Poems by Asad Mannan
The last forty days
I haven’t worn clothes in the last forty days
I haven’t slept in the last forty days
I haven’t seen me in the last forty days
I haven’t flown in the sky in the last forty days
I haven’t walked in the garden for the last forty days
I haven’t been on fire for the last forty days
I have not been in my homeland for the last forty days
For the past forty days I have only seen corpses
For the past forty days I have been searching for address of corpses
I haven’t been home for the last forty days
For the past forty days there has been no world on earth
There was no music in the world for the last forty days
No one has had intercourse in the last forty days
The last forty days the child did not seem to be in the baby
For the past forty days the plants have not gone to bowed head
For the past forty days nothing has come of it
There was nothing like the last forty nights
I haven’t seen people in the last forty days
I haven’t read the news in the last forty days
I haven’t read any poetry in the last forty days
I haven’t written a poem in the last forty days
I haven’t called you in the last forty days
I haven’t seen the temple in the last forty days
I haven’t prayed for the last forty days
For the past forty days I have been hanging in the air
The silent earth trembled with fever for the past forty days
Corona executioner in the hospital for the past forty days
For the past forty days I have been digging graves
None has slept in the next house for the last forty days
There is no food in the rice pot for the last forty days
No rose has blossomed in the last forty days
There is no food in the rice pot for the last forty days
No rose has blossomed in the last forty days
The drunk has not entered the bar for the last forty days
There has been no traffic on the road for the past forty days
The highway has been empty for the last forty days
For the past forty days there has been no river in river
For the past forty days the earth has not existed
In the last forty days, the people have not come to the village
Why haven’t I seen myself in the last forty days?
I have been in the grave for the last forty days.
Odd to a Widow
Green ceremonies all around; in a nice voice
In the spring, the cuckoo calls by the simple rules of nature –
This is what I learned in the early morning crows of true childhood;
Maya of unparalleled beauty in the midst of diverse scenes
Absolute caress who indiscriminately get fascinated
She spread sugar with her mother’s affection
From birth, he is the Lord Merciful Great Merciful;
What game he played with the touch of the formless hand!
Once upon a time there was a king’s robe,
Again he handed over the beggar’s bag to the king.
How much bloodshed has happened for him in the world!
Violent monsters open the destiny of people in war
Today the crow crows with the call of the crow;
Before her first sitting on the bed of intercourse, the bride goes to the widow’s house.
The Boat of Noah
Invisible chains in this besieged house-prison
If you put me in which crime of whom , why?
Lord! You are a drunk rider on the Chariot light in darkness.
There is darkness in the hills and mountains;
The endangered saint’s abode has forgotten his pursuit ;
Boshekhi snatches the claws of the storm, the family of birds;
Death hawks fly around the world –
The thunderbolt of the moon bursts down and the thunder signal comes down.
Yet in your name to expel Corona at very in the mornig
The Poor Imam was caught chasing Azan;
Claimless lay down as a corpse in his last bed.
Humanity has never seen such a tragic scene!
Lamentations of relatives cry with pride in the court of God–
Who will float Noah’s sampan in the estuary of salvation?
Three decades later
Three eras have passed; Memories of one afternoon
What is still sweet is turning back to the branch of the mind
In the blocked epoch hangs the stagnant awakening;
Find the lost mountain fountain in the blink of an eye
In the water of the solitary stream, I can hear the couple’s dialogue
One said, “If I die!”! But?
Another said, “Impossible; it’s never,
My poem will pick you up from the grave. “
Whom the poet loves has no protection even if she dies–
If evening is the inevitable rule of time
Still blind as before, seeing him in various forms;
Ever embraced with the naked arm of imagination;
Never again did he gently touch her
In the deepest obsession of the darkest kiss of youth.
On that day the afternoon gave her beauty of life
Time-hunting tigers have slowly eaten her
The flesh of the disembodied love, the bone, the gesture of the eye,
Life is crazy about wanting and getting
Who calls him a lover? He is a cunning fox
Chewing the farmer’s chicken through entering
into the hole on its own,
Sometimes he shouted loudly
Men must may die though, remember – lover never die.
The lover who walks the path of the fox wants a long life
What can prevent the death of the epidemic corona?
What a deadly Pendemic terror around the world! One who is indifferent to indiscriminate killings .
I swear by His name– don’t answer
The men will stand in the green yard of life again.
The shadow behind the memory is like a black cat
The eggplant of hope is watered in the morning– afternoon–
On the island of the invisible mind, dreams are lit by candlelight.
I have told some beautiful women that they are beautiful
You were more beautiful than you were;
Somewhat secluded, intimate poetry lover–
But you have been kept in the trap of a taste les relatives
Dreamless cowboy like all other women!
