In divine school there is a boy who does blare
The horn of indiscipline all over the school bare
Met me very day when I furiously did glare;
Felt though sad and bad, moved a bit with prayer
I intended to sing for him to change without spare.
Kabir is that boy who was found on hostel stair -
Roaming and singing and running like a hare.
Moved by ‘No one is lift behind’ by me. “Beware!
You have to be careful.” I used to say at square.
Now is the time, when he has changed a lot by flair
Which he had in him – half known to him I swear.
Then was the naughty boy, one of the corsair –
Now is the sincere and calm though not so clever.
Will take his father’s and mother’s good care;
I know that in future he will be a successful bear
Who may forget me but I will never to such mare.

Teen model Shonali Khatun strutted the catwalk as the audience cheered at a fashion show in Bangladesh's capital.

But Shonali is no ordinary model, and this was no ordinary show.

She and the 14 other models are survivors of acid attacks, common in this south Asian country, where spurned lovers or disgruntled family members sometimes resort to hurling skin-burning acid at their victims.

The fashion show, held Tuesday night in Dhaka and attended by fashion lovers, rights activists and diplomats including the US ambassador to Bangladesh, aimed to redefine the notion of beauty while calling attention to the menace of such attacks.

For 14-year-old Shonali, the event was nothing short of empowering. She was attacked just days after she was born amid a property dispute involving her parents, and was left with burn scars on her face and arms. She spent nearly three years in a hospital and underwent eight operations. Her attacker has never been caught.

"I am so happy to be here," she said. "One day I want to be a physician."

The models, including three men, walked the catwalk, dancing and singing and showcasing woven handloom Bangladeshi designs. The show was choreographed by local designer Bibi Russel.

Organisers said they hoped to highlight the fact that acid victims, too often overlooked, are a vital part of society. They deliberately chose to hold the event on the eve of International Women's Day.

"We are here today to show their inner strength, as they have come a long way," said Farah Kabir, country director of ActionAid Bangladesh, which organised the show. "I often take inspiration from them. Their courage is huge."

Bangladesh has struggled to deal with acid attacks in recent decades, and has instituted harsh punishments for the perpetrators, including the death penalty. The country has also trained doctors to treat such sensitive cases and attempted to control the sale of acid, but has failed to eliminate the scourge entirely.

In 2016, some 44 people were attacked with acid in Bangladesh - an annual number that has remained relatively stable.

"I am ashamed of having such things in the country," Kabir said. "Unfortunately, in Bangladesh we do have acid victims because of either gender discrimination or violence, or because of greed. And we want to remind everyone the kind of injustice that has been meted out to them."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

i've lived with the old, long enough,
to grow immune to the words
of Kabir...
        notably concerning death;
today i watched a funeral procession
outside of the balcony,
yesterday i watched another,
   a mighty procession of "mouners":
the day was too bright and
welcoming life that death had
to be orchestrated with pomp,
     otherwise, like on most occasions,
death slips past with a psst or
a librarian's hush when
a sparrow sings too loudly while
somewhere in Hades the saints
chisel out epitaphs on
       coal rocks with Dover chalk...
tiresome day and absolutely zilch
worth of mysticism when old
people speak their tired tongues:
the dreaded nostalgia of men
and the dreaded everyday toward
eternity of women...
    death becomes so boring due
to its: old dog no new tricks -
   that, we'll,  everything becomes
predicable and signed...
               it's just a funeral on a sunny
day, when you think:
   I'm sure death itself, if personified,
must want to shy away and crack
a joke, sneak past the clutches
             of the formidable mother,
naturally, swing past god and say:
    and you ****** her and out popped
this, this Las Vegas spectacular of
   the gambler suggestion with
      mother breaking off my fingers,
drilling random holes in the bones
and throwing them for interpretation?
       deism and Pontius Pilate:
            counter the hand that inscribed
the fear in Belshezar's eyes...
                        you almost want death
to pass unnoticed,
       sure, Kabir, we all know the noose,
and we know that unlike in a democracy,
the sentence of death, we cannot veto...
yet of old people:
       clothed in it,
        riddled by it, converted by it,
for some resson: unanimous in
routine, exhausted by a plateau -
           sometime still pinching
    a wild expectation,
then returning into materialistic absolutism
and chore realism of
organising a funeral...
     and these seemingly endless cocktails
of pills...
      10+, which excludes the vitamin
supplements...
      what sort of achievement is there
in old age? notably when even grandchildren
do not visit?
               ah... the business of being
adrift on the waves of life...
god, give me a maximum of 20 years
more, the roulette and stubbornness
   of my drinking, each night,
   for the next 20 years, and then a
Caesar's ideal death: sudden...
               no matter the riches,
              a prayer unto death primo,
past the lunacy of imploring for
a clean heart and an empty mind and
somehow not being contaminated by ego...
        seems like hardly
an accomplishment, to be honest,
this old age...
      even with a life expectancy
in Sudan being almost a third less...
at least a death in the prime...
     and always and everywhere the oddity
of a diet, and a life past the century
or at least nearing it...
    otherwise, dear god,
                   nothing spectacular...
well... apart from a funeral procession
on a sunny day...
       when death has to be dragged
into the open and can't stroll past slyly...
pomp of the ****** ceremony...
    that dreaded talk
    of funeral attire and what shoes...
even the pagans would have deemed
giving the body to the element of earth
as stalemate with oncoming life,
with gravestones acting as anchors dragging
people down down down...
        barricades and a history stuttering...
to give body unto the earth
rather than fire...
                       seems the most crass
     endeavour, and whatever "improvement"
was to be seen, in imagining
a resurrection...
                          a mummified jaw-drop
at the joke;
                     mind you,
    Sveedish ***** doesn't have a potent
scent vilifying the perfumery of a hangover...
   funny...
   the ever persistent hope in death...
   a hope which could not eventualise
itself in the commerce between the living
eternally fixed by
a communion with the death:
   cigarette ash sprinkled onto the hand,
and subsequently licked off,
followed by a shot of *****...
   this is my body, this is my blood.

