T
a few letters, commas, and scribbles will be left
in your hand—days of storms, rain, and storms
an uprooted chatim tree, bark splinters, root slivers

Boisakh's waterline stretches along the silted riverbed
jumble of slapdash, naughty doodles
water dreaming here, sand glittering there

water moans, falling leaves spin and twirl
a leech climbs slowly up the grass to the tip
every intention follows this sluggish track

days of sunshine, many more of storms, rain, and storms
carved stone inscriptions in a dark moss-covered cave
traces of a masterpiece here, a sketchy grotesque there

the sun ricochets from rock to rock and shatters
whirls of radiance dazzle the entire sky
wounded face, scarred chest muscles

the moon in eclipse clouds your vision for days
black shadows sizzle in the blazing oven
sal wood bursts, buds fly off, pyres fly away

ashes fall, phrases fly off, delirious syllables fly away
for how long? how many days and hours and minutes
trying the limits of patience like flies pestering a putrid corpse

if you shoo them away, they fly back, settling on nose, mouth,
cheeks—bloodstains darken, shadows thicken on banyan leaves,
battle weary, beaten, always in suffocating pain

let grand passions cease, clamp them tight in a frame
storm-lashed forest, silver-clad paddy scorched by the sun
far downstream, a midnight appeal—"Bodor, protect me"

sand plies through your veins, line after long line—at best
a few faint, barely legible marks in assorted styles
will be left under the sun's burning span

U
afternoon shadows batter their heads on the batabi boughs
huddling together, three sparrows hide in the grass

chat a bit, stare a while, work a bit, stare some more
foreboding billows endlessly from the sweltering sky

dust scours exhausted eyes, blank
bitterness dissolves in the scorching heat

with slow deliberation the jarul sheds its leaves
three sparrows anxiously fashion their nests

nothing's new, whatever happens has happened before
poison in the milk, stingers in the honeycomb

if not today, tomorrow—if not tomorrow, some other day
afternoon shadows hang themselves on the batabi boughs

V
tide's turning, boatman
there'll be a house, you'll have money
waves swallow each other in frantic little whispers
bits of straw go swimming across the watery world
startled fish are spun round by the muddy current

tide's turning, boatman
there'll be a wife, you'll have children
a lone crane, turned topsy-turvy by a little gust of wind,
flies off with a fluster of wings, crying its complaint
the river runs unruffled beneath the warring waves

tide's turning, boatman
so take hope now, rest content
that groaning is only the water pressing on the prow
the oars, gripped by sweaty palms, slowly slacken
lost in lethargy, the sinking sun, the downcast sky

it's hard work rowing against the current
a warm bowl of rice will be waiting, boatman,
this is a journey with no return

W
night crawls over the harrowed field and stretches
wearily, an owl perches on a tamal branch, eyes
flaring as it spots a toad, a beetle, a plump mouse
the hunter's wings beat the air, the forest flinches

darkness coils around itself, a tightly wound cobra
swallows the sky whole, leaving just a few frightened stars
a sinewy civet slinks by the ghat on the south side of the pond
sharp claws extended, sniffing the fishy perfume of a trout

clumps of silence thicken in the bodiless dark
inside the drowsing huts the air is too heavy to breathe
black bats bare their glistening teeth, pomegranate
branches, weighed down with fruit, quiver in fear

a jackal screeches, trees scatter their ragged leaves
only the crazed wind comes back to grieve

X
Kirtinasha, let there be no more treachery, when
water sparkles in the sun, wave breaking on sunlit wave
and sparrows flit among flowers in meadows and woods
when schools of fat puti, escaping the heron's sharp beak

go drifting drowsily through the water, when
boats span the shoreless ocean, their sails
puffed out like smug traders, and far-flying
swans beat their wings, shattering the shadows

that crawl behind the waves ready to pounce, when
silt cakes the riverbanks in the harvest-scented wind
and beans, peas, and mustard blanket the gritty soil
children grow up on every veranda in one's own image

Kirtinasha, let there be no more treachery, when
these blood-stained hands wash clean in the sunlit water

Y
That hint of forbearance in your eyes tells me
I'm growing old, though a few strands of hair
are still black—groaning and whispering within me
a tall betel tree strains against the late autumn wind
a blood red tide rushes with the wrath of a madman
between the riverbanks tearing off bits of earth
that trace of indulgence on your lips tells me
I am old, with no further claim to pain

Z
all these awkward scribblings, what's the point?
cranes drink their fill and fly away, tame geese
head back to their pens, their weary wanderings leave
meaningless lines—hopes / struggles—a smeared scrawl

stretched across the sand as the sun sinks into
the marshes beyond the prosaic waves
on the river's furthermost bend
slipping into the dusk, silhouetted, obscure

murderous enemies slowly haul in their dark
conspiratorial nets hand over hand
closeted whispers leak across stagnant waters
flattening blanched reeds, startling the parched grass

dumbstruck night grips the moorings, villages, towns
these stories of new life are just tall tales, empty talk
mountains, plains, springs, and stretching tamarisk—
is there any other destiny, Kirtinasha?

________________________________________
Translation Notes:

This set of translations comes from Mohammad Rafiq's third collection, the award-winning Kirtinasha (1979), a book-length sequence of fifty-one poems. No translation into English—or transliteration into the Roman alphabet—can adequately reproduce the poet's simple but eloquent gesture assigning a character from the Bengali alphabet to each of the poems. (For instance, the final poem is headed with the sign for nasalizing a vowel, called the chandrabindu, or 'moon-dot'.) Readers should know, however, that the identity of Bangladesh is inseparable from the Bengali language—and from the memory of the martyrs of the Language Movement (1952), who gave their lives protesting the Pakistani goverment’s attempt to make Urdu the national language, and of the freedom fighters of the War of Liberation (1971), who died defending their distinctive Bengali culture. The publication of Kirtinasha established Mohammad Rafiq as a major poet of Bangladesh. The book's title, which means "great destroyer," refers to the two-mile-wide channel of the Padma River (itself the main channel of the Ganges as it divides in far western Bangaldesh) after it has received the waters of the Jamuna and flows southeast to join the Meghna, which empties into the Bay of Bengal. Kirtinasha is renowned for its fickle power: in one season it is a placid mirror of the sky, stretching from horizon to horizon; in another season it is a raging monster, swallowing up all traces of great imperial palaces. In this collection of poems, the river’s powerful current flows through an ageless landscape and contemporary conditions, carrying with it myths, fairytales, traditional songs, and characters from modern Bengali literature, revealing in ever-shifting images the implacable force of nature and the fragility of human dreams. In the following selection, the original order has been altered to better reflect the interplay among poems in the complete Bengali text.

অলংকরণ (Artwork) : Nilanjana Basu