Hassanal Abdullah

A House on the Green

2
It does not matter if they know it.
Let them know whatever happened—
let them know that the boy sharpened
love’s pollen sprinkled on the edge of a dream.
The colorful raft danced over the cloud.
Tamarisk leaves quivered to welcome it.
Keeping eye on eye, we passed our time,
as if we waved the flag of love in our heart.

Hold on to my hand so that we can step
on fears accumulated, here and there—
we have to crush the horror of this path
while walking firm and strong.
Look, nature still blinks with joy,
birds still set their beautiful wings in the sky.

3
Here, on the soft grass, sprinkles
the golden touch of morning dew
as your footprints stretch out
toward the horizon. Listen to the wind
swimming in the name of the village boy—
birds sing, jackfruit branches shiver;
as if, love, Spring’s smile—lingering between
two hearts—is drawing the dawn of happiness.

Modhumoti, flowing beyond the village,
murmurs all day long. Carefully, I listen
to its well-balanced attractive arati;
and begin cheering and weaving hope
to build a hut with bamboo and hay
where we would spend hours and days.

arati: Prayer.

5
If you move your face aside in despair,
how can I draw the Mona Lisa figure!
Look, on the telephone wires, doves singing
melodies as the sun slides into the afternoon.
The drawing might sparkle like the daybreak,
as the brush adding colors onto the canvas,
if a strand or two of hair sticks to your cheeks.
Love keeps breathing if it's bestowed in the air!

When the afternoon light becomes still,
and a few clouds stretch colorful wings,
and sandhya-malati sprays sweet scent—
penetrating the white kash field,
wrapping dusk's light all over the body,
we will come closer to hear modhumoti.

sandhya-malati: A kind of evening flower.
Kash: Long grass with white flowers.
modhumoti: a river.

7
Rattan flowers return on the stem as words;
thorns of the golden vine kiss the leaves.
Garlands of talk raise their charm in the air—
no, not a mistake staying up through the night.
Mount of mystery from the body of the moon
comes down on the green as happiness does;
the cuckoo jumps around the branches, as
another miraculous morning smiles on the earth.

Fog slips away holding the hands of fogs;
look, what clears its face in retrieving reflection—
it’s hope, entangles on the edge of mind’s window.
Spread your hands towards the spanning time,
press your heart’s torch onto the word’s heart,
let the thorn burn, burn, and burn forever.

11
Frogs choir all over in the Asher rain,
run around the muddy water and play.
The ground water-wave rushes its way
keeping traces at the soft edge of the wind.
Thrills that come down through the tree trunk
weave a gentle afternoon on the crystalline green;
to place you at the close range of my sight,
my heart is ready at the highest stage.

The love that deposited its dew in clusters,
sparkling, rains down on the fingertips
to find another realm of imaginary world.
Darkness stands still in praying for light,
as the forest swings in extended ecstasy—
love winds through the vital vine of desire.

Asher: the 3rd month of the Bengali calendar.

13
The spring-deer roams around the clouds,
breasts, full of milk, eyes blink in surprise—
the crafted mind dances all around, while
the sweet aroma of rose sets in yellow saraca.
As pure math refreshes the lungs of a master,
the bell twinkles at the entrance of the house.
To know how wet is the dew when the dawn breaks,
poetry instantly vibrates in my chest pocket.

You walk with me to hear me close, as the granary
of the green draws kisses on both my cheeks.
How short is a banyan tree next to a eucalyptus?
How high is the sweet dome of my mind?
Emotion swings its veil on banana branches,
as your eyes fall on my eyes surfing up the tide.

17
You open your breast-button at my fingertips;
the autumn wind rolls through the narrowing lane,
and the cultivated grass joins in its natural course—
two names written in blue ink, lay side by side,
ten fingers search for the other ten in them,
an earthly studio is embedded with wild music.
The rage of love speeds up in twist and turn
as the boat trembles in the middle of a roaring sea.

Moonlight picks through the window gutter,
witnessing the instance as if the stem-head
of a creeper slowly penetrates—love has
never been ordinary—it exposes the aroma
of lime-leaves. The village, its song and images,
increase the nerve-reckoning at the highest level.

