Bix-বিষ

বিষ

 

ধূসর আকাশ। বৃষ্টি পড়ে, এঁধো মেঘলা দিনে। 

শীত ফিরেছে। উঠি, বসি, পায়চারা দি ঘরে। 

মন দমেছে, মানুষ-জাতির নিষ্ঠুরতা চিনে। 

আলস বাড়ে। বৃদ্ধকালে, কাজ থেমেছে, ডরে।

 

সাহস গেছে, ভাটায় ভেসে। রয়েছে, ভারী, ভয়। 

তবুও আছে আশা মনে, তবুও দেহে জান। 

ভুলিনি তাই আদর্শ, প্রিয়, যুবকালের জয়। 

স্মৃতির সাথে, আজও বুকে রয়েছে মায়ার টান।

 

দূর সাগরের জলের ওপর, রোদের ঝিলিমিলি।

মন জুড়ালো, স্বপ্নে যেনো। তাও যে শঙ্কা! কিসের?

শিশুর, মায়ের কান্না শুনি। দূরে, বোমাবারি!

হত্যাকাণ্ড চলছে জোরে। ফসল, লোভের বিষের!

 

****** 

 

কোন্ চিকিৎসায় সারবে এ রোগ? বিষের অগদ কি?

জানলে পরে, জানিও আমায়। বুদ্ধি আমার কম।

কোন্ ওঝা-গণ মন্ত্র জানে? কেমন তাদের ফি?

কোন্ দেবতার কৃপায় ক্ষমা, রোষে যখন যম?

.

কোন্ সুযোগে মিলন, প্রিয়, কোন্ ঝুঁকিতে বিদায়? 

কি কারণে কষ্ট, প্রাণের, কি সু-কাজে খালাস? 

কেউ জানে না, তবুও বড়াই, ফালতু গুরুর, হায়! 

একের চামে, ফসফর-জ্বালা, অন্যের, মধুর বাতাস।

 

******

 

ঘোর আঁধারে, আলোর ঝিলিক। দিন-দুপুরে, নিশি। 

জ্ঞান হারিয়ে, মানুষ চলে, হিংস্র দানব-রূপে। 

কোন্ বণিকের থেকে কেনা, এমন বিষের শিশি? 

দিনে সাধু, রাতে খুনি। কু-কারোবার, চুপে।

 

শয়তান বসে সিংহাসনে। সবাইর মাথা নত।

এথায় আরাম, ওথায় ব্যারাম। মানুষ জ্ব’লে মরে।

তবুও চলে চোখ এড়িয়ে, দেশের নেতা যত।

বন্ধু বলে, ‘কাঁপছো কেনো, চলতি বিষের ডরে?’

 

কত দুঃখ-কষ্ট স’য়ে, রয়েছে কত প্রাণ। 

তার তুলনায়, তুচ্ছ আমার, যতই সাদা চুল। 

আসছে কালে, নীল আকাশের তলায় গাইবো গান। 

বসন্তের সেই হওয়ার চুমে, নাচবে রঙিন ফুল।

 

শুক্রবার, ৫ এপ্রিল, ২০২৪ খ্রি. 

বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া

 

No'mo, no'mo-নম, নমঃ-Reverence

 

The English translation follows the Bengali original below.

____________________________________________________

নম, নম:
 
বাড়িতে বসে, গেছি যেনো ম'জে।
দেহ মন দুই দুর্বল।
মনে চিন্তা আসে, বুকে ভীতি।
না মরেও, মরি বারে বারে।
 
সন্ধ্যের আগে বেরোতে পারলে, দেখি
আকাশে আলোর লীলা।
গাছ উঠেছে সূর্যের খোঁজে।
মাটিতে ছড়ানো পাতা।
 
মৃদু মৃদু বইছে ঋতুর হাওয়া।
গালে তার শীতল হাত।
মনে মনে ‘নম, নমঃ’ ব'লে,
নত মাথা তুলি আবার।
 
মানুষ, খেটে রোজগার করে।
বেড়ে চলেছে দাম।
তবুও, চিত্তের সেরা খোরাক
ফাউতে পাওয়া যায়।
 
বুধবার, ১২ অক্টোবর, ২০২২ খ্রি.
ব্রুক্লিন, নিউ ইয়র্ক
____________________________________________________
 
Reverence
 
Stuck at home, it seems I am decayed—
Enfeebled both in body and in mind.
The mind is filled with worries, the heart with fear—
The thousand deaths, it seems, of cowardice.
 
If I can venture out before the dusk,
I see the play of light across the sky,
The upward thrusts of trees that seek the sun,
The leaves of autumn strewn upon the ground…
 
The breeze of autumn blows, at times, and I
Can feel its touch upon my neck and cheek.
I utter words of reverence and then
I straighten up and raise my head again.
 
