Prof. Masuduzzaman (Bangladesh)

 
Prof. Masuduzzaman (Bangladesh)
 
Masuduzzaman, PhD, is an eminent professor, scholar, poet, translator, essayist, and editor from Bangladesh. He is a member of the Bangla Academy (Writers Association) Bangladesh. He is also a member of Asiatic Society (association of scholars) Bangladesh. His poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines in Bangladesh, Italy, India, Belgium, Taiwan, Mexico, Cuba. He has taught many universities abroad. As a poet and critic he has conducted workshops for writers and attended international poetry festivals, book fairs and conferences around the world. He has published a wide range of publications including six books of poetry and six books of literary criticism, three books of translation, 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 in Chief of the multilingual international literary magazine Teernadaz (http://www.teerandaz.com), published from Bangladesh. Recently he has been awarded as the best poet on the Panorama International Literary Festival 2020, India.
 
 
Poet
 
The sharp tongue of the man is smooth, somewhat plain
The words are fossils with ice and frost spread over it
Stay awake all the time with a gentle thrill
Emerge your eyes inside the starry night sky
And watch the earth from far away
Heart cartridges breaking down on the night school in the winter
The purple-clouded texts in this country of Pagodas
Even the bread fountain giraffe walked away
He used to sit beside silence while trembling
Silver napkins used to fly towards the female friends
There used to be sunlight and the smell of sea on it
The male friends used to spit on it
That’s how they spent their days on the edges of mountains
No one ever saw him sleep.
 
 
 
The Sylvan White House and the Fairy
 
I have received your body the way I’ve desired,
Like the blue-shy letter flown from the mailbox, unread.
You have seen the lunatic spree in the dark night
The way naked moon floods the horizon
You thought I was the earth
So you embraced me and
Told the tales of the black horse of Moheen
The grass, and of the white house in the wood that stays awake.
The movie Tarkovsky made on the story of a secluded
Dwelling like the one in your tale
After watching that you really became nostalgic
The grassland in your backyard, the lake, the steppe-
From there, like the placid dove with its pallid wings that flew
With some sunshine and came to you-
You kissed on my heart in the white house and fell asleep.
 
 
 
The Touch
 
He who would touch me would touch the steppe
Birds flew to the steppe and brought back
Straw, golden eggs, and sleep
He who would touch me would touch this river
I have been floating towards the sea
I am cold and chilled.
 
He who would touch me would touch the sky
Clouds and rain bring ombro and gloomy day,
He who would touch me would touch the levin
For death comes on its inflamed pinnacle
Dances with the Swati Star on the weekend
and keeps on flying.
He who would touch me would touch sunshine
They smear, impaste; arbors sprout and shoot
In muddy spears grass and grains come alive.
He who would touch me he would touch the azure springs
Streaming away my very own cranium, tears, and physique.
 

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