19
Go, go on to offer the golden touch.
Love is quietly seated in life's storehouse.
Leaves and grass bestow their debt for soil,
rivers begin to giggle in stars' reflection.
Paddy, arum, jasmine, and pond water call
stretching their arms in the morning and in
the evening. I, too, have spread my sari’s end
to welcome whatever satisfies my mind's emptiness.

The words swim across the land.
Grasshoppers shrug off their wings at dusk,
flocks of pigeons and winter birds push
their deep love into the pockets of the sky.
White rows of cloud—jubilant and bold—
swimming at ease, offering cold air as gift.

23
Finally, I've started walking towards Hell.
The shelves of the century are broken one by one.
In the hottest day of Baishak, unbearable drought
and famine made me listening to the tiresome voices.
My body is engulfed in the distorted scripts,
as I see the dirty tides waving in the sea.
While seagulls wipe their tears, the villains
of our time chain them with crimson cruelty.

Doubt fastened the mighty hollow of hesitation.
Peeling off the skin, sharp dreadful greedy knives
smashed civilization angrily beneath the feet.
The ornament of fame is hanged on jealousy’s neck.
In this neighborhood of cheetah, snake, and fox,
will I be shrinking in fear of blazing Hell?

Baishak: the first month of the Bengali calendar.

29
Bring buckets full of water, please
do sprinkle them all over up to your heart’s content—
if disasters ever come ringing the bell.
The old tattered house, you wouldn’t recognize,
surrounded by mango and banana groves
where my love and I used to reside,
where flowers bloomed on the rose
branches at the beckoning of the new sun,

where disheveled words brought an eternal
sickness—love—on the wind’s skin—
please do pour the temptation of your heart
and leave scratches of gesture on the ground.
Deep from the ground, the devastating plants
might, once again, rise to everlasting power.

31
In the transparent water of the pond,
a tilapia raises its face to look at you.
Trees, small and big, surrounding it
eagerly await, impatient all the while
to catch a slight glimpse of your face,
to take a glance at you—the blue sky
silently slides down under water, and the wind
sits on the grass lazily stretching its legs.

How can I say, you, love of my life,
have come to this house to live only with me?
This green forest, every corner full of mirth,
this widening variety of plants and trees,
tilapia of the pond, and the bluest sky—
are not all of them my competitors, dear?

37
Treading across the snow, the girl comes down again.
I help her with her bags and say, "Please have a seat."
Shaking the mound of snow off her hands and feet,
she looks at me, and says, "How are you, dear?"
Drawing a quick smile, I’ve add sugar to her tea.
Standing by me, she hangs her coat in the closet.
I plant a soft kiss, soundless but deep, on her eye—
she stretches her hands to hold me tight.

In this city of tons of snow, thousands of miles
away from the homeland, we find another life.
Sometimes, it offers us fun; sometimes, it's rude.
Sometimes, our minds swell in sorrow for home.
Amidst all this, love stretches out its hands to us,
crowd bursts with laughter for some leisure.

41
Taking all her dress off, the girl asks,
“Tell me, my love, how do I look?”
Pressing her tight to my chest, I say,
“The world lights up in two; darkens in one.”
Then the girl bursts into laughter,
then the bird dances with a sweet chirp,
then the river runs in lovely murmur,
as the heaven of happiness rushes in us.

The soft wind whistles, pushing on
corners of the wall. The grass dances,
the pigeons dance, sitting in pairs on rooftops;
the flower, fruits, leaves of trees dance,
the daylight and the moon dance
where love entangles without limit.

43
As we walk down the street, the ice
silently melts on the salty ground—
the crystal water does not hesitate
to kiss our feet as it travels down the slope.
We left home holding our hands;
The cloud’s whiteness firmly covers the sky,
a cold wind rushes like a saw on a log.
I draw onto your realm to dive in you.

As we walk, the cloud seems to unleash the sky,
gradually blunting the sharpness of the winter—
our feet get the strength to walk even faster.
The tender vine of love entwining our hearts
stirs spring freshness on to our cares and chores—
your smile defines my highest moment of joy.

Translated from the Bengali by Purnima Ray and the author
with Stanley H. Barkan