September On Jessore Road - Allen Ginsberg

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <div style="text-align: justify;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rwMwt7F5LszeU14TQiR7HMT4ThT-b4djwIdkuOqNtatSMYpKXOCd5f06f-gVDYrfdAfIzCrRl4TxqsIIkRd-lzYJMIPh0bXuQ0DeZoZ21UqROOZN3I6fk3FNZvOBxqeVYrgGPv-5jIU/s1600/pol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0rwMwt7F5LszeU14TQiR7HMT4ThT-b4djwIdkuOqNtatSMYpKXOCd5f06f-gVDYrfdAfIzCrRl4TxqsIIkRd-lzYJMIPh0bXuQ0DeZoZ21UqROOZN3I6fk3FNZvOBxqeVYrgGPv-5jIU/s640/pol.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr> </tbody></table> Allen Ginsberg came to Kolkata, india in 1971 towards the end of Bangladesh Liberation war. He had friendship with many writers of Kolkata one of which was Sunil Ganguly. He stayed in Sunil's home. That time, many refugees from Bangladesh took shelter in West Bengal. Then 'Jessore road' was a connection between east and west bengal. Jessore road was under water due to heavy rain. Ginsberg eventually crossed border and reached Jessore by boat. Sunil was with him. They witnessed the miserable condition of the refugees in the camp. </div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> <br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> After watching these, Ginsberg wrote this poem. He tuned it and made it a song. After returning to USA, he sang this song in concerts with the help of his friend Bob Dilan and other famous musicians. Thus, he collected fund for Bangladeshi refugees.</div> <br /> <div style="text-align: center;"> Millions of babies watching the skies<br /> Bellies swollen, with big round eyes<br /> On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts<br /> Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts<br /> <br /> Millions of fathers in rain<br /> Millions of mothers in pain<br /> Millions of brothers in woe<br /> Millions of sisters nowhere to go<br /> <br /> One Million aunts are dying for bread<br /> One Million uncles lamenting the dead<br /> Grandfather millions homeless and sad<br /> Grandmother millions silently mad<br /> <br /> Millions of daughters walk in the mud<br /> Millions of children wash in the flood<br /> A Million girls vomit  groan<br /> Millions of families hopeless alone<br /> <br /> Millions of souls nineteenseventyone<br /> homeless on Jessore road under grey sun<br /> A million are dead, the million who can<br /> Walk toward Calcutta from East Pakistan<br /> <br /> Taxi September along Jessore Road<br /> Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load<br /> past watery fields thru rain flood ruts<br /> Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts<br /> <br /> Wet processions Families walk<br /> Stunted boys big heads don't talk<br /> Look bony skulls  silent round eyes<br /> Starving black angels in human disguise<br /> <br /> Mother squats weeping  points to her sons<br /> Standing thin legged like elderly nuns<br /> small bodied hands to their mouths in prayer<br /> Five months small food since they settled there<br /> <br /> on one floor mat with small empty pot<br /> Father lifts up his hands at their lot<br /> Tears come to their mother's eye<br /> Pain makes mother Maya cry<br /> <br /> Two children together in palmroof shade<br /> Stare at me no word is said<br /> Rice ration, lentils one time a week<br /> Milk powder for warweary infants meek<br /> <br /> No vegetable money or work for the man<br /> Rice lasts four days eat while they can<br /> Then children starve three days in a row<br /> and vomit their next food unless they eat slow<br /> <br /> On Jessore road Mother wept at my knees<br /> Bengali tongue cried mister Please<br /> Identity card torn up on the floor<br /> Husband still waits at the camp office door<br /> <br /> Baby at play I was washing the flood<br /> Now they won't give us any more food<br /> The pieces are here in my celluloid purse<br /> Innocent baby play our death curse<br /> <br /> Two policemen surrounded by thousands of boys<br /> Crowded waiting their daily bread joys<br /> Carry big whistles  long bamboo sticks<br /> to whack them in line They play hungry tricks<br /> <br /> Breaking the line and jumping in front<br /> Into the circle sneaks one skinny runt<br /> Two brothers dance forward on the mud stage<br /> The guards blow their whistles  chase them in rage<br /> <br /> Why are these infants massed in this place<br /> Laughing in play  pushing for space<br /> Why do they wait here so cheerful  dread<br /> Why this is the House where they give children bread<br /> <br /> The man in the bread door Cries  comes out<br /> Thousands of boys and girls Take up his shout<br /> Is it joy? is it prayer? "No more bread today"<br /> Thousands of Children at once scream "Hooray!"