I conquered vast pieces of land.
I ruled green patches and sand.
I am Akbar, I am Aurangzeb, I am Alexander, I am emperor,
I am man.

I discovered places which were unseen and unknown,
sometimes with my friends and sometimes alone,
I am da Gama, I am Polo, I am columbus, I am explorer,
I am man.

I constructed beautiful mosques and castles,
see this Taj, as if it was built by Angels.
I am Ustad Ahmed, I am Master james, I am Sinan, I am architect,
I am man.

I take rational approach to solve life's mystery,
through biology, physics and chemistry.
I am Jabir, I am Newton, I am Einstein, I am scientist,
I am man.

I have turned upside down many nations,
my thoughts and writings can inspire generations.
I am Marx, I am plato, I am socrates, I am philosopher,
I am man.

I crossed boundaries of earth to reach space,
Even on moon you can find my trace.
I am Aldrin, I am Gagarin, I am Armstrong, I am astronaut,
I am man.

I shape words like a sculptor with delicate touch,
my few words can convey so much.
I am Iqbal, I am Kabir, I am Wordsworth, I am poet
I am man.

I Stayed for nine months in her womb,
her love and kindness made a man in me to bloom,
She is sister, she is wife, she is mother, she is woman,
Yes, I am man because of a woman.

Immersed in God ecstasy
and orange robes
the true bhakta’s thoughts
are always on God, for God
and of God
armed with pure love
the slings and arrows
of maya, good, bad and outrageous fortune
are averted
God and His beloved
whirl across the bhakti path
dancing with Rumi, Kabir,  St. Francis  Meera Bai
and all the beautiful bhaktas
for eternity

(I met Kabir)

This morning when in trance,
At my body I had a glance,
Me, its composition amazed,
How deftly are the elements caged! ! !

I met a potter, the Earth,
At the wheel she had berth;
Carving the pots so fine,
No artist can ever design.

Its every piece was unique,
Built with a perfect technique.
She had designed a cage,
Nine exits she did stage.

The Fire provided it the fuel,
The Water did keep it cool,
The Sky did its limit provide,
The Air bird was there inside.

The Air fanned them all,
Them in their places install.
The world suddenly became alive,
It was at the Marine Drive.

The bird inside cluttered and danced,
Its all activities I glanced.
Finally, Life bird flew out,
From my trance I came out.

There is a sacred path
that winds through
my heart

It sings God's Name
as I dance ecstatically
along enchanted gopi banks
and over
whirling, warbling brooks

I marvel as a black and
white checkered,
red tufted woodpecker
carves God's Name on
a thankful tree trunk

Mirabai, Kabir and Rumi
wave their colorful prayer flags
verses of pure love
and devotion cling to the
very air we breathe

The Bhakti path forges
unafraid through
the bleak, brooding
forest of desires

Husky winds blow around
ghostly, skeleton branches
that claw helplessly
at the night skies
whispering valiant stories of
Rama's exile and
Krishna's triumph

Another tree it's hoary arms
outstretched
resembling a cross
bleeds, remembering the sacrifices
and love of Jesus, The Lamb of God

