I
speak of a legend,
I
speak of a legend of my ancestor
Who
had the smell of silt in his palms
And
a flaming scar on his back like a red hibiscus.
He
would speak of the wilderness,
Of
savage beasts,
Of
trodden hills
Of
ploughing the virgin soil,
Of
poets and of poetry
Each
honest word spoken by him
And
each grain of corn from his ploughed
land turned in to a poem.
He
who is insensitive to poetry
Would
hear the rumblings of the storm.
He
who is insensitive to poetry
Would
be deprived of the radiant horizon.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Would
remain a slave all his life.
I
speak of dreams like spoken truths,
Of
a bright window lit by fires.
I
speak of my mother who used to say
A
flowing river keeps swimming even those who
Do
not know how to swim.
He
who is insensitive to poetry
Does
not know how to keep swimming in a river.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Does
not know how to play with the fishes.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Cannot
listen to fairy tales couched
in his mother’s bosom.
I
speak of a legend,
I
speak of an ancestor,
I
speak apprehensive affections,
I
speak of the death of a pregnant sister and
I
speak of my love.
Love
kills the mother
And
war comes like fierce love.
The
children leave their mother
And
I speak of my brother.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Can
not die for the sake of his son.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Can
not take to arms out of love.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
He
cannot hold the sun in his heart.
I
speak of a legend
I
speak on an ancestor
Who
had a scar on his back
Flaming
like a red hibiscus,
Because
he was a slave.
Shall
I be able to speak of poetry like him ?
Shall
I like him, be able to speak of freedom ?
He
would speak of driving the plough deep in to the earth,
Of
sowing clean seed in the well-drenched lad
Of
tending the ripening corn like the milk cow,
He
would speak of poets and of poetry.
Each
bead of sweat of one who tills the land is
a poem,
Every
grain of corn of that tilled land is a poem.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Will
be laughed at by the bare earth,
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Will
be deprived of his mother’s milk.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Will
remain hungry all his life.
When
the dissembling landlord’s tyranny
Laid
waste our corn like wild fire,
We
fell in like the teeming clouds of Sravana
Revived
the dead earth with the soft touch of
the showers,
Sowed
decent seed in the well-drenched earth
Saw
the beauty of our corn
like the well-formed beads of sweat,
And
inhaled an incredible smell to our fill.
Then
the lords like poisonous vipers crawled back
in to the
Dark
dungeons
And
we, like thickly set copper inscriptions,
Emerged
bathed in the sunlight
And
our chorus so tellingly held poetry.
Poetry
is the sudden flash of a horizon-cleaning
thunder,
Poetry
is the words of resistance like a red hibiscus.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Will
have to bite the dust like a lowly sucker.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Shall
be made to kneel before an armed uprising
Like
the rumbling rush of a tidal wave.
The
fragrance of silt will leave one
He
who is sensitive to poetry.
I
speak of a legend,
I
speak of an ancestor
Who
would speak of the truth like dreams
Of
age-old music expending in to miraculous
emptiness,
Of
the star-lit fields
Of
poets and of poetry.
When
the poet’s blood was spilled
We
joined together in a common fraternity
Like
the mouth of a river that meets the sea,
We
became a veritable flame of fire
Like
the burning sun
And
then the fell killer kneeled before
Poetry
and begged for mercy.
Then
our sorrow turned in to anger
And
ous anger in to pleasure.
Poetry
is the chorus of voices
Like
the confluent roar of the river and the sea
Poetry
is the pleasurable eruption of our
Repressed
anger.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Would
be deprived of the amity of the waves.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Will
be cursed cursed by wretched and lonesome sorrow.
He
who is sensitive to poetry
Shall
always remain deaf and dumb.
I
speak of a legend,
I
speak of my ancestor
Who
had a flaming scar on his back
Like
a red hibiscus,
I
speak of a bunch of red hibiscus.
I
speak of an uprising
Like
tidal wave
I
speak of Kamol’s eyes
Like
shooting stars
I
speak of a thousand scars
Like
full-blown flowers
I
speak of a mother
Who
has lost her children.
I
speak of firy death and of freedom.
