Think like a blabber

(Selected pieces)

(2019-2023)

Self-Portrait

2020

I contemplate a lot. I ponder over my mind, my prejudices and my existence. It makes me express myself through words and colours. 

Fragment 1

There is a light, I believe

At the end of the tunnel

Shimmering, blinking

To show the hapless souls

The meaning of life.

There is a light, I hope

At the far end of a tunnel,

Hope to see

Not its death

Its constant struggle

Against the rough winds

And the hammering silhouettes.

Burning flames, burning flames

Flicker but not yield.

Burning flames, burning flames

Pose like a crumbled soul;

Remaining ashes

Pose like a crooked nail;

Moisture, dewdrops, lavender,

Skin of oaks, landmine, sound of those

Savage disasters, elusive memory,

Knightly armour, tattered jackets, wet soils

Uncharted vision- all I want

From the daybreak to the last ray of hope.

Till then, burning flames,

Seek, strive,

As there is a light at the end

Of doubt and denial:

Conquerable and 

 Solemn.

6 the September

2021

Trash box

We throw garbage in a garbage box. Unknowingly, we throw a fragment of ourselves in the box; we throw our skins and unknowingly we look down upon at the wastages. So, what is it doing in the box? How long?

16 December

2021

Fragment 2

Contemplating over things: Mind’s progress

I. Similarities

It feels like air

When someone sleeps,

Seems like a box of stones has been dragged out

Pacified 

Hollow like balloon.

It feels like river

When the sweat trickles down from forehead

And touches someone’s knees,

It is cold like water

When the fan runs in full swing.

It feels like a jolt

When the bus driver hits a break,

Seems like one discovers oneself 

And starts searching for the past skins 

Of the past times

In the road 

Once travelled

Of his livelihood. 

07.11.2022

II. The Pain

My mind needs a sheet

To cover itself up

For camouflage

For hiding from the wind

As it carries the unwanted thoughts

Of different times,

Thought about bodies,

Uncertainties,

Failures;

My mind does not halt for a moment

I like a sleepwalker try to cut the entrance door

To have a look

Of the sunny mornings

Of its other side;

Gloomy, it sounds

Mild, it appears

It bombards,

It bombards the wall 

Between my tempo and mood

I don’t want to have the darkness 

Around my body

When my mind

Can leave its skin

Within a wink of an eye.

The cobwebs inside my mind

Like fear

Increase

If they are not untangled 

With the feelings

Of ease

And 

Of melodies.

From the melodies,

One can find a tune

The tune

That binds 

The hearts of those

Who cycle through the veins of life

Cycle through the spark of failures.

08.06.2023

III. Agony

I am born in the month of agony

As peace has not dared to appear;

From sunbeams to sunlight,

Shapes and intensity

Change,

The toddler learns to run with words;

Here, I, the agonized, disorganized soul

Do not know how to crawl.

All the butterflies spread their wings

Around the tip of a bud

Encouraging it to grow,

Hope, 

The world acts like this

And makes a constellation

Of lost souls.

March, 2023

IV.

She cries and cries

As if she is destined

To bear the weight

Of the cracking sky,

She never imagines

That her teardrops 

Can paint the white rose

Into blue

That she drew

In her notebook.

7^th April

Fragment 3

The Blabber

Side face of a blabber

2019

The Blabber 

Part 1

If something wonderful happens in my life, what will I do? 

The best thing may arise in me. 

My instinct or my strong belief in miracle can bring miracle to me. 

People say that life is a box of miracles. 

Life happens when nothing is happening.

Who will open the lid of the box of my life? 

Waiting is the foe of creative energies,

I believe. 

Restlessness creates the symphony

That takes refuge in me. 

Blabber is one who speaks a lot but can do nothing. 

I am that blabber.

Blabber is one who lives in the bubble. 

Bubble of misconception, bubble of doubt. 

I am that blabber. 

I am such a blabber that I fail at everything. 

I want to be a doer. 

From being a dear to a deer, one goes through a journey.  

Part 2

I write to free myself from the clutches of thoughts.

