Three Poems: Mohibul Aziz

Mohibul Aziz
Don’t Forget*

Yes, a braggadocio,
I know that’s what you are.
You may boast of your bombastic words
That you brandish at times—
Keep in mind, I pity you,
Go to hell with your doltish enticements.
Yes, now that you became big so big and high
That you can touch the ceiling up above 
With your able fingers.
But don’t forget 
You came out from the tiny little womb.
See, that feeble woman
Who is quailed by you once gave you shelter
In her chamber of delightful darkness.

Aye you, the numb and dumb,
Can’t you recollect those days when 
Being in her lap you longed to get the dot 
Considering that an alluring moon!
Now you are big and are smirking 
Before setting to fiendish acts.
You’re over the moon
And with your masochistic delights
You’re denying the truth of your harborage.
No doubt, you’re the owner of the power,
You’re dazzling the world with your helter-skelter impetuses
But don’t forget that dotted little lady 
Stretched her hands to gather all the strength 
To make you strong 
To let you from the present to the future.

Listen, the proud wiseacre,
What you see the dot is not a dot in fact,
It’s a radiating planet
Not everyone has the potency to tolerate that!

*This poem is written as a protest against those fanatics who a few days ago
 proclaimed that wearing dots on the women’s forehead is prohibited in Islam.


It’s the cheetahs that can hide the hunting nails 
In their paws.
It’s the hyenas that can muffle their shrilling voices 
In the secret niches.
It’s the foxes that can wag their tails
In innocent expressions.
It’s only the human beings who can copy 
The acts of all these creatures with tremendous skills. 


I'm a veered tributary oozed out from nowhere
And not known would direct where to.
The only thing I know
I no longer belong to this vicinity.
All the interspersed lines are connected to one another,
Only my line ebbed away from the ever-whirling whorl.
Everyone is moving as if guided by the ominous clouds
But I'm groping to hold the support I need
In the face of sheer adversaries 
That keep obstructing like some medieval throwbacks.
Having stood like the stout jurors
They spawn on axioms of their own
Those can't be mismatched,
Can't be disregarded by ones' idiosyncrasy,
I'm a veered tributary,
Can't take a free turn,
If I do take
The risk of transgressions welcomes me. 

Bio: Mohibul Aziz was born in Jessore, Bangladesh in 1962. He permanently lives in Chattogram where he is a professor in the department of Bengali Language and Literature, University of Chittagong. He is the author of nearly sixty books of various genres such as fiction, novel, essays and poems. All of the books are in Bengali. Private Moments and Resurrection of a Reformist are his two books of poetry published in English.

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