DLF <strong>2018</strong>: Poetry It’s such a time Shaheed Quaderi -translated by Kaiser Haq The return Mohammad Rafiq -translated by Carolyn B Brown this was a long muddy dirt path that day the nearest station ten or twelve miles off the moon overhead was perfectly full then a swarm of shadows crept across the fields the wind carried a single whistle from far away wheels stuck or kept spinning on their axles then time limped along ever so slowly until dawn opens all its doors in wonder at a bird’s call Tanni Tamal Piya rushes out to mop the courtyard the first sun’s gaiety bursts forth in all directions— the tongue can’t get rid of the taste of childhood the flavor of sweets and cakes fried in oil perhaps not far away but still a very long ways away You could call it a bad time or a hard time, no one likes to hear the magpie sing, no one likes to hear the koel sing; worldwide there’s no sound save the wintry song of falling leaves; whether it’s the oak or pine, silk-cotton tree or flamboyant, none is safe from winter’s attack. Everywhere one hears the lament of falling leaves. Our reddish, bluish, green leaves, our dear leaves are falling like soldiers in the war of independence. All around there’s only the anguished cry, the loud lament of falling leaves, and yet, drowning the screams of the entire world’s falling leaves like the ringing temple bells in an earthquake-leveled village or the first azan at dawn after a tsunami the poet will sing his defiant lyrics. Bad time or hard time, the song will not stop. (Excerpted with permission from Shaheed Quaderi: Selected Poems) today that oxcart is still right there abandoned now, wheels off, falling to pieces two oxen, not standing but lying down, chew their cud waiting outside the station grounds now, of course, it’s not evening, the night’s almost over the child returns home after a long journey today it’s not even very far away the sound of steady shoveling can be heard clearly each down thrust of the spade is heartrending, cruel where bamboo leaves fall in the unforgiving wind where all the houses become just one house, just one door dirt-covered, shapeless, cold today there’s no dusty path anymore, it’s paved, smooth no chance of wheels’ sticking in the mud or coming loose the day is bright white with the icy sheen of an outstretched shroud time is leaving the oxcart behind, for a long time 30 (Excerpted with permission from This Path: Selected Poems of Mohammad Rafiq) ARTS & LETTERS TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, <strong>2018</strong> | DHAKA TRIBUNE
31 DHAKA TRIBUNE | TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, <strong>2018</strong> ARTS & LETTERS