Standing on the Bridge
Standing on the bridge
I look straight around the bending structure of the world
To the end my eyes can't enter any more -going out of sight
The mind steps there where the unseen lies
I know all my loving dreams lurking there
How wonderful reflection of the water!
Brings out the unknown beauty and charm
Right time to start the journey to the horizon
The sky and the land kiss between
The soothing light dancing with the colorful birds
Suddenly the waterman sings out touching the heart
"O ki Garial Bhai!"
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12/06//2022
In This Hot Summer
In this hot summer
I turn back here again and again
Under the large banyan tree
Drink the cool fresh tube-well water
And remove my fatigue
By your hand made spicy lemon tea without sugar
I walk through the green isle
Emerge the oxygen of the body
Sitting on the mound
How wonderful the sunset reflecting on the river!
In the hot summer morning
I walk out to the lovely open field
Observe the new light softening the earth
Awakening with the chirping lovely birds
Calling me back to the fondling childhood days
In the hot summer night
O disturbing sleep
Keeping hands on the forehead
Brood over the days passed
And the days on to the rise.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12/06//2022
Facing the Reality
Nowadays we can't cry to see the death of our brothers and sisters
Everyday every time it becomes natural - occurring death
It stops our cry to see the misery of others
Nowadays our heart can't respond like the past for love or sympathy
Sympathy or empathy -
Roles on the outer face of the body
Humanity or the group of the humanity
All lie in the hole
No sign of light to remove the black spots on the corner of the eyes
Every day it increases the line of the hungry children
The deaths on the roads, on the waters, in the sky or by shooting, throwing missiles
Adding the large amount of daily starving people
Around us facing the new change to solve
`Globalization' -the word
I believe the reality
How can I disbelieve my eyes, dear?!
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13/06//2022
Love Breath
What I do everything for you
Your simple words of love
Simply touches my heart
I reach my goal - like the boat floating on water
Your simple words of love
Knock at the door
I enter your room lying by you
Charmed to what you say and hug
I take my breath and lose myself in the world
Where only you and I live.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13/06//2022
Gasoline
The price of gas – just think of
What it has cost us, miles and
Miles, gallons and gallons. It
Once made sense. I recall as
A teenager buying a dollar’s
Worth for a night out – same
Station had a cigarette machine
A quarter a pack. Imagine how
It was heading out for the night
Four gallons of gas and a deck of
Cigarettes. Who could ask for
More than that, but it happened.
Prices in the driver’s seat and we
Became poor ride-alongs. Last
Time the prices went way up, we
Began talking about smaller cars
And less driving, even talked about
Public transportation, but when
Prices went down a bit, we became
A country of SUVs and pickup trucks.
Driveways filled up with our sense
What is essential – gallons and gallons
Miles and miles. We have learned to
Consume and complain without doing
Anything but consume and complain
As miles and miles go by and gallons
And gallons we buy – the price of gas
Just think of what it has cost us.
Out Shopping
Grocery shopping, we wait our turn
picture the gunman setting up
getting ready to shoot, to live-stream
the action we make, he makes.
How long before we begin to run
scream, try to hide, our whole lives
flashing before our eyes, how long will
it be, how many of us will get away
become survivors, witnesses they will
ask about him and how he appeared
before and what did he say, shout as he
began becoming the lead story?
This is Friday grocery shopping. Here we
are trying to get a jump on the weekend
a task accomplished – and there he is trying
to get a jump on what he wanted
wanted to accomplish – the first few are
carefully picked out of Produce, the rest are
random, much like our grocery shopping
might have been.
Cut to the Car Chase
Shoot-outs, we grew up on them,
war pictures, cowboys and rustlers,
gangster films. We’ve seen it all, so
when they happen around us, they
seem almost scripted. The guy, whose
sad face we saw on TV last evening,
tells the expected story about the masked
intruder who he chased off, then on
a car chase, three towns long, shooting
out his window, like some action star,
a budding Clint Eastwood, shooting as
they tried to get away. The passenger got
hit, didn’t make it to the hospital, and
now our shooter gets his TV moment. His
story holds together as well as any other,
a few shots to explain, charges filed, and
of course the pictures, the car with a blown
out back window, the roadside, and our
hero’s sad face, his bloodshot eyes. They
say it’s drug related, like most of these tales.
They are always seem to be scripted that way.
J.K. Durick jdurick2001@yahoo.com
Broken Legs
it's Ramadan,
& we would wear the lips
of a night,
& speak of the dark memories
standing on
the borders of our country.
we would watch the back
of our hands,
to see the pictures
of schoolgirls, whose mothers
are through waiting
for them to come home.
we would try
to echo the screams
of people,
who lost their hopes
inside a moving train.
we would remember
the burning bodies of women,
& children whose ashes
now paint our sky grey.