When
the tyrannical powers swooped down on us
We
became erect and composed like old music
We
touched the emptiness in the space
Like
the soaring peak of a mountain
We
became taller
Like
the expending horizon
And
uprooted all our white fear.
Then
we became calm and bright like the
amorphous
stars
In
the milky way.
Poetry
is the blooming scar of a flaming star,
Poetry
is the indomitable glare of the middy sun.
He
who doesn’t love Poetry
Can
never reach at the sky,
He
who doesn’t love Poetry
Cannot
be brightened by the conviction of the noon
He
who doesn’t love Poetry
Cannot
resist fear.
I
speak of a legend
I
speak of my ancestor.
I
speak of the fearless stride of the working class
I
speak of the uncultured unity of the wilderness
I
speak of the soaring pride of the manacled trees
I
speak of the past
And
of the present.
Poetry
is soaring pride of
menacled trees.
Poetry
is the uncultured unity of the wilderness.
He
who is insensitive to
poetry
Will
be alienated and overtaken by chaos,
He
who is insensitive to
poetry
Shall
be rendered eyeless by a time turned away.
He
who is insensitive to
poetry
Shall
remain an underling all his life.
When
we entered the city
There
was hunger all around ;
Fertile
earth was empty,
The
trees bare
And
like pieces of floating land,
Rootless
men and women were hungry.
When
we entered the city
There
was chaos all around.
The
mother was found grieving for the lost child,
And
her tall sons sticken dumb
With
their blind eyes wide open
And
staring like
water lilies.
Then
we remembered our ancestor,
Remembered
the feats of our great-grand father,
We
remembered the primordial wilderness
And
the subdued savage beasts.
Then
we become stolid like the mountains
And
our aims became fixed like the Pole-star.
I
speak of a legend
I
speak of an ancestor.
I
speak of the armed uprising
Of
men with unshaken faith.
I
speak of the quiet pacing of History
In
the corridors of class-struggle.
I
speak of History
And
of dreams.
O
tall sons of the earth,
I
speak to you,
I
speak of my mother and
Of
my sister’s death
And
of the battle my brother fought.
I
speak of my love
I
am a poet
And
I speak of poetry.
History
is a dreamlike release of the truth
And
Poetry is the pleasurable feel of History.
He
who is an insomniac cannot compose poems.
He
who has the thrill of a budding sprout
Is
a poet
He
who speaks out dreamlike truths
Is
a poet
And
when men would love each other
Everybody
would turn a poet.
I
speak of a legend
I
speak of my ancestor.
I
speak of the restless present
And
of the final struggle in the future.
Between
intermitten skirmishes
We
have tilled the land
In
the narrow nebula of murders and murderers
We
have sowed clean seed
And
with the generous flow of winding rivers
We
have tented the seedlings.
Our
faces are ugly
Because
hatred of ugliness renders of ugly.
Our
voices are harsh
Because
resentment against injustice
renders the voice harsh.
We
have a star like scar on our back
Because
incredibly treacherous words
Have
always led us to the place of execution.
I
speak of a legend
I
speak of my ancestor
Of
my sons
And
of you.
I
speak of the future
When
each spoken word would be as true as the sun.
I
speak of the future of Poetry.
I
speak of the death of viper-like lords,
I
speak of the end to all these bickering and
conflicts.
And
of the final dissipation of this bitter hatred.
I
speak of handsome love
And
of melodious voices.
A
rich harvest would greet one who tills the land,
Rivers
would reward one who rears the fishes,
Mother’s
blessing would make one who
tends the cow live long,
A
sword of steel would arm one who puts a piece
of iron
In
the white heat of burning flames.
Poetry
is the inevitable uprising of mailed beauty
Poetry
is the melodious voice of handsome love
Each
word spoken in fearless freedom is a poem
Resistance
burning like red hibiscus is a poem.
Shall
we be able to speak of Poetry like him ?
Shall
we, like him, be able to speak of freedom ?
Translate by Kabir Chowdhury
Abu
Zafar Obaidullah
(1934-0)
Poet.
Poetry : Satnari Har (1959) Ami Kingbadantir Katha Bolchhi (1981), Premer Kvita
(1982), Kakhono Rang Kakhono Sur (1970), Awards : Bangla Academy Award-1979,
Ekushe Padak-1985.