Trekking further into the dense
unforgiving jungle
seated in Lotus pose
a Golden Buddha
immersed in
rapturous meditation
opens His eyes for an instant

The sun rises in the east
I kneel and kiss His
glorious feet

Leaving the tangled woods
behind
suffering, godforsaken
figures of homeless people
sleeping alongside
this good samaritan road
emerge

Embodiments of God
spirits marred by defeat
and agony
stare listlessly, flies circling
oblivious to the
blistering desert heat

I stop to share a prayer,
cup of water, some fresh
baked bread from my knapsack
and a ray of hope

The path abruptly ascends
purple mountain mists
crown the summit
holy footprints of saints,
yogis, fellow pilgrims
indelibly christen
and guide my steps

Angels sweep the road
ahead tossing rose petals
and victory blossoms

Om peals
across the enlightened
Bhakti path

...and an ancient God awakens....

He was here
I mean
Kabir was here
writing poetry.

Staves and rings to make a keg,
pots full o'****, and patience aplenty,
we ain't makin' whiskey, we preparin'
black powder, the old boom behind now,

previous to this Nitro Oxy reaction
as we breathe and think Dynamite,
and steel, and germs and Jesus,
as depicted after Gutenberg
and Aldus Manutius, and
Kabir, first among sages
found by Brave AI,
at my request…
"Hermit, that yogi is my guru
who can untie this song.
A tree stands without root,
without flowers bears fruit,
praises sung without tongue,
the true teacher reveals.

Seek the bird’s, the fish’s path.
Kabir says, both are hard.
The being beyond boundaries
and beyond beyond."

And again I quote Saul Bellows,
"there is just too much to think about."

So we explode.
Imagining finishing,
still, pile all we ever learn,
all our hows and all our whys, and still

stand here staring off in space,
with no idea how long it takes
to make the sense we needed,

ever so long ago, almost a thousand years,
almost so long ago that nobody really knows,
so the clowns are sent in, as children gain ad-
vantage, as happens, on winning sides of wars,

and as that has happened, we, those children,
we are old and used up sorts of men made thus,

precept upon precept, how do we live together,
how can I learn to wish to give away my surplus,

and live within my means, by chance, no plan,
justice, made believable, that it does play fair,

the game of growing old while holding haps,
pursued while first discerned, as good to know,

it is the right of all mankind to pursue happiness,
and break it down
for storage and future reconstruction.

A GREAT TEACHER

Some call Him Sai Baba, Guru Nanak or Kabir.
Others say Mahtma, Swamiji, Guruji, or Peer.

Teaches he, lessons of life;
Teaches he, how to handle strife.

Teaches he, to have patience immense.
Teaches he, to be patient, which makes a lot of sense.

Teaches he, to have immense faith in Him.
Teaches he, not to perturbed get, when things seem dim.

Teaches he, to be kind n caring to bird, man n beast.
Teaches he, for inner peace; one needn't  go west or east.

Teaches he, to trees plant and flowers grow.
Teaches he, to waste food not; never it throw.

Protectes He, sometimes punishes He, like a father.
Protects He, with care great, tenderly, like a mother.

Lucky His disciple is, whom He lovingly binds.
Lucky one is, if a teacher like Him, one finds.

A teacher or Guru like Him, is precious and rare.
You are lucky if He takes you under His wings, His care.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

A GREAT TEACHER

Some call Him Sai Baba, Guru Nanak or Kabir.
Others say Mahtma, Swamiji, Guruji, or Peer.

Teaches he, lessons of life;
Teaches he, how to handle strife.

Teaches he, to have patience immense.
Teaches he, to be patient, makes a lot of sense.

Teaches he, to have immense faith in Him.
Teaches he, not to perturbed be, when things seem dim.

Teaches he, to be kind n caring to bird, man n beast.
Teaches he, for inner peace; one needn't  go west or east.

Teaches he, to trees plant and flowers grow.
Teaches he, to waste food not; never it throw.

Protectes He, sometimes punishes He, like a father.
Protects He, with care great, tenderly, like a mother.

Lucky His disciple is, whom He lovingly binds.
Lucky one is, if a teacher like Him, one finds.

A teacher or Guru like Him, is precious and rare.
You are lucky if He takes you under His wings, His care.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

re reading readily past and present read
read real as a word for what we do
so steadily balancing known on known,
thinking some things at the same instance,
we knew the will to tell, and knew as well
the will to listen, to learn while thinking,

to me
this means that

losing my breath, reaching your reason,
tuning our times to the musical mathematics

all matter is dust, all thought is spirit,
all memory has a price prepaid, the flaw
we may imagine,
maya, Kabir suggests to Rumi, and I ask
might justice mean what Karma does?