& we wouldn't
want to taste the blood,
that quench the thirst of hungry zombies
walking through
the borders of our country.
our legs are broken,
we don't have the strength
to stand and fight again.
we are left with only our hands,
& we would raise them
tonight.
& ask our lord
for a piece of cloth,
that would wipe our tears.
_For Abunic
you told me of death/the pain and the weight of its scars
when it paddled canoe with grandma
on the hot surface of tears
my tears still falling on the footprints of death
when it walked off my doorsteps with daddy's breath
you undressed death in lines of poetry
planted on grandma's grave
never told me
that you'll be a poetry/poetry that will count my teardrops
ball of my pen runs through your flesh
for words that'll give you pillow in the Lord's arms
you left your broken pieces scattered on my sheet like puzzle
you were the pen i knew
-spilled on what it feels to run out of ink
like strolling with breeze along the seashore
& told me not of this day
day that will fall like rain from my eyes
day that will push the arms of the clock
without counting the sounds of your breath in the air
i fasten buttons to cover the pain in my chest
fighting to find the semicolon that once held my poems
it was Wednesday, when the news pointed gun at my head
& stole happiness of my closet
march 16/ the chapter of 2022
that taught me how to recite euleulogy
& write elegy
for a brother with bundles of unfulfilled dreams
let the soul Rest In Peace
as the memories forever Rest In Pain
hoping to capture you again.
of then
i enter the tunnel
and am shot back instantly
to hanging around
and scoring here
for that secret time
in my young life
and this chasm
to anywhere
still existing
since my youth
is one of the bleakest places
i’ve been for decades
but it makes my heart race
because i so remember
the draw it had on me
desperately needing
to feed that clawing
internal hunger
i stop still
close my eyes and open them
allow the beating of my heart
to merge with dripping water
moan of a cruising seeker
barking dog somewhere near
i fall into the self i built
pathways tackled
courage moulded
strength to run
knowing from age
this wasn’t the place for me
i turn and step softly
out of the murky hole
past lost memory echoes
some trapped here forever
jeering vague around me
but unable pull me back
pace away
clean
from what it was
and meant
to me of then
not now
why anything
dwelling on collaborations
and agonising over those
encountered throughout
the journey as it unfolded
gives little to what eventuated
from consequences occurring
storing of regret misery
offers practically zilch
towards gaining answers
associated with trauma
unexpectedly arriving
in the domain of hoped for
failures cobbled tight into
a construction of gathered
evidence recycled for answers
when direction is halted
is only what is and no use
in obtaining why anything
terminal illness avoided to date
by perhaps luck was a chapter
in a sneaky scripture designed
by no more than fate and chance
so how can anyone’s analysis
be so ignorant to spit death guilt
self-gained knowledge held
rising from ignoring them
sings tunes that have not danced
to anyone ever before in time
and so false guarantees are not
part of the predicted contract
growth stumbling chaotically
into a something managed life
leading from their prescribed
may deliver alternative roads
making invalid wasted preaching
all of us and not just me and them
for sanity’s sake i decided to avoid
crowd expectation and opinion
stifling me to not jump into queer me
my only melody to self-realization
gifted to me by me is to sing to them
fuck off with your judgemental tactics
The Night, the Dark, and Bats, 1952
Arthur who decides not to tell his children or grandchild about the heart condition that’s going to end him soon enough, comes over in the evening to find Henry staring up into the eaves outside his parents’ house. It’s a cool evening in mid-May, the whole world waking up with that spring smell of a million things blooming, and it would be hopeful if there were hope left for Arthur. “What’s up Henry?”
Henry points up at the roof. “I think something just flew up into there.”
The sun has just gone down. “This time of night,” Arthur says, “it’s probably a bat. Most of the birds would be nesting now, and wouldn’t go up there anyway.”
“You mean, you think we have bats living in our house?” The idea lying in the boy’s voice sounds magical. This is a boy who begs to be taken to horror movies and reads comic books. Maybe he’s thinking about Dracula.
Arthur goes into his son’s garage where he knows there is a flash light. Ever since the diagnosis last week, Arthur keeps imagining little pains in his chest. He hopes he’s imagining them anyway. Back under the eaves, Arthur shines a light up and sure enough, there’s one bat hanging there by itself. “That’s good,” he tells Arthur.
“Why?”
“A bat by himself is probably just resting before he does more hunting or before he goes back to his colony. I was worried your parents were going to have to deal with a big group of them.”
“They live in colonies?”
“They hang together in gigantic clumps touching each other. I was in an old mineshaft one time and crawled right under hundreds of them.”
“Why were you in a mineshaft?”
