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Issue 43/44 : January - June, 2009 : Volume 11 No 3/4 Khondakar Ashraf Hossain The Stranger A stranger is waiting at the door. I haven’t allowed him in. I said, “Stand there, wait just a while; I am not ready now; I can’t open The door for someone so early; let me Fix the bed, straighten the sky on the windows; Spread last night’s clothes on the hangers; Let me change the oil-smeared pillow-covers And put on the ones with the floral design— Also, I’d like to rinse my body And hang the heart on the line to dry. Then you can come, you and your dog Against the bolster pillows, or, if you prefer, Sit on the lone chair, dangling your feet. It can happen on the pink mattress on the floor— Or on the wide veranda, near the kitchen sink. You might go at it straight without foreplay. After all, rape and death, if they can’t be helped, Should be enjoyed, philosophers say. Earth We have given thee this earth as bribe, God said in mirth. We have created thee out of dust, and at death Thou must return there, as a snake returneth, after some frolic, to the same hole in earth. We’ve given you that sky, rent-free—men replied. That blue sky arranged in fold after fold, The sun, the moon and the planets of gold, And angels, those sentinels of limitless powers— We salute you, babu, but this humble earth is ours. Dhaka Translated from the Bengali by the poet Hassanal Abdullah Swatantra Sonnet 21 Come in with your bare chest. Dear lady, the complex Cage of dress does not give me the deepest pleasure. I want the naked beauty, as the snakes and the trees. The blooming youth of twenty-eight looks for wild taste Of a purple butterfly. The thorny obstacles of having lustful sex Quickly departed and vanished from our side. The ardent desire Sets its calm, sweet, lovely and musical wings unbelievably free. Not so intricate, but I know it’s tough to find That hidden nymph—the face, the breasts, and the unseen Babbles of the sea. In a dense forest, the shy, white, And the blooming body—untouched and fearful. Even haste To be nauseous—unapproachable. In the depth of her mind May even lie ignorance, ironic insomnia. The field’s never been So fertile—as it’s now—equally dense and awfully bright. Swatantra Sonnet 130 In a chilly, wet and sunless February, you cut me off and wanted to leave. The cloud seemed to reel over the New York sky. The white brand of snow piled up in the streets and people wanted to go home at once. But you killed two birds in a shot— poetry and love. I could not say, “Come back, wheel,” as firm as a poet from the neighboring land. You wanted more cold. You needed it as you told me. You mentioned, “I will fly to Alaska or Cyprus, And live calmly in an icy house for a while.” That horn of rise and fall, words I’ve never heard, sounded though, coming from the Vimbishar, where, once, I had to hold my breath and gently let the twelve-whole-month pass— Your words banged on my door as the silent mourn. New York Translated from the Bengali by the poet Please read more poems in translation in the hardcopy... |