<br /> <br /> Run home to tents where elders await<br /> Messenger children with bread from the state<br /> No bread more today!  and no place to squat<br /> Painful baby, sick shit he has got<br /> <br /> Malnutrition skulls thousands for months<br /> Dysentery drains bowels all at once<br /> Nurse shows disease card Enterostrep<br /> Suspension is wanting or else chlorostrep<br /> <br /> Refugee camps in hospital shacks<br /> Newborn lay naked on mother's thin laps<br /> Monkeysized week old Rheumatic babe eye<br /> Gastoenteritis Blood Poison thousands must die<br /> <br /> September Jessore Road rickshaw<br /> 50,000 souls in one camp I saw<br /> Rows of bamboo huts in the flood<br /> Open drains,  wet families waiting for food<br /> <br /> Border trucks flooded, food cant get past,<br /> American Angel machine please come fast!<br /> Where is Ambassador Bunker today?<br /> Are his Helios machinegunning children at play?<br /> <br /> Where are the helicopters of US AID?<br /> Smuggling dope in Bangkok's green shade<br /> Where is America's Air Force of Light?<br /> Bombing North Laos all day and all night?<br /> <br /> Where are the President's Armies of Gold?<br /> Billionaire Navies merciful Bold?<br /> Bringing us medicine food and relief?<br /> Napalming North Viet Nam and causing more grief?<br /> <br /> Where are our tears? Who weeps for the pain?<br /> Where can these families go in the rain?<br /> Jessore Road's children close their big eyes<br /> Where will we sleep when Our Father dies?<br /> <br /> Whom shall we pray to for rice and for care?<br /> Who can bring bread to this shit flood foul'd lair?<br /> Millions of children alone in the rain!<br /> Millions of children weeping in pain!<br /> <br /> Ring O ye tongues of the world for their woe<br /> Ring out ye voices for Love we don't know<br /> Ring out ye bells of electrical pain<br /> Ring in the conscious of America brain<br /> <br /> How many children are we who are lost<br /> Whose are these daughters we see turn to ghost?<br /> What are our souls that we have lost care?<br /> Ring out ye musics and weep if you dare--<br /> <br /> Cries in the mud by the thatch'd house sand drain<br /> Sleeps in huge pipes in the wet shit-field rain<br /> waits by the pump well, Woe to the world!<br /> whose children still starve in their mother's arms curled<br /> <br /> Is this what I did to myself in the past?<br /> What shall I do Sunil Poet I asked?<br /> Move on and leave them without any coins?<br /> What should I care for the love of my loins?<br /> <br /> What should we care for our cities and cars?<br /> What shall we buy with our Food Stamps on Mars?<br /> How many millions sit down in New York<br />  sup this night's table on bone  roast pork?<br /> <br /> How many millions of beer cans are tossed<br /> in Oceans of Mother? How much does She cost?<br /> Cigar gasolines and asphalt car dreams<br /> Stinking the world and dimming star beams--<br /> <br /> Finish the war in your breast with a sigh<br /> Come tast the tears in your own Human eye<br /> Pity us millions of phantoms you see<br /> Starved in Samsara on planet TV<br /> <br /> How many millions of children die more<br /> before our Good Mothers perceive the Great Lord?<br /> How many good fathers pay tax to rebuild<br /> Armed forces that boast the children they've killed?<br /> <br /> How many souls walk through Maya in pain<br /> How many babes in illusory pain?<br /> How many families hollow eyed lost?<br /> How many grandmothers turning to ghost?<br /> <br /> How many loves who never get bread?<br /> How many Aunts with holes in their head?<br /> How many sisters skulls on the ground?<br /> How many grandfathers make no more sound?<br /> <br /> How many fathers in woe<br /> How many sons nowhere to go?<br /> How many daughters nothing to eat?<br /> How many uncles with swollen sick feet?<br /> <br /> Millions of babies in pain<br /> Millions of mothers in rain<br /> Millions of brothers in woe<br /> Millions of children nowhere to go<br /> </div> </div>