Eat, have fun, do as you wish
If one or two descendants come, it is not bad.
This is life! Why organize so much with him?
Life will end one day like life
The wings have been shown solely to give a sense of proportion.
Yet love blossoms in your chest.
Like many, I have a heart;
He never spoke to anyone – how can I say!
How many rivers, how many waters, how many women are dear to her heart
Turn around like a fish in a silent watch;
I have kept this heart secret with great sufferigs.
No one has ever come and put his heart in this;
The life that is connected with the heart in the heart
She-life lover’s labor story
Sells poems in the name of travel;
Has anyone read him lying in bed at leisure alone!
Clever rats if they eat field crops
If the foodless stomach of a farmer is an empty pitcher?
In fact, there is no such thing as heart — there is the land of Maya
In whose name I write the arrears of life.
Now I am writing that poem
Now the poem I am writing was born in a fireplace;
A streaming claws of a river are being cling to his body;
The water is carrying him across the continent
He is running faster than Corona
In the alleys of a besieged dead city – in the alleys, in the villages
In the lounge, in the isthmus; In the traveling brothel
the chest and lips of a hill girl are waiting for him
Oh, what a beautiful flame dancing in the middle of the day –
Mountain trembling dance! I can hear his words
The robbery roar of the wind: Beware! No one is afraid
If someone try to escape, I will shoot him to death
I was in the corner of the house for forty days in fear
Alas! with no food I’m starving to death
I’m reading– I haven’t seen the great Goddess of poem so far-
At the sound of waking up this morning,
The goddess meets the poor with her smiling eyes :
Our next world will be born from the spirit of this poem.
Song of the time
One night he came and told me
Poet! I’ll go to the day, I want to go–
Will you show me the way
I told him,
And my night waking up crazy girl!
The poet ferries all the lights of the world.
A woman came and told me
Poet! I want to see the sea
Will you take me
And my water-loving sand duck!
What else will the sea see–
Look at me
Keep an eye out
In my eyes
You can see–
The cry of the sea water, the cry of insomnia
How are you sleeping together!
When I remember my mother
Mom! Can you hear me crying Next to you
The sea in the distance cries, there is no sleep in the eyes of the river;
Hijal’s face is falling all day long
Why is that eye island like a statue from afar
Fly and sit in the hope of a handful of light!
If Zainul’s crows come to my yard
Maybe after waiting I won’t go home and find you–
You woke up before that and left
Where to go one day very quietly
Everyone has to take gradual final preparation;
Your preparation was difficult though; So much trouble
But I never saw it; Lest boy
You have endured the fear of pain and sorrow
Blind curse of pain of all diseases!
Elegy for Myself
When I wake up, I get up every day at the desk,
Sometimes he gets intimate after sitting in a chair,
She means the queen of poetry, the beggar who made me:
Such as chronic illness when coming to see a doctor
The patient waits for Dr. Babu, similar
Poetry sits for me every day: me
According to my ability, I go through the art of medicine
By eating this banana, Rose Rani Mata became long-lived.
Even today sleep is broken; Let’s see a different picture– the same!
My chamber is patient! With emptiness in your lap
The Rohingya are lying like a child with a sad face
My unwritten verse in the refugee camp is no more
Orphan poems! That means poetry to me
Gone are the days! That means a lot
Game, how much more? – Now it’s time to go! Let’s go!
For a face
Translated by :
M. Harunur Rashid
What a desert thirst in a pair of eyes for a face!
That dead longing to dry up thirst
This dead river of Poush still carries:
Today, after all this time, I am only crying
What intense love the abandoned trees
What keeps me engrossed in sweet intoxicated intoxication!
The way he goes, he just falls on the road
Why do you call the favorite yellow bird in the world of leaves?
Childhood is like a dumb naked river; ;
In the rainy love festival of broken youth
Peacock peacock dances, the window of dawn opens;
That you held the hand of the wind like a river
He drove me crazy and now he’s up the hill–
How many times do I go down the path to get inside you, the path
Gone to someone else’s secret farm.
For a Face ( Transt: By Haroon Sir)
What Saharan thirst in a pair of eyes for a fair face?
This dead river of :Poush still bears the trace of
That desperate desire’s death by thirst.
Today after ages I am being moved to tears;
With what intense love the trees left behind
Bind me in their entranced caresses,
One who leaves will certainly do so, leaving behind the road,
Why does the loving yellow bird beacon me to the enticing life of the leaves?
That childhood is a dumb naked river;
In the rain-drenched love festival of ruthless youth,
The peacocks dance, the dawn sees the windows open;
You who took the hand of wind like the river,
Have gone up the hills having driven me mad.
I take to the roads a hundred times to get to your heart,
But the road has gone the other way, to somebody else’s secret farm.