We humans slave to earn our sustenance.
The price of everything is going up.
But should we then forget that the best of foods
For heart and soul are freely still dispensed?
 
2022, October 12, Wed.
Translation into English: Oct. 13
Brooklyn, New York

The Blight / Diamonds into Dust

The Blight / Diamonds into Dust

The things that once lit up our eyes may leave
Us later quite unmoved, except in memory—
As even curiosity recedes
And what had meaning seems as meaningless.

And then we look around us and perceive
The tawdry nature of the lives we lead
And so are filled with such a hopelessness
That remnant zests are turned to apathies.

The things that needed our attention seem
Undoable, as tasks neglected grow
To mountains in our minds. We cannot climb
These obstacles—and slide towards despair.

******

And some of us are graced or cursed in that
We see the grays between the black and white,
And this may give us insight, tolerance—
But also predispose us for the blight.

And that’s the cheerless gray that stalks the men
And women—even children—of our times,
And rarely leaves the elder folk untouched—
The blight that turns our diamonds into dust.

******

How many children’s eyes, in war and peace,
Have lost their brightness and been dulled by time?
How many men and women trudge the streets
Or sit or lie—and wait for their release?

What cure is there for this—our malady
That might be masked by all the razzmatazz
That passes for modernity—the jive
That hides the plagues to which it always leads?

Well surely, dropping all the plastic cheer
That’s manufactured in our modern mills
Might be a step towards that sanity
Whose absence leads to mayhem—and to this.

2018 April 17th Tue.
Brooklyn, New York

Hopelessness

Hopelessness

There is a value to humility
That those who’re blind from hubris cannot see,
But there’s a worth to all of those ideals
So often lost from scorn or apathy.

The eyes of children often brightly shine,
But when they’re older, then their eyes are dulled.
So also, men and women strive with zeal,
Until their strength is sapped by worldly things.

How many humans walk upon this earth
And yet feel nothing underneath their feet
Except the aches of age and weariness,
While trudging with the burdens of defeat?

When meaning and desire have both been drained,
What’s left is to what was before as is
The corpse to all the life that once had been—
Except, there’s a feeling left—of hopelessness.

2017 December 22nd, Friday
UFT teachers’ room, JHS K 220
Brooklyn, New York
  
Substitute teaching, for all its perils, offers a window of survival to those who depend on it for a bare living, and also of some remnant connection and usefulness to those who are retired from teaching.

Of course, some retired teachers have other sources of financial and emotional sustenance, and might prefer to stay as far as possible from the schools in which they spent most of their working lives.
 

Sick at Heart

 
Sick at Heart

When we’re young, we might not know of death
Or even sorrow, till the circumstance,
That brings these to our viewing, struts on stage—
And when its scene is done, we then might find
Another and another take their turns.

There comes a time, in every life, at which
We’re sick at heart from all that we have seen—
The hurt, injustice, death and misery.
And some may bow to gods—or Fortune’s will,
But others, at their deaths, are hurting still.

So tell us then the cure for this disease—
This sickness of the heart that clouds the mind
And weakens will and body.  Can we thrive
When robbed of meaning, living day to day,
Awaiting death—that hope for our release?

Or could it be that this is what is real—
That all the dreams of youth were merely dreams?
At dawn, we’re filled with hope; at sunset, dread.
Is there an in-between, in which to live
To do what needs be done—until we’re dead?
 
We might be sick in body and despair,
But later we might once again be well.
So also with the sickness of the heart—
We need to bear it till it goes away.
We walk, in darkness, towards the hope of day.

Without the darkness, would we know of light?
Without the hunger, would the food have worth?
Without what's cruel, would we feel what's kind?
We need our sorrows, like we need our joys.
From woe and weakness, let us grow in strength.
 
2016 September 18th, Sun, 7:44 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
  

Winter’s Rain

  
Winter’s Rain
  
The steady drip of rain on winter days
is better than the snow, for those who fear
the shoveling and mess that snow can bring.
 
And if my job had less of misery,
I then might welcome this as grace
that wets the earth and feeds the lakes – and so
prepares us for the coming of the spring.
 
But now, I walk the city’s pavements hard,
with grays of skies reflected in the streets –
and grimace.  “More of winter’s woe.”, I think –
and sourly wish I’d stayed between the sheets.

But while I walk and hear these phrases rise
and ebb like sighs within my mind, I think,
“By writing these, I’d burden others too,
who might perhaps be needing some relief.” –
and so I turn my mind to better things.
 
The grays of winter, in the polar climes,
could be our payment due for autumn’s leaves
and our deposit for the blooms of spring –
a happy thought, to mull and store away…
 
And thinking next of summer’s greenery,
I walk the streets and savor winter’s rain…
 
So such things yield – to weak philosophy.
 
2014 January 3rd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York