September On Jessore Road - Allen Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg came to Kolkata, india in 1971 towards the end of Bangladesh Liberation war. He had friendship with many writers of Kol...

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An Ode To Freedom - Shamsur Rahman

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s1600/pol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s640/pol.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr> </tbody></table> <div style="text-align: center;"> Freedom, you're</div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Tagore's timeless poetry and everlasting lyrics.<br /><br />Freedom, you're<br />Kazi Nazrul, the regally maned magnificent man,<br /> rapturous in creation, oh joy.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the radiant gathering at Shahid Minar on Language Day.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the flag-draped, slogan-serenaded boisterous procession.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the farmer amidst his fields, beaming face.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the village lass's lightsome swim in mid-day pond.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the sinewy muscles on a skilled workman's sun-bronzed arms.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the glint in the eyes of a freedom fighter scouting the darkened and deserted borders.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the crisply-worded, scorching speech of a sprited scholar beneath the shade of a banyan tree.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the tumult of chats in tea-shops, public gathering and the park.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the roaring swoop of kal-boishakhi on the fiery horizon athwart.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the Meghna's heart, swelling shores in the month of Sraban.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the velvety touch, father's chivalrous prayer-mat.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the ripples on mother's unadorned sari stretched in the yard.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> the hue of henna on sister's gentle hand.<br />Freedom, you're<br /> a vivid placard shimmering stars gripped by a friend.<br /><br />Freedom, you're<br /> the wife's raven tresses, tempestuous in the untamed wind.<br />Freedom, you're:<br /> The colorful kurta on a young boy.<br /> The playful sunlight on a girl's supple cheeks.<br />Freedom, you're:<br /> The home amidst a flower garden; the warble of koel-bird.<br /> The twittering leaves of antediluvian banyan trees.<br /> My notebook of poetry, to pen poems as I please.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> [Translated from 'Shadinota Tumi' (Bengali) by Syed M. Islam.]</div> </div> </div>

An Ode To Freedom - Shamsur Rahman

  Freedom, you're Tagore's timeless poetry and everlasting lyrics. Freedom, you're Kazi Nazrul, the regally maned magnif...

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Asad's Shirt - Shamsur Rahman

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s1600/pol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s640/pol.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr> </tbody></table> <div style="text-align: center;"> Like bunches of blood-red Oleander, Like flaming clouds at sunset</div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Asad's shirt flutters<br />In the gusty wind, in the limitless blue. <br />To the brother's spotless shirt<br />His sister had sown<br />With the fine gold thread<br />Of her heart's desire<br />Buttons which shone like stars;<br />How often had his ageing mother,<br />With such tender care,<br />Hung that shirt out to dry<br />In her sunny courtyard.<br />Now that self-same shirt<br />Has deserted the mother's courtyard, <br />Adorned by bright sunlight<br />And the soft shadow'<br />Cast by the pomegranate tree,<br />Now it flutters<br />On the city's main street,<br />On top of the belching factory chimneys, <br />In every nook and corner<br />Of the echoing avenues,<br />How it flutters<br />With no respite<br />In the sun-scorched stretches<br />Of our parched hearts,<br />At every muster of conscious people Uniting in a common purpose.<br />Our weakness, our cowardice<br />The stain of our guilt and shame-<br />All are hidden from the public gaze<br />By this pitiful piece of torn raiment Asad's shirt has become<br />Our pulsating hearts' rebellious banner.</div> <br />[Translated from Asader shirt (Asad's Shirt) by Syed Najmuddin Hashim]</div>

Asad's Shirt - Shamsur Rahman

  Like bunches of blood-red Oleander, Like flaming clouds at sunset Asad's shirt flutters In the gusty wind, in the limitless bl...

