Poetry: Bengali to English

Mohammad Nurul Huda

Metamorphosis

A green valley burnt under a blazing sun.
A walk sloped down the rocky hills.
He said, “The path is too strait.”
She said, “Too strait is the gate.”
She came prepared for her prayers,
Heaven beacons from her eyes.
He said, “I am no angel,
The holiest sin sprouts in my human cells
(And my blind motions rise).”

She said, “Surely God’s dearest son will be reborn
As our radiant rescuer.”

And with no further word
They followed one behind the other.
The walk entered into a holy site and stopped,
She passed through the strait gate and knelt in prayer.

On one side the virgin mother, on the other her son:
Burning under an atomic sun as old as the century,
Afflicted by the holiest sin that has sprouted within him,
The man suddenly turned a poet and said,

“I know no acceptable word for goodbye,
I want the resurrection
	of the most incandescent poem
			in my blazing sky.”


Translated from the Bengali by the poet



Sleepers Born of the Same Mother

And then 
the two born of the same mother are unperturbed, deep in sleep.
A little ways off the sea’s lullaby takes in the whole horizon.
The beach’s sand heaped like the jasmine flowers.
The earth is an improvised cot on bearers’ shoulders 
galloping to eternity.
The sky-chador swells up like the wind in a sail.
And then
the tow eternal sleepers have no separate beings;
Man or fish, animal or plant,
They could be anyone.


Translated from the Bengali by Carolyne Wright with the poet



Fertility

The beach gets warm 
even under the cool sun.
At this hour
in the inner chambers of the blue sea
there goes on exotic cooking
while cranes fly over the waves
		fluttering their huge wings.

They raise a symphony in the wind
and strike a chord
		in dreamy purple hearts.

Over the blue flames of the sea
that looks like a giant stove
a golden sunny egg slowly gets fried.

In taste and smell intertwined,
merged into one inseparable body,
without any coitus
or any visible proof,
the oysters grow alive and pregnant.


Translated from the Bengali by Kabir Chowdhury



Burning Like a Shadow

I write the shadow with light
And the light with the shadow.
This good universe blazes itself
In her own image, too.

Also, I burn like a shadow
Within you,
Owning the body of your light
I come along and go.

The shadow burns
Day and night
In love with light,
Both are eternal friends,
Eternally dependent
and inclined.

Liberty is, indeed,
Mutually dependence;
inclining to each other’s bosom
As liberated essence.


Translated from the Bengali by the poet

Bangladesh





Baitullah Quaderee


Once He Gets the Horse

Whoever I ask to make a stone, makes a white horse,
as if he would force the horse to gallop in the dust,
as if he would drag the horse to a mud-splash road
and make it wade through, despite its reluctance,
and bring it to the village in a full moon.
Whatever the hardship and misfortune happen
on the way—maybe a tragic oasis
or loneliness pours down on the horse’s life—
the moonlight wipes it all. Time tickles through
the whiteness of the horse. There is one more person
in the village besides me. He is my artisan
whose job is to build a house. He gradually builds
it and breaks it near the end, as he approaches the road.
And now when he gets the horse,
would he still be the same? 
He becomes a vagabond, a king like me . . . 


Pursuing

I understood green in the storm.
In the storm I understood green.
I understood blood and grandeur, 
the calm river stream, its blackening line,
and the evening darkness—
I understood all of them within the scope of green.
Fire-like crimson blood of human corpses,
the dead body of a father, the dead body of a brother,
the dead body of a son, and of another father’s,
another son’s, another brother’s—pulling
all these bodies in a cart—the final tug-of-war—
pushing people away from the road,
I understood as if I were the bad character
of an unjust novel of the other part of the world,
situated myself under a tattered tent, 
annoyed by the people, birds, and the airy leaves.
Still, the corpses come forth
right in front of me, as if I am involved in an arbitration.
Rows of bearded faces sizzling under white hats,
in a village court, surrounded me like big polls…
There, still, remains such a splendor.  


The Saint

I saw a dead saint.
I saw his tree,
silent white-footed tree.
The saint—
dead like a tree.
The saint died under the tree while meditating. 

Water’s streaming, streaming the water,
what a world! Streaming
water, my immensely
celebrated man is gone!

One day, I was near the edge of the river Ganga.
I was near the edge of the river Dhaleshwari.
I was near Lakshmi-Paimanta.
Wandering around the world, I have returned to the wonderful
darkness of the world in destitute.

The intense smoke of my guru.
The coiling smoke of my guru,
the burning of his Ira-Pingala’s irritation,
the aroma of his burning naval,
and all his unspoken earthly awakening
pass through his enigmatic sleep.
That sleep has taken my saint away.
Was he then climbing the tree to enjoy the spring?


A Feather Tugged into the Ground

A black duck dances 
everyday wearing my train, as if it were a peacock
and it must dance oscillating my train. 
What kind of a crazy dancing ritual is it,
that it must travel the world with someone
else’s attire? Raising its body
above the water while its head is still under, 
the black duck displays its thumping dance. 
My mate silently watches this provocative selfishness.
It has been witnessing this craziness since our wedding day,
it watches this with a different light on its eye.
People, who gradually pass us by after their world tour,
who love light or do not even like it, enjoy the dance.
The beauty of it pierces into their mindsets, 
their thoughts or even their biological behaviors.
So, the black duck keeps on dancing everyday with my train,
leaving only one feather behind, tugged into the ground.   


Translated from the Bengali by Hassanal Abdullah with the poet


Bangladesh




Hassanal Abdullah


You can Never Understand a River

Even rivers sometimes have to say no;	
after allowing a leaf to
a sail on its bosom for a long while
it illogically lets it sink. 

I, who have been listening to
the river’s voice, am sometimes
rebuffed by the stream’s
sudden unintelligibility.
What had I been asking from it,
why did it say no?

I, however, have never stopped
talking to my river. 


Translated from the Bengali by Jyotirmoy Datta



The Scattered Display of Limbs

The broken pieces of the whole world,
scattered around and laying about my feet;
I sense this horrible scene,
I sense human bloodshed—
their scratched bodies lying all around me—
walking cross human corpses,
I feel the pain of being alive.
Ah, the scattered display
of the cruel fate of my own creations
makes me impulsive—lamented and aweary.
The green that I once constructed with
both of my hands,
the road on which I mapped 
everyone's desired destination,
the river I flowed from the land of my 
birthplace to the pit of the ocean—
look, what the fate they have got now!

I never dreamt of this
dilapidated world,
I earnestly hoped to cross 
the neighborhood and reach
the rapidly growing skyscrapers,
I fancied at the speed of an aircraft.

Every scattered piece of ruin
helplessly laying all over
is definitely a part of my limb,
how could I then walk past my own body!

Translated from the Bengali by Ekok Soubir



A Solemn Decision

Every house is a house of worship—
so, stop the violence
and tell me how many
of them you have built!

Every book is a holy book—
so, stop preaching 
and tell me how many
of them you have read!


Translated from the Bengali by the poet


Bangladesh/USA