Shikdar Mohammed Kibriah (Bangladesh)

Shikdar Mohammed Kibriah (Bangladesh)
Shikdar Mohammed Kibriah. Poet, essayist and story writer. He was born in 1968 at vill: kachpurai, post: Goala Bazar, upozilla: Osmaninagar, Dist: Sylhet, Bangladesh. He has been writing for 3 decades and his published books are 15. Among them 6 of poems, 6 essays and 3 stories. He’s M.A in philosophy and professionally a teacher. He is settled in his village home.
Hybrid Dreams-1
My native world has worn a chador
Woven by soft thread of dreams, and
Just explored a vast green steppe,
Brightened a late afternoon, where
A zigzag already gone into the dark
belly of foggy dusk.
Having compact with the phenomena
The sleepy swamp, its marsh-paddy
Complete their last holy ablution, and
After evening prayer they are likely to
Lying in the arm of nature.
Vanishing fog I’m running to be absorbed
In a dreamy warmth and break traditional
darkness with a self-intimacy absolutely.
Hybrid Dream-2
Waveless wintry river alike a sleepyhead wife,
Boatmen paddle unwillingly shivering in cold.
Leaving aside sobbing water, sleepy storks,
Marshy paddy and human habitation
I’m, a post-modern Adam, going to be
immigrant in hybrid dreams.
Making an unthinkable garland in the sky
How the migratory birds fly
like that I have come here in this winter evening
To peddling dreams into the human colonies of
The world.
Obviously I’m a dream-hawker.
Have a dreamy warmth.
Do you think what’s the colour of my chador
And how its comfort. Look at my coffee cup.
What could you see?
Greening warmth flying in the air and swamp,
stork, marsh-paddy, boatman, human beings
All of the things are floating in my dreams.
Pure Father
Here life is nothing but a shameless woman
Standing in a blind narrow lane who colours
Her lips with painful bloody rose of bad luck.
Art of toiling life makes a shortcut bargain
Ravings of night vomits a darker dirty dawn
To be prepared for another upcoming night.
Modern city walks through a tiring darkness.
Still tries to find out a meaning of noise and
Suddenly boxes in the air to have offloaded.
When I will be eighty-over and cover my face
With ashen sky or grey water wets my chest
Right then you, ideal leader will be emerged!
Then that of the good days as if our children
Could find the minimum means of existence.

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