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Roar, O Freedom - Shamsur Rahman

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s1600/pol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s640/pol.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr> </tbody></table> <div style="text-align: center;"> What shall I do with the spring<br />when I hear only the cuckoo moaning<br />and cannot see gorgeous flowers blossom?<br />What shall I do with the garden<br />Where no birds ever pays a visit?<br />Oh, how rough and stony is this earth!<br />Skeletons of trees stand, row after row,<br />like so many desolate ghosts.<br /><br />What shall I do with the love<br />that places on my head a crown of thorns<br />and hands out to me the cup of hamlock?<br />What purpose the road serve<br />On which no one treads,<br />Where vendors of coloured ice-cream<br />Or waves of city-inundating processions<br />are never seen?<br /><br />I had called you, dearest<br />When we started our journey<br />With our face turned to the rising sun.<br /><br />When the back-pull of bourgeois charm<br />Kept from your ears the soaring sound<br />of the people singing.<br />You are still prisoner under the claws<br />of a fierce eagle.<br />you cannot yet walk on a road<br />with the rainbow coloured carpet spread on it.<br />Oh, how tough it is to keep going<br />without you by my side!<br /><br />A horrid monster comes, casting dark shadows<br />all around;<br />in a moment he crushes under his heels<br />the foundation of new civilization,<br />he hangs the full moon on the scaffold,<br />declares unlawful the blossoming<br />of the lotus and the rose.<br />He bans my poems, stanza by stanza,<br />quietly, without any fanfare,<br />he bans your breath,<br />he bans the fragrance of your hair.<br /><br />By the bent body of the young girl<br />sitting on the lonely porch of old age.<br />waiting for the dawn of happy days.<br />By the long days and nights of Nelson Mandella<br />spent behind the bars.<br /><br />By the martyrdom of the heroic youth<br />Noor Hossain,<br />O Freedom, raise your head like Titan,<br />give a sky shattering shout,<br />tear off the chain around<br />your wrists.<br />Roar, Freedom, roar mightily!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> [Translated by Kabir Chowdhury] </div> </div> </div>

Roar, O Freedom - Shamsur Rahman

  What shall I do with the spring when I hear only the cuckoo moaning and cannot see gorgeous flowers blossom? What shall I do with th...

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Independence, how this word became ours - Nirmalendhu Goone

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s1600/pol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s640/pol.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr> </tbody></table> <div style="text-align: justify;"> This is a historical Poem written by famous poet Nirmalendu Goone About the 7 march Speech given by Bongobondhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.</div> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"> Cause a poem will be written, with eager excitement<br /> Lakhs and lakhs of excited anxious eager rebelious audiences are waiting<br /> Till dawn on the beach of the park that turned into an ocean of crowd-<br /> "When is the poet arriving?" "When is the poet arriving?" <br /><br />This childrens' park was not there then,<br /> This tree, flower adorned park was not there then,<br /> This sleepy colourless afternoon was not there then<br /> Then how was the afternoon then?<br /> Then how was, the childrens' park, bench-tree flower garden<br /> Covered, this field, the heart of Dhaka? <br /><br />I know, black hand was raised to erase the memory of that day<br /> So I see today in this poetless desolate plain<br /> Poet against poet,<br /> Field against field,<br /> Afternoon against afternoon,<br /> Park against park,<br /> March against march...... <br /><br />0! unborn children, 0! poet of future,<br /> While swinging on the colourful cradle of childrens' park<br /> You will know one day everything - I'm, for you<br /> Leaving the story of that great afternoon<br /> Neither the park, nor the flower garden - nothing was there,<br /> Only as the sky still today touching the horizon<br /> Was there wide grass-filled field, green and greenish<br /> The green of our freedom-filled heart mingled with<br /> The green of this wide field <br /><br />Red-hand around their head and wrist, they came rushing to this field,<br /> The iron labouror from factories,<br /> Plough and yoke on their shoulders, The naked farmers came in swarms,<br /> The fiery youths came snatching the arms of police,<br /> Death in their fist, dream in their eyes, the middle-class came,<br /> Lower middle-class, sad clerks, women, aged, prostitute, vagabond, and<br /> The children, as you are, the leaf collecting children, in groups <br /><br />A poem will be recited, is that the reason for anxious waiting by mass<br /> "When is the poet arriving?" "When is the poet arriving?"<br /><br />After hundred struggles of hundred years, in a Rabindranath-like proud step<br /> The poet at last stood on the people's platform<br /> Then in a twinkling, in a flush water flooded the boat,<br /> Swing in the heart,<br /> Tide in the crowd ocean, all doors are open -<br /> Who will stop his fiery speech?<br /> Trembling the platform of mass-fire, the poet recited the immortal poem:<br /> "The struggle this time is for freedom,<br /> The struggle this time is for independence" <br /><br />From then, the word 'Independence' is ours... </div> <br /> Translation: Dr. Masum Z. Hasan</div>

