BOOK OF POETRY
Imagine the day of justice
The time is quiet and infinite
Nobody can be seen anywhere
The desert-fish flies in the sea of sand
A vast emptiness touching the doomsday
Nature trembles fearing the fog.
Look closely, a poet stands alone
In the north-eastern horizon
You may think he holds his fate in hand
But I swear that God knows
It is his dearest book of poetry.
FREEDOM
I read and write in my own language
I learn from the school of trees and plants
Even the ants and birds understand my meaning.
Just as King Solomon understood the essence of grasshopper
As Buddha knew the rewarding of man based on his karma
All animals seek freedom and the religion of venting their opinion.
I am walking after putting my two lips on words
I am swimming on the words all through my life.
--
Rezauddin Stalin is a very famous poet in Bengal.
He was born in 1962 in Nalbhanga village of Greater Jessore district and won many local and foreign awards including from the Bangla Academy. His poems have been translated into 42 languages. Along with poetry he has established himself as a successful media personality sharing his thoughts on various social issues.
It started, I guess, the day before. I heard, from my spot making porridge (I subsisted almost entirely off of porridge) in the kitchen, an apocalypse coming down the back alley of our house. Only when it came through the back gate did I register what I heard: he was bashing fences, tipping over bins and grunting a lot. Watching him tip over the bins and bash the fence and grunt enlightened me.
“All right,” he proclaimed, but I was sure it was anything but.
And let it be known that, really, he was the serial kitchen offender. He’d bin what is left unwashed rather than deal.
“I’m sick of coming home from work – to this.”
I looked at my two dirty dishes, a bowl and a mug.
“I’m about to use the mug again.”
Tom’s four unwashed dishes stared at me.
“And most of them aren’t mine.”
“I don’t care. They’re there, aren’t they?”
“Yes”
“Exactly.”
It was resolved I would, post porridge, wash mine and some of Tom’s dishes, and any further infringements would be met summarily with a bashing.
I had D stay over that night, not just for safety. He took what I’ll call the squatters room. In the morning, we went drinking in campo. I got hungry, promised to come back and went home to snack on some mi goreng.
He must have heard my stumbling. R was in the doorway when I opened the back gate. I went to walk past him, but arrived only at him walloping me in the face, accompanied by some queer epithet.
I felt the blood flowing out as I looked him in the smile, screamed how I was gonna kill him. I knocked over a tin of paint (I was always finding paint), the contents weirdly coagulated and looking like toxic waste. On my way out, looking like I might radioactively mutate, I knocked over the bins, for both safety and synchronicity.
Then the tape skipped again. I was blurry at the bus stop, then the cop shop. They told me I’ve been stabbed and took me to hospital.
After a bit of waiting around, I went for a smoko. When I came back, they told me four hours had passed. I asked, “Really?”
“Yep.”
I remember, before I sat down, telling some strangers police did this to me.
I needed seven stitches. I got none. I was too scared of the needle.
Police said they would arrest him soon. I was too scared to shower at home. Police said they would arrest him soon.
I pissed in bottles of wine and barricaded my door. He woke me at four in the morning getting up for work.
For days, I lived like this.
I must have called the cops. They were there, but the evidence was cleaned, and R said he didn’t do it, which made it that was that, apparently. They told me, and I have A as my witness, that they thus wouldn’t investigate. I stormed out. “This is why people say fuck the police.”
I became good friends with Tom, but. After all, it wasn’t his fault.
Value of life
It has been raining in one of Breut's narrow streets since Wednesday. The tireless rain has always dropped the mood of the street members. Anthony Dreyzer, a well-known critic of the street, after a short break he want to go to the cafe in the morning. He put on his long cloak and went out to the street with his hat on his head. He was imagining along the way: now he goes to the coffee shop, as always goes to the table 17 in front of the window, and drinks and controll the cafe's diary ... He came to the door of the coffee shop and said, "Damn it!"
Unfortunately, today was Sunday and the coffee shop was closed. On top of that, it was raining. Anthony, stepped back. Finally, he moved to the shelter. Anthony waited for the rain to slow down in front of an unfamiliar house. At that moment, an strange event happened: the door of the house opened and a woman who white as pale, appeared on the doorstep. Anthony shuddered to see him. Not everyone could be intimidated by such a cold person.
-I'm, I'm ...
The woman pointed inside with her hand. ... Anthony, who was watching the outside at the hotel window, just tried to look at the room. In one corner of the room there were two vibrating courses, a table adapted for one tea, medals and orders, and a shelf with ancient items. There are about twenty photos on the wall. Anthony looked at the pictures on the wall, and a ghost-like woman entered the room and handed him one of the coffees in his hand.
