Poems by- Rezauddin Stalin
Once the adolesent eyes were clear rivers
Now it is full of litter
Now shrank to leftovers of leaders, actors and bureaucrats
Adolescent memories rescued me from losing vision
School from childhood comes forth by dissecting present
The green river longs me streching his neck
The green sky gives soothing touch in my head
The green afternoon offers me cold water
In stormy night blue stars fall from the sky
And on a stormy night, blue stars fall
In morsel throughout the series of events
One can reach to his youth
For palm juice many times I kept my eyes’ on the winter horizon
Where hundreds of white egrets are sitting
Hundreds of egrets on school’s white dress
Many days have passed without hearing ravens’ Vedic words
Suddenly infinite silence breaks
And resounds the cries of childless dove
A chopper is hovering looking down
I remember the Kingfisher
To live in this city needs altering of passion
Eyes full of fasting and eating
Satan’s blessing is heard
Memory is a silent killer
Yet to survive hell
I hold his hand again and again.
History of the Spirit
Lloyd Floyd is lying down beside the precious street
and next to identity card marked with enormous numbers
People are wandering in the computation of the numbers around
There are concrete hills upon the heart of the creatures
The Constitution is written with the citations of annihilation
The state is greedy for heaven and handed in the truth to evil.
Even after absolute surrender, they cut his acquired breath into two pieces
Floyd is searching for a fountain in the hard relationship
The bull is coming out from Picasso’s Goernica
Floyd’s chest is covering with the foam of rage
In the extent of suffering over the world– the reports all are false
Floyd sees the moon standing in rubble
The fonts of Westland are fleeing from the American library in fear
The corpses complain to the creator of emptiness
Jesus’ non-violence act is burned by the tongue
Twenty-first Centuries and the black people of Harlem
The harmony of the coils of hostility
Thousands of stories of losing breathe in one’s own soil
The cross is stuck in the anus of the church, the place for Prayer of self-purification
The plan of killing is transmitted in landscape
The death is a situation like bullfight
The graveyard is swamped with the modesty of black people
Gushing blood can be heard through unfaded and silent nose
Not the horrors of the Civil War
The lonely question breaks down in his land
Protest is so contagious
Every city in the world is affected by pandemic
The shoulder like a valley is filled with placards and festoons
The whip is whistling on his back
Shoe nails are shooting in his throat
Where is the palm-pulse of the river vein?
The stars of the eyes are vanished in the womb
In a fraction of time
The statue of lion is trodden
There are thrilled boats on the river of vein are drowning in whirlpool
Floyd will become the King of Harlem
He is walking alone
The sentry’s shadow sucks the lips of the afternoon
Floyd body is stuck at the crossroad of Minneapolis
Mary’s breast are distorted by the stab of penis of the herd of wolf
The White House is breathing over and over again
Are they martyrs whose names on notice board?
This is the midday, fires on the tail of homosexuals
The gender is for awakening for the dawn and night sleep
Now the god of the wind is going back leaving behind the ancient guillotine in the earth, wiping eyes on the stone tissue
There are heaps of complains, exhibiting the mature teeth high
The eagle spreading wings under the palate
The breath box is dipping in the stomach of termites
God will be late
Floyd, let start your journey
Heaven is a long way
There are bubbles of boot in the blood–soaked drain in the sky
There is neigh of blue horse
The solitude is coming down in the street Minnesota
The all May 25 of the world is lying on the tongue of the pavement
The exhausted ground is lying down after the last respire
The airborne poetry is arising out of the ear of silence
The household is river intoxicated with opium
Never will rise
Birds will not cry for fear of crossfire
The wind will be standstill on the water-horse
The official press note will mention that the child died by serious suffocation
The are so many restless thorns
Joys are in the ragged lungs
The wind is fleeing
The questions are guarded
In the grasp of white there is the terrified tongue
All the rain and umbrellas are lost in nowhere
Cruel kiss of heavy shoes on the streets
And the electric power is gradually accumulating in the spine
Floyd will return to the land of the moon
Where the history of the spirit survives without air
[Translated by Tuwa Noor]
Marc Chagall And My Village
I too had a village like yours.
