty ocean.
Like one single word on the lips,
the maestros' great epics begin to be told.
Just with a mundane handful of earth
Primed Sylhet's masterpiece begins to unfold.
With the whole ball of wax keeping us onboard
lo, before the face of the earth, it unveils the mirror!
With the whole nine yards on her least hold
Believe it or not, Sylhet is cherry-picked chosen by God!
The subject matter is about a land possessing a deeply seeded truth. The prime significance of which is its scattered afar but matches the pivotal soil of the centre of the earth!
Hannah Watson Jul 2018
It is to be remembered that for all our diversity,
the white lily blooms; even in adversity.
All blood is the same and different throughout,
all water is the same in storm and in drought.
The sand settles over a puddle of rain,
and rain over concrete will do the same.
A novelist is a creator in all written word;
A musician is an artist in all music heard.
Hallucinate BoY Aug 2017
"Build forts in each homestead
You must resist the Pakistani enemy
with whatever you have in hand
Remember, we have given a lot of blood,
a lot more blood we shall give if need be,
but we shall liberate the people of this country,
(if God blessed)

The struggle this time
is the struggle for our emancipation;
The struggle this time
is the struggle for independence"

Sheikh Mujib
7 March, 1971
"I have not seen the Himalayas. But I have seen Sheikh Mujib. In personality and in courage, this man is the Himalayas. I have thus had the experience of witnessing the Himalayas -  Fidel Castro"  

The assassination of Father of the Nation Bangabondhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was the killing of the president of Bangladesh, Father of the Nation Bangabondhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman and almost his entire family. It took place in the early hours of 15 August 1975, when a group of Bangladesh Army personnel went to his residence and killed him, during a coup d'état.

"Better to die fighting for freedom then be a prisoner all the days of your life" was the principal motto of Sheikh Mujibur Rahman throughout his life as pointed out by Bob Marley.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Äŧül Mar 2016
If not for your blood,
We could have won easily,
Such minnows you are.

You saved our Holi,
Losing yesterday's match,
Which was a thriller!!!
Bangladesh lost to India in a thriller which India almost lost yesterday on 23rd of March 2016.

Had India lost the match, entire festival of Holi would be ruined.

My HP Poem #1043
©Atul Kaushal
Nuha Fariha Sep 2015
When my uncle came home from the war
he brought seven bags of naan
two pounds of butter and a piece of
shrapnel buried in his stomach

Cook he commanded
Butter the naans, heat
their skin on the stove
until they’re scorched

until they scream for release.
Cut them into a million
pieces and scatter them
Along Victory Avenue.

Once Noakhali’s valiant champion
Who scarfed 100 fuchkas  
With their blood sauce streaming
is now unable to eat

His stomach is a paunch
Growling with rotting screams
pulled fingernails and broken
bones, fragmented stories
Inspired by my Uncle who died during the Independence War in Bangladesh
Sheikh Muizz Sep 2015
Dread, is when I took step after endless step on the staircase of death.
No. ‘Death’ is too extreme - ‘staircase of scattered limbs and self-esteems.’
The summit wasn’t far now yet it wasn’t getting any closer.
My cousin Keya was behind me; her breath cooled
my sun-blistered calves and I looked back at her.
Her almond eyes and her thin lips came together
in that customary way that moved anyone to her command.
I turned back and took the steps two at a time, too quickly to think.

Was the sky really this blue?
When it isn’t crowded out by buildings, planes and industry
it could be mistaken for the smiling reflection of an unbroken ocean.
It was a strange feeling, to be so tall and no taller. I thought:
‘if I were to live here,
I’d forever be looking down at the rest of the world.’

Keya’s little head scans the ground at my feet before she joins me.
I grit my teeth and
ignore my knocking knees.
The clouds had stood still as if they had stopped to watch and right then, it was hard to see
how this moment could possibly end.

Braying, restless braying shook me out of my reverie.
The clamour of the fiendish contingent below us clashed violently
against each other. Some
were new challengers.
Others hoped to reclaim the dignities they had lost up here.

I raised my foot; ‘I am ready’.
A hand gently pushes the small of my back.
‘No’ I thought. ‘I’m not ready at all.’
My bony bottom bounces off the sides of the slide to cheers from below. Keya laughs, and follows.
Tilok Adnan Aug 2014
As buildings and tea stalls
and compiled garbage
passed by us, and led to other
buildings and tea stalls
and compiled garbage,
it was clear that the road ahead had many
turns and twists.

It was clear that
if, and only if, we went straight
we'd end up colliding into a building, or a tea stall,
or compiled garbage.

But fortunately for us,
  we know better.
I resented that day that we hadn't had enough rickshaw rides together.
‘Flew back some of Crows to me
I helped them fly once far away,
For not to stay and eat me up!
Again and over again …

‘I tried so hard and fast I could
To stay away from Crows so black,
But no way there for me to escape
Walls and walls so high …

‘Wind of return from true to lie
Can’t deny the strongest touch,
Pleasure of surfing into the blue
Still fly there crud black Crows …

‘Black Crows chase me all the way
From dawn till dusk being breathless
Sometimes I win and lose in chain,
Sea-waves rest me at shore at night …

‘Liars taught me to catch the crows
To start a series of sins afterwards
I liked first then I came to know
Crows do deal with Lucifer’s choice …

‘Knew I was going through darkness
Just keeping faith to get a light,
At last I found there not a ray
Al least to find a way back home …

‘Home for me and home for you
Found but lost by misfortune,
So far as I try to regain,
Black Crows bar me from doing so …

‘Always tasty are forbidden fruits
Like grass is greener on other side,
Sense of reasons makes no change
You keep loving being captive …

‘So never ever catch Black Crows
must it leave you in tunnel so dark,
Even after you could find way out
You may lose your grace back there …

‘You yourself are a real touch-stone
To culture yourself among people,
Sounded bitter, should have been sweet
Wrong estimate just let you down …

‘I had two eyes but never saw
The pain emerged in parents hearts,
Watching me in black Crow’s ******,
I was blind but I’ve realized now …

‘Wasted time’s now wasting me
Surely need to **** the crows,
And not to help them fly again
I wish myself to walk alive …

‘A lesson here goes to all fellows
To cure the wounds, not to endure,
The Crows will die forever too
Eyeful of ever blue sky, up there …


~ Anwar Parvez Shishir ~
05/DECEMBER/2013/THURSDAY
Jessore/Dhaka/Bangladesh
Pre-Script:
Here ‘The Black Crows’ are meant to be the vices of mankind. Please be sure you look inside the BLACK!!!. In our worldly life we do face so many personal obstacles through the crucial vices that lead us to a life full of miseries but the irony is we do not realize the fact instantly. When the realization comes time flew much farther and we have nothing in our hands to mend. Dedicated to Sir Nelson Mandela.

— The End —