“It was a gold mine out west that had closed down years before. My friends and I were just exploring it.”
He’s flipped the light off, but he hears the little boy’s gasp, the wonder that fills it. “Could you take me?”
“Ah,” Arthur says, his own kind of gasp because words cannot fill the reasons this will never be possible, and his unword is followed by a kind of infinity of regret and anger that’s focused on nothing really except maybe the universe.
“Come on grandpa. If Mom and Dad say it’s okay, can we go?”
The truth is that he has enough energy to take the boy. His only worry is that he’ll leave the boy stranded in the middle of the woods or down a cave. He has carbide lamps and rope and all the rest of his old equipment. The only thing holding him back is death.
“I tell you what. If your father goes with us, then I’ll take you.” He can feel the unquiet of the boy’s silence as he looks over the field to see the fireflies winking on. “What’s wrong?”
“Dad’s always working.”
It’s true. He has the hardware store to manage and the concerns of an adult. He works too hard during the day and drinks too much at night. Still, Arthur says, “We’ll schedule a vacation. You and I will plan it, and he’ll get some time off.”
The boy’s breathing turns hopeful, and Arthur sends him in to start talking to his father about it. Arthur stays outside for the sake of the fireflies.
And so, Arthur probably won’t be around in the late summer, but he’ll fill some hours with Henry planning and mapping and explaining how and where to enter the earth gracefully, without fear or danger. He hopes there is a heaven, but he doesn’t think there is. He’d love to watch the two of them on their journeys. He’d love to watch Henry learn to understand the night, the dark, and bats.
My Falsified Report Card
I have always been reluctant toward education, especially what is taught in the classroom. Though my mother was teacher, I had always had some phobia towards learning. I would prefer to stay at home rather than go to school. My parents would have to drag me! Going to school from Mondays to Fridays has always been a nightmare. The good times I enjoy were usually the weekends and holidays.
As a consequence, I was not sound academically: always at the bottom of the performance pile. During examinations, I was usually faced with uncertainties. Reading and understanding were my pertinent problems, despite having stand-by lesson teachers to take me on all subjects at home, as soon as I was done with school. In all of those, however, I was always happy when I was through with tests and examinations and looked forward to the subsequent holidays.
My parents were particularly concerned about my academic performance. Playful I was, I turn deaf ears to their words of advice. They were indeed a busy people. My father was an engineer who had to work almost half a day and retired home late at nights. My mother worked hard to support the family through teaching in various classrooms and offering extra lessons to add to her income.
From my first year at elementary school to my fourth year, my results were all in the negative. My mother expressed her frustration on me as I came home with bad academic results every term. It got so worse to the point I was being scolded through the weapon of the whip. It became the ‘new normal’ I had to face every term of academic session I came home with the ‘usual academic result’
My teachers were concerned. My mathematics, English and social studies teachers offered extra times to painstakingly teach me on a one-on-one basis. Yet, all their efforts prove abortive. I was left on my own. In fact, my parents got fed up and consequently gave up on me! They fired all of my lesson teachers. I was left at the mercy of several house-helps: paid home helpers whose responsibility centered on taking care of the home, my three younger siblings and me.
Between the years 1990-1995, my elementary school years were seriously boring times. I got tired of receiving the usual bad results every term (four months) and seeing my parents getting upset. Through the help of a friend, Olumide Coker, I was able to do the ‘unthinkable.’ I was at my fourth year at elementary school (Yewande Memorial School, to be precise) when the ugly incident happened. Olumide came to my house with a Tipex Ink-what was used to make alterations to figures as shown in the Report Card-a document that validates the performance of pupils. Together, we changed every score and percentage in it! The scores and percentages showed an unusual' excellency of my result'. My report card! I felt good and thought my parents would be happy seeing the bad results ‘changed’ to good! I never knew I was in for a shocker!
When I showed my parents my report card, they knew it was obviously sketchy. My mother asked, 'Are you sure this is your report card?' Afraid I was, 'Yes, it is' was my reply. Later that day, 'Your report card looks funny. I will call the attention of your head teacher the next session. Are you sure this your report card?' were my dad's words. 'That's my result' I answered, feeling guilty.
The early part next session saw my dad brought the attention of my head teacher at my fourth year of elementary school. Then, I just got promoted to the next class-the fifth year of elementary school. It was there the truth had to be unearthed. I altered my report card! After much interrogations, I bowed to the pressure mounted on me.
I was not only humiliated in the presence of my parents but also the entire classes and levels of my school. I felt the ground opened up and swallow me completely! My fellow pupils in class, seniors and juniors made spectacle of me throughout that day and for several months . It took me time to get over the consequence of my action. It was a day I live to remember.
Looking back to that ordeal, I can't help but assert 'it's a thing of the past'.