At the entrance to my village
there was a fig tree in front of the sentry post.
The milch cows buried their mouths into the thick road-side grass
and lifted them again full of contentment.
In the bounteous cropping season
the crescents in the vigorous hands of farmers
would gleam across the firmament of the soil.
Thirsty calves drank joyfully from the fountains of the udders.
My father went to the village market
accompanying the grace and auspiciousness of the season
and came home cariying for my mother
the luminous smile of the hilsa fish
and a horizon-wide sari.
The farmer’s wives rinsed in the river water
the rice for making the festive harvest-time pithas
just as we bathe ourselves and attain a wholesome
spiritual poise in preparation for some holy occasion.
In the evening came the headmen of different communities
and shared out the happiness among themselves.
Someone among them would sing lustily a song:
O boatman of the mind, hold on to the oars.
Marc Chagall, what remarkable harmony prevails
between your village and mine.
In Your village there were quite a few donkeys to bear load
and We had a few draught bullocks
and an army of day-labourers, landless
who spent their days doing every bidding of the landlord
and like those helmeted guardsmen of your village
we too had a small company of village policemen
who dispatched innocent men to the other side of a gate in town.
The grief-laden mothers of these innocent men
with bent heads waited for a long time at the town’s periphery
like ships with empty holds waiting to call at a port.
Like those working women in your village
there were many women in our village.
From their breasts oozed tiresome salty sweat
instead of milk
and a group of farmers went to the field before sunrise
trudging the mist-enveloped path
like a band of guerrillas marching ahead
after having discarded their camouflage.
But no beneficence flowed in the direction
of the homesteads of the landless.
Day by day our village decayed into a stagnant river.
We were growing up amid starvation
wails and groans.
Fishing nets hauled up vast quantities of fish
white and gleaming like a set of teeth
and they flew towards the horizon of the city
riding on the wings of a truck.
We saw everything but were deadened
by the sound of the engine.
At a distance the lion of the city had woken up
and was roaring.
The sound of hundreds of engines the song of stone crushing
the limelight and disorderliness of smoke and spices
were our stupefying terrors
like the colossal giants from Aladdin’s wonderful lamp
standing with their heads towering towards infinity
and we being unwittingly sucked, gradually,
into the grips of those demons.
Chagall, my village is now inside the belly
of the city lion
and I, installed in the massive grip of the giant,
am ever searching for the wonderful lamp.
The Bloody Moon
The day vanished at the sunset
Gradually, the city became a slave of electricity
Though it appears like day, darkness shrouds the entire sky
And the white teeth of stars are scattered
Mouth and teeth became bloody
The moon became tainted with bloody red
The trap of vampire hides within the cave of the flat.
Every day, people, being trapped, are losing everything
Everyone follows the pidepiper of Hamilon.
No one knows where to go, like the puzzle of “Minotaur”
Men, like lambs, are tied up in the barns of the witches
As men turned into lambs, mice into owls
The main source of income becomes the selling of humanity
Once you sell humanity, you can achieve everything
A festive bloody party is now going on in the empire of
The most precious fairy tales are burnt into ashes by the
fire of festivitiess.
A gambling game will decide who is the fittest.
What difference does it make if the sun sets and night
One has to survive in the darkness, fighting
And being bewildered.
Early Childhood Education
That who studies
He rides carriage and horse
We are devoted to this rhyme
Year after year people have done
everything but die to tame cars and horses
Rather than a human being
I will be a carriage or horse
Our parents know
Bribes will be subdued in this mantra
And the superiors
The car has been parked there
The horse is standing
Rain will fall from the sky without any call
The gods will come to visit
From the Mahabharata
Offer blessings – of barbecue – of champagne
Instead of milk and rice
Draupadis will dance with the joy of taking off their clothes
We will still study
By car or on horseback we will go to meet – Duryodhana Jagatsheth Rayballav,
With Mirzafar, Ghaseti Begum
And lost all ways of becoming human
Frequently I will enter into the jungle of
carriage, horse and buildings.