SEVEN POEMS BY ASAD CHOWDHURY

A Brief Doze

And, then, rushed in,
the dream of correction and compensation,
with pomp and splendour.

No stir of consent, though, in creepers of unknown trees –
Thank God, a pale moon rose,
A pleasant, refreshing slice of moon,
Calling up the forest into view.

– Translated by Masud Mahmood


Perspiring

Cursing my enemies, I say,
The past was vast and long in size,
The future a bit lank by comparison,
Slightly pale, and smaller in bulk as well.

The scope of work has shrunk,
A good reason for lazing around –
No matter how grey the nearer past,
The nearer it snuggles up in a wily way.

I've no desire for new stones,
Yet roaming peaks and caves and beaches goes on.
Just because I'm lucky, something comes along
In return for the old bouquet of flowers, though.

You'd hear the echo of the future
In life, in dream, in memory
Apathetic to judgement, patient and forgiving –
Yet, alas, your body sweats your mendicancy.

– Translated by Masud Mahmood


Émigré

Not self-exiled,
The émigré is a little piqued.
Letters pile up slowly
And lists of orders from home
Are strewn feathers of swans –
Still he kisses the lips of the moon
Still, alas, his lips burn on.

He tenderly takes his secrets out
From the bright shirts of clouds
And then murmurs cryptic mantras
Over his cherished secrets alone.
When he is a little drunk and undone
He sees Bangladesh at every turn.

Not a deportee by choice,
The émigré is really piqued.
Else why should he ask,
Why I'm a wandering alien, then?

– Translated by Masud Mahmood


Dream-wall

Dreams have no doors nor walls
They wander like open skies,
White birds
flying
circling
In the deep blue sky.

Some raise charming walls in dreams
Wishing to snatch away dreams
Desiring to cover them up in dresses
Clumsy and awkward like camels –
This is their ambition.
Only poets can hear
The lament for power.
Are dreams, then, some hopeless expectations
Shut up within walls?

– Translated by Masud Mahmood


Wrong Map In Hand

Has the stone broken?
So what.
The heart is broken.
Let it be.
Yet I’ve got the vast sky
And a wide window of my own.

The inhaler in pocket,
I still relish
The pranks of the wind.

The wrong map in hand,
I’ve passed my days and nights,
Living unseemly, wandering aimlessly,
My starving midday rolling into the afternoon.

So many pass through life,
Like a cakewalk.
So many unworthies go past.
Yet, like you, Lalan,
I sit here in neglect for ever.

– Translated by Masud Mahmood


Key West

Perhaps the delicate handiwork
Of earth, air, sun and water
Or maybe watercolour–
Smoky memories of cheroots in clouds –
The key to the west is fondly made
Of hard-working men and women’s sweat and dream.
Boys and girls or youth, if you please,
Knocked not at sunset’s but night’s secret chamber,
Morning sunlight filled up the wine decanter .

– Translated by Masud Mahmood


Hope

Am I stone sunk in eternal slumber?
Stone wakes up, the first water thrust
Of endless effusion in wondrous shiver.

From the depths of refreshing memory,
In musical, fragrant glory, I wake up. Maybe
Someday someone will come to wake me up silently.

– Translated by Masud Mahmood