Wednesday, 22 September, 2021, 4:39 AM
Advance Search
Home Literature

Two poems by Protiti Rasnaha Kamal  

Published : Saturday, 31 July, 2021 at 12:00 AM  Count : 1070

Small talk

I never said anything about the weather, that it was warmer than summer had liked to be when she was born,

Phagun never bore the plight of yellow, even during the wedding season, where we remembered staining ourselves in turmeric,

On the lap of winter, I laid down small talk - cryotherapy became their final destination,
I sniffed the aroma of spring in the toiling months,

and never called it terminally ill, we both knew

birds, so we talked about them, the finch, the machranga, the hummingbird - I confused their respective homes

for mine. Greetings flew by soon after the first move of the tongue

and we delved into topics, thick and presumptuous,
Fat-headed dummies were in line for a

mention; how quickly we personified them

and each turn we took made the narrative lump free and smooth, until the kitchen barged in

With some batter, and baking became the second choice for a closing conversation

and the kids jumped in, toe to toe - bodies failing to mount a bike, ride off into

another terrain; so the playground stopped listening to the methodical interaction,

A routine perhaps, for us who took discontented five year olds home.

I never began with the weather, I was never that bored.

The water runs without a name
I come from a deep anon sea

The sound upstream is faint in my ears
I have bathed in the sunlit peaks of the waves
I raked the sand from the unsure mix
Of rocks and pebbles, shells -
                                  my birthmark
I bear all with false memories of glee

I don't come home often,
I am not a fish with bones,
nor am a mermaid that sings

I don't confess, but I hear a prayer
Of wooden boats, creaking to find a mast

There's iceberg , then there's an one-eyed pirate
Neither care for the vessel they wreck
There's salt in the womb that I have grown out of
I am a vessel too, for the salt in my bones

Forgive my leanings, I am occupied with land
But my children know the song of the waves,
They haven't seen foam, the air whipped in sea
Like I've never seen the path to my father's paddy field
Or heard of masonry, one of my distant grandpa's delight
Or of the embroidered piece of lawn that searches  my mother's needles and threads

The night cares little for the day it has lost
only waits to birth the next sunrise,
the sea and summer will forget me soon
I'll just be a visitor, to my lonely boat.

My Love
Ashim Kumar Paul

What a prison for me have made you
No grille, no sentry; only surrounded by love dew
That captivates my soul with soft care-
Escaping your love can never I dare.
Within the prison flows ever Spring
Smell of Love that binds me like the ring
Too hard to be yielded to any adversity done
Whisper me to be imprisoned in the long run.

"I am restless, free like the stormy wind
Never try me with your love to bind"
Falls apart like the falling star from sky
Surrender I before you with a deep sigh;
Sigh really it is? Oh, no! it's boundless mirth
Realise, yes I realise, takes my Love birth.

The writer is an education officer

« PreviousNext »

Latest News
Most Read News
Editor : Iqbal Sobhan Chowdhury
Published by the Editor on behalf of the Observer Ltd. from Globe Printers, 24/A, New Eskaton Road, Ramna, Dhaka.
Editorial, News and Commercial Offices : Aziz Bhaban (2nd floor), 93, Motijheel C/A, Dhaka-1000. Phone: PABX 223353467, 223353481-2; Online: 9513959; Advertisement: 9513663.
E-mail: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected],   [ABOUT US]     [CONTACT US]   [AD RATE]   Developed & Maintenance by i2soft