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Oh! My dear poet

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Dipak Bhowmick :

One Poet walks toward the light and away from the dark. He floats away; there's a Lotus flower in the scarcity of his mind. The fire of chained Prometheus in his mind spreads the aroma of prayer around his best friend's grave. I have seen this poet in an enchanted reality without being engaged in verse contest speaking to him. His feet are petrified into stone, we can hear him even when he whispers. The poet is writing his autobiography by taking rhyme spells- dear from the rhyme palace. He is making all the corroded words restless and known like a golden-winged eagle. The human vibrancy of his heart, all the
. consequences of spontaneous emotions prosper in heart and become repentant, turn out to be more perpetual. He liberates and broadens tangles of words, beaten words, old script, tete-a-tete , conversation, love, affection, society, politics, internationalism, protest and fondness like great Bade Ghulam Ali, ... what should I do my friend ... my fiance is not appearing ... what should I do my friend, ... !! Like Mr. Tansen, roses plummet from his speech, roses fall from his words too. Even though Tagore is attached to his heart, Budhadev is isolated, Jibonanondo is next of kin, Bulbuli of Nazrul stays awake speechless in the Nargis flower garden. He walks down the main street of rebels, builds a green shrine on the debris of love, all of his creations are an emblem of his seli'inquisition.
Once upon a time, a bird started singing. The poet found out that the wings of the bird are not visible, but a golden color is present; in the bird's milky white eyes there is porch of' a black iris like translucent silver water. He heeds the blood dancing melody of "come here comet, come build fire dam in the darkness" in the bird's tone. He did not say a word but he wrote. Now he stands and speaks for the birds and moreover the great companion of people.
The allusions of his thoughts play beat of drum, he is the classic prince of his O\.vn sandalina sweet-scented feelings; rhythm-dynamic in sorrow-awareness of his moonlight weaved epic. He can even crack open enormous amounts of peanuts with his navel long
 assets, he can move them, at the same time he burns all the blessings and cursing, create prospect of artist and art, stripping off the floppy words, showing idle hearts by acting in inquisitive frame.
He is more pleasant than alteration,
more enthusiastic than hard alcohol, in his word sensitive
speech energetic liberated cinematography
ocean of water aesthetic sensation
there is a parade of militant togic
as if the obvious outtive of the horizon
is his grandson, as if palpable truth
starts to fight for him in edgy war chorus !

(Dedicated to poet Muzibul Haque Kabir's 60 th  birth anniversary)
Translation: Maruna Rahee