"bangla" poems
*she just shakes her head
she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance,
in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night,
I greet her with words semi-adventurous -
“come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company”
to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve
lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some
kids appear, a surprise omen as they come
trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving
the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer
in his native Bangla
she asks “what’s that he’s saying?”
“Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and
may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune”
she just shakes her head, from side to side
emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”
she asks, “who is that?”
“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’
she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where you buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”
but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side
I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house,
the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop
a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment
a secret elevator which is under the direction of
Bimal from Nepal,
who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor)
I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys
now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging,
she just shakes her head, from side to side
later she says:
“let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise,
some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue,
known for its aphrodisiacal powers
afterwards,
you must tell me each dishes name,
in its tongue’s nativity,
but much, much later,”
and as she speaks, grinning,
she sticks out her tongue,
while she just shakes her head,
but this time,
up
and
down
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
Originally published by The Chained Muse. My translation is based on an untitled text in Bangla (Bengali) first published in 1912 and known as "60" due to its numerical placement. Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Keywords/Tags: seashore, gathering, children, sky, sea, water, dance, sand castles, shells, boats, play, nets, swim, fish, pearls, ships, waves, songs, mother, lullaby, baby, cradle, tempests, death
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
she said:
don’t forget!
milk, oil, flowers
our offerings, our worship.
my hands are broken
but still you kiss each finger.
I remember
milk for kheer,
oil for the lamp,
flowers for Shiva.
to me these are nothing.
in your eyes the world sleeps
can I sleep in them, too?
Hindi:
वह कही:
मत भूलना!
दूध, तेल, फूल
हमारा प्रसाद, हमारी पूजा
मेरे हाथ टूट गए हैं
लेकिन अभी भी तुम एक एक उंगली चुंबन।
मुझे याद है
खीर के लिए दूध,
दीपक के लिए तेल,
शिव के लिए फूल।
मेरे लिए ये कुछ भी नहीं हैं।
तुम्हारी आँखों में दुनिया सो रही
मैं उन में सो सकते हैं भी ?
Bangla:
ও বলল:
ভুলে যাবেন না!
দুধ, তেল, ফুল
আমাদের নৈবেদ্য, আমাদের পূজা।
আমার হাত ভেঙে গেছে
তবুও আপনি প্রতিটি আঙুল চুমু।
মনে আছে
খিরের জন্য দুধ,
বাতি জন্য তেল,
শিবের জন্য ফুল।
আমার কাছে এগুলি কিছুই নয়।
তোমার চোখে পৃথিবী ঘুমায়
আমি কি তাদের মধ্যে ঘুমাতে পারি?
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 12:57 AM UTC
If, in the golden Bengal,
At the crack of dawn,
The rainbow from beyond the skies
Gently alights upon the wings of a butterfly,
Smiling all the while
Then what shall befall
As the day softly wanes,
In the twilight beneath the veiling horizon,
When evening tenderly embraces the earth?
Wandering all day through the villages of Bengal,
Across the vast wetlands, fields of rice,
From door to door, along the wild paths,
Through shaded groves and verdant forests
Amidst the gaps of flaming Krishnachura trees,
On that very path,
The midday red fairy peeks through with a playful glance.
The dark Mathura clouds paint the sky,
As the graceful Giriya ducks spread their wings,
The vermilion-touched woodpeckers tap away
While the sunbirds sing their melodies,
By the edge of the waterlily lake, beneath the banyan tree,
A contented farmer's flute releases the joy within every heart.
And none other than the blue fairy
Leaps out of the monsoon pond,
Only to descend into the courtyard
Woven by Bangla Mother's enchanting, tender touch.
So too shall the golden sun descend at twilight,
With a gentle smile amidst the evening's enchantment.
At the close of day, it will offer to the moon in pure bliss
Its crimson garland of red water lilies!
Aug 22, 2024
Aug 22, 2024 at 12:10 AM UTC
The snagged line grows taut
As I repeat the question
" Is there anything you want?"
House too empty , stairs too steep
She wants me back, I worry
"Weve been to ASDA , dont ask what i bought"
Saturday afternoon phonecall
"How are things?"
The reluctant tagline
"Not so bad"
Front garden going native
I set off down the cracked path
Doesnt want next door to see
I dont wave
TALKING THEIR LANGUAGE
June classroom, stir of voices
Arriva trains glide to the coast
Coffee needs filling, the last biscuit goes
This afternoon we look at idioms
Unpicking centuries, cultures
Somalia, Bangla Desh, Kurdistan
English remains official
Still a puzzle
"Speak slowly and clearly"
"Dont hit trees with sticks"
"Its a piece of cake"
The intricacy of language
Shapes ancient letters
"Lemon squeezy " chimes Messa
Our laughter is shared
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 6:50 AM UTC
a heap of rice
with small stones and salt
this red sari I am wearing
is a story
I cannot write.
So I am walking
with my bag of rice.
I give it to maa,
to you I give the salt
the stones I put between
today and tomorrow.
Bangla:
কত দেব?
এক গাদা ভাত
ছোট পাথর এবং নুন সঙ্গে
একটা লাল শাড়ি আমি পরা
এতা একটা গল্প
আমি লিখতে পারি না।
তখন হাটছি
ভাতের থলে সঙ্গে
আমি মা কে দিয়েছি
তোমাকে আমি নুন দিয়েছি
পাথর আমি রাখছি
আজ এবং আগামীকাল মাঝখানে।
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 10:19 AM UTC