Independence, how this word became ours - Nirmalendhu Goone

  This is a historical Poem written by famous poet Nirmalendu Goone About the 7 march Speech given by Bongobondhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahma...

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I Have Not Come to Shed Tears Where They Laid Down Their Livesrs - Mahbub ul Alam Chowdhury

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s1600/pol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRxYlkge48vm7el6WBHURmyZRzwuKJvnIMiOWdOqyLLu2ya9Fk5j96-zETORHVab2oL3jPr4dQF4vMCm6wbsi5SfRwxh37GUa301gZVb5plrq6AIZKOSMu2YcqEhfe8FFtg2yZEXIvIc/s640/pol.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr> </tbody></table> <div style="text-align: justify;"> Poet Mahbub ul Alam Chowdhury has been reputed as the Ekusher Prothom Kabi for writing the first poem, “Kandte Ashinee Fasheer Dabee Niye Achechi” on the Language Movement in 1952. In recognition he was awarded the national ‘Ekushe Padak’ (Posthumous) in 2009. Though basically a poet he wrote a considerable number of articles, dramas; and contributed numerous columns in the daily newspapers. His publications includes 22 books of poetry, essay, drama, column and memoirs.<br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> He participated, since his early life in most of the political and cultural movements until the liberation war and continued his struggle for peoples freedom throughout his life. <br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> 1952, he wrote the poem “Kadte Ashini, Phasir Dabi Niye Eshechi” in remembrance of the language martyrs of 21 February in Dhaka. This has been reputed as the first poem on the Language Movement. The government confiscated the booklet and issued a warrant against him.</div> <br /> <div style="text-align: center;"> I have not come, where they laid down their lives </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> under the upward looking Krishnachura trees, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to shed tears. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I have not come, where endless patches of blood </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> glow like so many fiery flowers, to weep. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Today I an not overwhelmed by grief, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Today I am not maddened with anger, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Today I am only unflinching </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in my determination. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> The child who will never more get a chance </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to rush into his father’s arms, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the housewife who, shielding the lamp </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> with her sari, will never more wait </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> by the door for her husband, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the mother who will never more draw </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to her breast with boundless joy </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> her returning son, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the young man who, before collapsing </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> on the earth, tried again and again </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to conjure before his eyes the vision </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> of his beloved, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in their name, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in the name of those brothers and sisters, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in the name of my language, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> nourished by the heritage of a thousand years, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in the name of the language in which </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I am accustomed to addressing my mother, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in the name of my native land, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I say, I have come today, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> here on the open grounds of the university, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to demand their death by hanging, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the death of those who killed </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> my brothers and sisters indiscriminately. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I have not come here to weep for them </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> who gave their lives under Ramna’s </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> sun-scorched krishnachura treses </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for their language, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Those forty or more who laid down their lives </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for Bangla, their mother tongue, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for the dignity of a country’s great culture, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for the literary heritage of Alaol, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Rabindranath, Kaikobad and Nazrul, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for keeping alive the bhatiali, baul, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> kirtan and the ghazal, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> those who laid down their lives </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for Nazrul’s unforgettable lines: </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> “The soil of my native land </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> is purer than the purest gold.” </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Forty blooming lives fell </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> like innumerable Krishnachura petals </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> on Ramna’s soil. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> In the husks of the seeds </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> sprouting therefrom I can see </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> endless drops of blood, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the blood of young Rameswar and Abdus Salam, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the blood of the most brilliant boys of the university. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I can see each drop of blood </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> shining on Ramna’s green grass like burning flames, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> each boy a piece of diamond, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> forty jewels of the university, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> who, had they lived, would have become </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the most precious wealth of the country, in whom </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Lincoln, Rolland, Aragon and Einstein had found refuge, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in whom had flourished some of the </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> most progressive ideals of this century’s civilization. