Poetry: Fazlul Haque

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Nothing but Dust and Ashes

I
Now I adore my days in exile.
Everybody expected my stay in hell,
My lonely departure to an unknown destination.
At the call of winter, my favorite season,
I left the stirred land with ShonkoGhosh.
I crossed the river of sugarcane,
went up-stream and far beyond .

Today my exile square is dazzling with distant sunshine.
The white clouds float like boats,
leave the earthly residence of forest ,
and beg deeply in a nocturnal heath in the land of night fairies .
I see the reflection of a shrine in the waters of the sugarcane river.

Is this the desired destinations ?
Both in exile and in seeking shelter,
my palm is not empty.
I ‘have got the sunshine, the soil of heritage to nurse,
and the blessings of the Shreehottopuran .

The stay with Shonkoghosh will end
After returning to the village of Shreebash Pandeet.
The glory of those golden days will sink into oblivion.
Immortality rises in another yard at every dawn amidst endangered nature.

I stand under the shadow of paper-forest unveiling starts.
I am holding a cruel bow.
My days in exile dazzle like a luster point.
On the bank of the river of sugarcane lies the poet’s dead body.
The shadowy sun draws the forgotten faces.
Shadows of tears and deception gather continuously —-.

II

Then the night begins
We come back to path but we do not meet
The reign of rule consisting of night
across the heath and the family of darkness begins
In fact that story never ends.

It’s a tragic story of sending you to a wrong address
Once a born-mystic came to our village
He had a monkey in his hand and
hung a stole from his neck .

Great many a people witnessed it on the way
We saw the light coming from the hanging
dim lantern at a suburban hat
We heard the songs of the ending day.

Those stories are really endless
You go past the shadow of the
great banyan tree and the heath of grass flowers
One day only you will tell us stories.

They are not stars but
they are more than giving birth to stars
It’s a crop less barren land
Sweet sunshine will smile on it.

Again the cloud-mystic will come back to our village
It might happen at another Rashpurnima
He won’t have an ektara but
have a neyayprasta on his chest.

His forehead will contain a red pinch.
Once the Kalidah was there
There were full grown waves and
the stories of water as well.

You will come back
Our birth land greatly expects it
You have neither anxities and attires nor crest.
You have no rings on your fingers
Dishonour can’t touch you
You are alone like soil.

III

My family consists of me and my shadow
We donot have any relation for a long time
Sometimes we two pass time together
Annihilted forest marks the end
of the days of wild beasts.

Nets are not worth entrapping them
My hands and body are besmirched with dirt
With the fall of temperatures,
we two busk in the sun.

Many a water map washes us away
Unfathomable bubbles still cling to our feet
We are quite fine
If shadow envelops stars,
another story will start.

Nowadays I am alone in my family
And my mind is like the sunshine
having the colour of green turmeric
Sometimes I go to the lonely heath of grass flowers.

I look here, look there and feel like saying,
“All belongs to me. Which one is true,
the post storm memory or the happiness left behind ?”

IV

My sorrow is that I did not come in handy for love
Love, therefore, went back with
the indifferent gloom of two flowers
I have thought of this offence beyond forgiveness.

How speechless -hidden-motionless that love was!
A piece of broken morning contained the whole history.
I said ,”Call me if you love me
I may serve your mundane purpose.”
Now I think everybody certainly has a
agitated destination.

There exists spontaneous flood of social interaction
Sound of colourful leaves is heard nowhere
Rain reigns with forgetfulness like an eternal fish
Yet this inevitable -cruel-deaf love raises melodies
And stirs the heart of the world’s sky
The cluster of love flowers well-knit
by unfaltering fingers was lost on the way.

Intense is my heartache.
Yet the branch bore buds of roses
That blue smile no longer exists
My sorrow is that I did not come in handy on that day
After you departed, I found no more way
I am alone in my room surrounded by yellow light
Those old mistakes are my only mundane collection.

V

The beggar and the tree
The saplings have died
It hasn’t ever raised any question
I woke up in the morning & departed
No tears were shed.

Crossing the full flourished river
You wanted, I know, a complete promise
The white birds are dying
The question of growing crops is yet to be raised.

We never bear in mind the tales of pleasure
Leaves of Independence, artistic solitary crack
The merciless bowl of beggar
Nowadays even forests turn into towns.

Like red erythrina in a sea
Resorts gradually go farther &farther
Nobody ever spoke of birth
There bloomed frozen flowers in sudden darkness.

Taking in hand the meaningless part of a broken idol,
I became a merciless deaf
And find the beggar and the tree
In their own distant land.

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BIO

Fazlul Haque, a relatively obscure and controversial poet and critic of contemporary Bengali literature, was born on September 1, 1961, in Bangladesh. He earned his Post-Graduate Degree from the University of Chittagong, Bangladesh, and worked for the Government, where he retired. He is known for his poetry books ‘Prithak Dangshan’ and ‘Kabir Janmadin’, “Shankha Ghoser Sange Nirbasaner Dine.” He also edited ‘Topodhir Bhattacharjee: Life and Works” and other literary books and journals. He was awarded the prestigious London Award 2004, by the London Poetry Center, England, in collaboration with Bangladesh Research Centre, UK. As a poet, thinker and scholar, he has been invited to deliver lectures at several national and international universities. 

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