Comitted to PEOPLE'S RIGHT TO KNOW Vol. 4 Num 109 Sat. September 13, 2003       Literature Poems Shamsur Rahman (From Kaiser Huq's upcoming volume of translations to be published by UPL) She I see a young woman walking alone at midday through the alley's sun-drenched silence. Standing with a hand on the window grill I wonder where she will go. A complete stranger yet for an unknown reason a shadow of affection for her, redolent of the scent of rain on dry earth descends on my soul. I wonder if she will walk like this one day and enter a slimy darkness, or if unfathomable moonlight will rain on her the rich pollen of passionate love? But let her rest for the moment in the serai of these lines. Everything Remains Extremely Vague Arranging words all day I am enthralled by imperishable beauty, and many sleepless nights pass in making icons with words. For hours I sit facing a white wall hung with calendars, at times, as if at an electric touch suddenly spin around, stand up. Have I seen a gazelle leap, or a jaguar race through Bolivian jungles, Che Guevara's muddy hands, unarmed, alone, caught in an eternal sunset? Perhaps that's why there hasn't been a real sunrise in many lands; freedom hangs from gallows whichever way one looks, the wounded conscience walks the streets with whipmarks on bent back. By arranging words, it seems, I've set up on my left something like a health resort bathed in the rich light of sun and moon. No matter what they say, all I can claim for assets on this thorny path are a straight backbone and a glow of pride like the one that shone in Christ's eyes, and I quickly put out the funeral pyres. Has the blank wall shown me in visions the many comely boats that sail for the unknown at the pull of the river's secret currents? Sometimes nearness enfolds me and in the dark as if in a dream a solitary cloak trembles with life. 'Come into my heart,' a deep voice tells me in the blank space of a dream: whether it's the mystic Rumi or Uncle Ho Chi Minh is hard to tell; dreams are always partly vivid, partly vague. Before the Journey I'll soon be gone, quite alone and quietly, taking none of you along on this aimless journey. Useless to insist, I must leave you all behind. No, I'll take nothing at all on this solitary journey, you're stuffing my bags for nothing; don't squeeze my favourite books into that beer-bellied suitcase, I won't ever turn their pages. And let the passport sleep on in the locked drawer. Only let me have a look at the harvest from my ceaseless toil, the quietly ripening fruits of my talent. But what on earth are these wretched things you bring? Did I lie drunk with smugness in my little den at having produced this inert, unsightly crop? My soul screams in mute desolation at the thought of carrying this sight with me. I beg you, don't add to the burden of this journey. I Remember I remember the gate right here, festooned with a flowering creeper, a tricycle on the verandah of the house, and a young fellow leaning at ease against the doorpost spinning his yarns of many colours. From the kitchen silken vapour wreathed up and vanished into air. There was one who lived here on scraps and leftovers; with luminous eyes prowled the night on velvet feet. And a quiet armchair globetrotter, nose buried in morning papers, would look up startled at cawing crows on the wall and recall a childhood football field and relive over and over a goal missed-- the ball sailing away not heeding the referee's frantic whistle, and crowded figures would bigan to caper in the debit column of life's ledger. There was a gate right here, festooned with a flowering creeper. And now-- nothing. Only a bit of wall pierced by a shell stands like a gaping idiot, a few scattered bricks, a broken doll and nothing else. I turn the ashes with a toe, hoping it's possible a phoenix might arise or a smile flash, full of affection, love. Good Morning, Bangladesh Good morning, Bangladesh, good morning, How do you do? Good morning Saatrowza, Mahouttuly, Nawabpur, Bangabandhu Avenue, Purana Paltan; good morning Bagerhat, Mahasthangarh, Mainamati, good morning Palashtali, Pahartali, good morning Cox's Bazaar, Himchhari; Good morning Adiabad Canal, and every variety of palm, Nitai the fisherman's net, Boatman Kassim's dinghy, gooseberry blossoms, Kamela's earrings, good morning Barisal, Sunamganj, Tetulia, Teknaf, good morning Buriganga, Dhaleswari, Padma, Meghna, Surma, Karnaphuli. Good morning Bangladesh, good morning, How are you? Bangladesh, sometimes you're busy husking rice in a cheap striped sari, sometimes, in jeans you go wild in the discotheque. At times you carry a pitcher on your hip to fetch water, fall to chatting at the ghat, sway on waves of joy at the sight of a beautiful bird, fan your fifth child to sleep at siesta time in hot summer; offer paan and areca nut to a guest, cook a delicious fish curry; stay up alone on winter nights embroidering a quilt. Such sights charm my eyes. Bangladesh, those who pinch the bottom of your culture, rub in poison ivy-- may Allah grant them long life. Those who remove your armlet from your arm, your nose-pin from your nose, your necklace from your neck, your girdle from your waist, and smuggle them out of the land-- may Allah grant them long life, and all those opportunist cheats who spit lies-- may Allah grant them long life. Listen Bangladesh, your eyes haven't been so blinded by the froth of dreams that you can't see the flocks of vultures with claws like fish-hooks rip open the sky's belly, drag out the clouds' entrails; the Parliament snoring away, politicians removed from the life of the people and on a long picnic; the constitution adrift in air like a kite with snapped string, development experts devouring the Five Year plan like industrious worms. Can't you see how owls and bats are shitting with boundless enthusiasm on the heads of dissipated intellectuals, can't you see, great goddess with thoughts garnered from seven different sources, seven crows are stealing the rice from your child's platter? Good morning, Bangladesh, good morning, how do you do? At the sight of a rich and ruddy foreigner in a suit will you instantly spread open your thighs? Like Hamlet I'm averting my fiery eyes for now, O my ravished land, but can I always restrain my pugnacious limbs?