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> We have not come here to shed tears </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> where forty jewels sacrificed their lives. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> We have not come, either, to plead </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> for our language to the killers </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> who had arrived with their rifles loaded, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> with orders to shoot our brothers and sisters. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> We have come to demand the hanging </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> of the tyrants and the murderers. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> We know that our brothers and sisters were killed, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> that they were mercilessly shot, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> that one of them was perhaps called ‘Osman’ </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> just like you, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> that perhaps one of them had a clerk for his father </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> just like you, or that one’s father was growing </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> golden crops in some remote village of East Bengal, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> or was a government functionary. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Today those boys could be living just like you or me. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Perhaps one of them had his wedding day fixed </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> just like me. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Perhaps one of them had left on his table, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> just like you, his mother’s letter </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> received a moment ago, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> hoping to read it when he got back </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> from the procession he went out to join. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Those boys had harboured concrete dreams </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in their breasts, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> and they were killed by the bullets </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> of the cruel tyrants. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> In the name of those who wanted </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to banish our mother tongue be hanged. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I demand that those who ordered </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the killing be hanged. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I demand that the traitors </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> who climbed to the seats of power </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> over the dead bodies of my brothers and </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> sisters be hanged. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> I want to see them tried and shot </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> as convicted criminals </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> on that very spot in this open field. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Those first martyrs of the country, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> those forty brilliant boys of the university, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> each of them had dreams of building </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> a quiet home in the bosom of this earth </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> with his wife, children and parents. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> They dreamed of analysing </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the scientific theories of Einstein with greater depth, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> they dreamed of finding ways </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> to put atomic power to man’s service </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in the cause of peace. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> They dreamed of writing a poem </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> more beautiful than Tagore’s “The Flute Players”. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> O, my martyred brothers, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the spot where you laid down your lives </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> will continue to glow </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> even after a thousand years. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> No footprints of civilization can wipe out </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the marks of your blood from that soil, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> although procession after procession </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> will one day converge here </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> and shatter its vague silence. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> The tolling of the university bells </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> will daily announce the historic hour of your deaths, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> even if one day a violent storm </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> erupts and shakes the building’s very foundation. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Whatever comes to pass </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the brightness of your names as hallowed martyrs </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> will never grow dim. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> The cruel hands of the murderers </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> can never throttle your long cherished hopes. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> Some day we shall surely win </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> and hail the advent of justice and fair play. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> O, my dead brothers, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> on that day, your voices, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> the strong voice of freedom, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> will soar from the depths of silence. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> The people of my country, on that day, </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> will surely hang from the gallows </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> those tyrants and murderers. </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> On that day, your hopes will shine like flames </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> in the joy of victory and sweet vengeance. </div> <div style="text-align: justify;"> Translated by Prof. Kabir Chowdhury. </div> </div>

I Have Not Come to Shed Tears Where They Laid Down Their Livesrs - Mahbub ul Alam Chowdhury

  Poet Mahbub ul Alam Chowdhury has been reputed as the Ekusher Prothom Kabi for writing the first poem, “Kandte Ashinee Fasheer Dabee...

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