The nameless suggester, be it muse, or
some detail in a day so long ago it seems

forever, onward, outward, inward fretting,
lack of knowledge, sublime serpentine bending,

folding, creasing, not snapping in rigged tension,
compliantly bending the knee, image-visualize,
meandering streams of everything,
realize our link to thinking marked taboo.

Discover why secrets are so typical of life,
in bubbles where our sapien relatives live.

All men, wombed or un, catch phrase, me
included, learn in sequence, literally faster
whosoever
than at any time in ever before, we know more,
truth, conscious use of useful knowings shared,

to our advantage, supposing us capable of leading,
while braying mindlessly like a
sotted piper, blues on a fancy Hohner, here we go

asking reception signaling the surfing analogy,
lift us as might those children we see ourselves, once,
imagine turning at the first star on the left, using
Peter Pan, then Peter Principle, from Canada,
Laurence J. Peter, appears in color,
dressed in polyester 70's gear,
as would have looked cool on TV
while McLuhan was doing his thing.

Fit the mind into the hard problem,
let it seem the spiritual force, why

imagine satisfaction while satisfied?
What a man hath, why doth he hope for?

As when Lobsters stack for social duty,
forming hierarchies, certainly,

Delphic precepts urge recalling 1, 2,  3,

know how empty you are, know how small
your little lamp, asking measure mete,

nothing spilled remains thine own, surplus
is for general consumption, evolution taxes

the comprehension of the universal conversation,

we find old rules used to form governable clusters
of us, tabula rosa versions of each of us,
mirroring imaginable completed visions,

like Google Earth, eh,
imagine, we live there, and where we see from
is this imagined plateau in nowhere, really, just
imagine, spell binding,

how newly known is all we know, each time,
the economy collapses and we are left wondering,

was the pile wrong at the bottom, first test of load
bearing Lobster pride for being most useful, calling all

come climb on my back and become the memory,
of original reasons used to do truly childish things.

Roof high stilts was one we succeeded at,
having seen it done, doing it was nothing,
couple of old two by fours, common
artifacts in growing towns out west… nailgun
misfires come to the magnet rescued
from the uncoiled motor
on the old concrete mixer. Grandpa had hammers.

Life with electricity, safe bet, you never had no choice
but to live in a world without power… industrial strength,

but the stacking order adaptations from King of the Hill,
does evolve a kind of specific survival set of reasons,
make do, make things change, to become ladders,
and then stilts, to walk along the Al Can Highway
waving at the tourists on their way to Vegas,
as society evolved around us, hiding wrecking yards,

all the weights in the bag, when balance is primary,
all the weights prove their worth, be it true to fair.

We can think we know less than we must to finish,
but that is maya talking, the cloud of unknowable's
tyrannical kind of order,
attempting to dam the flow…

first king reason, ready to speak up and say, I know.
I know, yes, just
what you mean by too much,
too much
water in your cistern, let it flow down gutters
intelligently placed to slow erosion,
leaving
first pure, mere thought bought by breathing
consistently for seventy five years, attended to
by books that my grandma read as a child,

and my grandchildren read this summer.

Presently passing on the purpose of first and last.

I acknowledge
I'm not Kabir,
Nor Mir nor Eliot,

Still my verses
Aren't less important than kohinoor.

You value or devalue them
I am not bothered a bit.

My pen is a river
Flowing on papers.

In 'the' sacred pools, there is no.thing but fluid.
It has been floating there! Within a built of wood and bone is powerless while articulating loops! It knows it has been weeping inside the 'holy' books as nothing but words. Saw through their 'strength' one-time oblique then spoke, of what is only lived through! Breathed, It lit the eternal syllabi on fire. Now 'Kabir' and I, are enduringly excused.

Given  by  god  a  precious  present ,
A pen is the weapon of the student .

This always gives us a right way ,
When  don't  have  a  hope  ray .

She advised us to keep in all situations ,
Never  forget  this  in  odd  conditions .

This always satisfies your desire ,
Your    pen    is    your    inspire .

Only  Your  pen  gives  you  sentence ,
To express yourself with confidence .

The pen build a literature era ,
Tulsi , Sur , Kabir  and  Mira .

The pen has the power to produce god,
And to write an expression of the Lord .

Becomes a best friend when we are alone ,
By  the  pen , we  can  describe  our  pain .

The pen is the format of our dreams ,
Which  supports  our  wings .