Dr. Masuduzzaman is an eminent scholar, poet, translator, essayist, and editor of a literary magazine called Teerandaz, published from Bangladesh. He has taught many universities abroad. As a poet and critic he has conducted workshops for young writers and attended international poetry festivals and conferences around the world. He has published a wide range of publications including six books of poetry and six books of literary criticism, and sixteen edited books on poetry, comparative literature and culture. Currently he is working as a professor of literature at the Institute of Education and Research, University of Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is the founder editor of online literary portal Teernadaz.
This furniture this silence this quiet forest
One man is dozing on a chair by himself
The table is cold, the sun is setting, but it hasn’t melted yet
The rain-tree-forest itself narrated the story of days when it sheds its leaves while trembling in sheer cold
Why did the sofa scream for the lonely tree?
Its branches cried remorsefully
A silence circularly surrounded this very house moments ago
It floated in my existence like a boat too
The emptiness caused by the pain of a frozen rock is a blood-rose
The air trapped all over inside the hollow pipe
You are gazing at the earth from the depth of the sea with bitterness towards life
This gaze of yours is warm and colorful like a rose
Countless fish are shaking like saints
You might not know they’re aiming for someone
Or they’re looking for something or they’re sheltering themselves
They’re actually looking for the seeds of dreams and binoculars
Their eyes are so widely open it feels like someone has hung their eyeballs
They will keep hanging in space as your soul’s stars before rolling down to the earth
You were explaining a lot of things
Are you still or are you like an ostrich in the face of a gun
You hide your face in the sand
You rose to great heights of the mountains after being rejected
The ultimate ending is not like this
You wanted to write calm and smooth poems
But your face is slowly dropping towards the earth
You wrote your suicide notes yourself.
Translation: Anonno Sayed Haq
The Story of a Blue Mountain
A white house is next to the forest. Every day you enter that house in silence.
All the mind-refreshing-trees are around the house.
The green wings of the bushes are on the trees. Through a little touch
Of wind, the trees start flying by fluttering their wings.
A little farther on, a happy pine-bush is there.
Happy enough, because
Whenever they see you, they hug and kiss each other with their long bodies,
Then there originate cracking-noises in the air.
There is only one way out of the house. The zigzag path has ascended
Towards the blue mountain, there is a fountain, pine and poplars are there.
As soon as you climb the mountain, all the white and brown clouds
Stand close to your body to touch the clouds,
You get startled;
You are not touching my chin!
Further up is the hilltop, as soon as you get there; the world seems so small, like a dot.
Where were you, where did you come from?
Such a house you dreamed of.
From the top of the mountain to the side of the pine,
Following fountain, partridge, wildflower and a couple of deer are there.
Thus afternoon comes closer all around.
Just then, just before jumping from the summit into the air
I remembered that favorite face.
Translation: Ashraful Kabir