Anthony took the coffee and did not thank. There were various pictures on the wall: a captain with several orders in his chest, a woman holding a flower, a military with a rifle, a couple of babies, a girl, a woman, a woman herself, three or four family pictures, and so on. Anthony recognized the girl in one of the photos. He saw him on the bridge last day.
- Is this your daughter? -Asked Anthony.
-Hmm ..., replied the woman, as if she were lifeless.
-Where's one?
- She died of disease for a six months ago ... I loved him so much ... (she was crying). There we were sowing grain for the birds. We would buy grain without melting and sprinkled with the birds. It was Anna's favorite hobby.
The coffee cup in Anthony's hand fell to the floor and shook. The conversation was over. The woman looked at Antony and was scared. Anthony was pale and frozen as a board.
When he ran out, the rain was still raging. Anthony ran to the bridge.After he arrived, he sat down. The rain was washing away his tears. Anthony remembered last day. Anthony's mother lived in another city, and she didn't go to see her mother. He would say the rest for a long time, and he would make an excuse. He recently went to the city on a job and saw his uncle. His uncle slapped him in the face and said his mother had died a month ago and that he had not even attended the funeral. Anthony's mother had just taken the letters written by her in the mailbox. It was impossible to read the pages that were in the rain and wet; They were torn. But when he read the incomprehensible word, he realized that his mother's eyes were very dim, her hands were trembling. His mother wrote that she missed. Also she collected and sent her moneys for him. Anthony was very young and hated himself. He went to the bridge to kill himself; He wanted to throw himself into the river. But he saw Anna there.
- Do you want to do it?
-Yeah .
-Please, don't die. Millions of people want to be in your place.
-...
- Have you seen the chagles? -... - They dive into the sea every day to avoid starvation. I'm not going to make them die!
Abdullayeva Farzona Hikmatullayevna was born on October 17, 2007 in Sariosiya district of Surkhandarya region. He is currently a 12th school student in the district. Interested in literature, poetry, reading. Many of the stories have been interpreted to the public. Young reader contestant. He has completed more than 50 works of art and novels. The winner of the "Letter to my mother" competition. He has also taken honorable places in the competition of essays such as "The Constitution - the Foundation of our Happiness", "The Secret to Happiness". He took the 1st place in the competition "Uzbek folk folklore" hosted by the school of the harmonious generation. He is also a member of the Indian International Organization All India Council for Technical Skill Development.
KARMA, KISMET, PROVIDENCE
To insure the Kismet effect
casino fixers
load the dice and mark the cards:
They rig the game,
annihilate free will.
To achieve a Karma asset,
cosmic accountants
balance debits and credits
of moral worth,
a result called justice.
Gamblers evoke Providence,
invoking mercy
to cancel consequences
that casinos
and accountants require.
But statisticians exclude
Providence, Kismet,
Karma, and all free will too,
Their random world’s
an impersonal one.
THE TREASON OF THE ROSE
A rose is for pleasure
and not for tears, Sir.
No, Bud is not like a rose
though his hair is fiery red
and though his smell pleased my nose.
But he bore no thorns in rows
--a single, fatal, prick instead.
I know now rose’s treason.
Contrasting plant with leaving,
I chose my rose, believing
it would last the season.
So, no, a rose Bud is not.
A rose will stay in its place
or share a family pot,
but Bud forfeited his lot
and left me to deal with the blaze.
A rose is for pleasure
and not for tears, Sir.
THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE
The honorable judge,
a-robed like a hedgehog,
was squatted at the bench
like an endowed lodger.
And that machine of law
read out loud
the preprogrammed sentence
to the court’s turned-on crowd
and the robot condemned,
heads dependably bowed.
The automated guard
led him out.
Next trial was clockwork
as the line moved foreward
till production halted.
Wind-up judge came unplugged,
hedgehog needed a nudge
when it slept.
THE NEW MONTESQUIEU
The factions sort themselves
into the left, right, and centrist
via birthright, and interest,
and contents of bookshelves.
Politicos maintain
the stability of chaos
through civility and payoffs
to competing claimants.
DO THAT HORIZON DANCE
An intimate selfish sharing
of a present timeless instant
of transcendent fluidity.
Your brain and your breath are the key
to its rhythm and symmetry.
You rest and then again embrace
Horizon Dance!
Inanimate, Self-less, shearing,
the present, an endless instant
of transcendent solidity.
Your brain and breathing are the key.
Imprisoned impassivity
unmoves that everlasting last
Horizon Dance.
