Bengali Poetry in English Translation

Translated by Faizul Latif Chowdhury

A day with Shamsur Rahman

Shamsur Rahman

He is distant now, all by himself all day long.

Days pass like this and grey beards sprout

on cheeks, slightly sunken. Hairs drop off fast—daily; alas

days of wanton mane bygone. After a prolonged hiatus

I felt the urge to call on him. He was at home.

A half-ghost, caught in the spell of music, slightly embarrassed.

As soon as I ask, 'How are you these days?', he dims more

trying to force a smile, 'Fine, quite well, and you?—his voice

cold, like that of an rudely saint. Yet in a bid to get him out of his conch

I propose, 'Bro', let's go for a walk somewhere,'. He remains

indifferent, unmoved by my invitation.

Thereafter it is a mere sitting, sipping from the tea-cup,

a dash into the kite of the past—reeling in its thread, his voice lost

in the meaninglessness of doodles. He finds

a moment to say, 'A poet's spirit wilts when a thousand of idiots and lunatics throng with hue and cry; today Darbari kanada is hopelessly humiliated

by their roaring laughter.'

I listen to his thoughts, and ponder : whom I knew to be

quiet—why does he now indulge in chattering so much,

facing the sun set to sink? Some fast-moving young men, wearing jeans trousers, shirts showing up chest, gold chains hang from their necks,

astride motorbikes, blinded by the illusion of wrong slogans.

We sit face to face, the two of us; darkness spreads its wings.

'These young guys lost in fun—bereft off their own identify, and in addition, more ferocious than beasts, they excel in their exercise

of fratricide, all of them have slain their fathers.' His voice throws

the weight of a stone, pricks me with a sense of discomfort.

As yet, now and then, poetry sends him encouraging signals—

one hidden postman, ever on flight, swoops down

with no sense of time. When the neighbourhood dozes off

like a bewildered opium-man, he engages in a dialogue with himself,

as if I am no more by his side. One or two leaves flow in,

darkness sharpens its teeth.

How they all change, chairs, verandah, picture, books; as if angelic Blake is sitting close by, perched atop Radhachura. A flock of penguins

have pervaded the alley all of a sudden; words embrace him as fishes swim in shoals, the cuckoo calls out. He lives so distant,

at the far end of the city, yet I'll return to him over and again.

[Shamsur Rahman-er Songey, by poet Shamsur Rahman]