My body acts like a vessel and I am the sailor of the sea. 

My vehicle is not so big like my body. 

Its frailness makes me ponder over my rowing skills. 

The canoe like body faces hurdles to go forward. 

I want to be free like water. 

As free as the birds. 

The boxes around my existence enable me to think

That I have to take a shape 

Of a cube, round, square 

Or of any geometric figures. 

Water is shapeless 

So does the wind. 

Sky is shapeless so does the earth. 

The oxymoronic sensation is my breath 

That acts like a fuel to the machines of my body. 

Oil makes the machine run properly. 

Every evening, the horizon paints the scenic beauty

That does not demand any mechanical or technological recording. 

My eyes see the eyes of the firmament. 

At night, it is the evil but the day comes with the prediction.

A hope,

A dawn.

14.04.2023

The moods of Future

The future is a giant ball. A mystery starts with the anonymous suspects and ends with the prominent names. The more you try to look at the future, the more it will get away from you. It is like sand slipping away from your fingers. It only makes you realize what you can hold on and that is present. Today, the first day of the Bengali calendar says what can happen in the near future. Possibility and probability are not same with certainty. Certainty gives you the feeling of ending. As long as a soul can float, he is happy. 

Happiness gives you wings. It makes you venture into the lands that you have never thought of. The blankness in the eyes of a kid does not hypnotize an adult. But, the same blankness garnished with wonder can make anyone feel lost if anyone peeps into it.

Eyes are like ocean, I always say. 

From yellowish blue to bluish brown, the colour paints the layers of the sky. They symbolize the different moods. The cinematographer plays with the colours, technicality of the cameras, and the camera decides which mood (circular or horizontal) it should concentrate on. The process of contemplation evokes out the psychology of the scene, the inner spectrum of the human beings. 

The wise man can quickly advise on the significance of the minutes. Seconds are better than minutes. The tourists wait in the Tiger Hill to witness the rising of the sun, the advent of a new dawn. They wait with their cameras but within a blink, they can miss the metaphorical birth of the sun. This is the power of the seconds. The future is exactly like this one. It follows the laws of nature. And miraculously, the nature is the creative offspring of God. This nature stores the gems under its soil. It lets her rivers flow. It is also like mood. Very uncertain yet so adventurous just like life.  

Youth is life; life is youth. How long can youth stay? Youth is the bohemian river, a wild horse. After youth, comes the mid age. The age of grey hair. White means wisdom. Wisdom means a step closer to death. And everyone will meet the future. The future comes with a hazy mood.

Youth

2019

Life is synomous with youth. Youth can be existent, omnipresent if one only thinks of present. Destiny is like a flame. Moths are like the pedestrians. Flame attracts the moths. Some die; some make a life of illusions.

15.04.2023

Prayer and Prayer

Folding the hands and looking upwards are the ways to alert the God. You become silent; you become calm. You have words but you throw words at the wall. There is no receiver except God. The tantrums of the world, the gullibility of the human existence, the love for the breathing- all sterilize our thinking capacity. 

The act of thinking makes the hair grey. 

Hair falls down onto the ground. 

The empty baldness starts appearing. 

Still, you pursue conversation with God. 

Your sweaty body starts getting melted due to agony and excitement. 

Uncertainty aligns with belief and belief is a force. 

A force

Indomitable.

15^th April, 23

Fragment 4

Face of Durga

2021

The (000) of my life

I don’t know the meaning of (000). But, I am sure what may be the possibilities of (000) in my life. People say that life is existence. I believe that life is doing. Journey means going from one place to another, moving from one space to another. Moving signifies that you are doing. You are doing for the mind; you are doing for the body; you are doing the deeds. Does (000) refer to a circle? Is it a line? Does a straight line hit itself back-to-back until it gets transformed into a round shape? Line has an end. Circle has no exit. Line has an exit. Circle has no end. I am Srijani. I am happily stuck to the ground of (000). I am running, growing like the leaves of a plant. A seed in a soil. 

The beauty of livelihood is such that it makes one pause for a moment. One thinks and thinks until his eyes feel the burden of sleep. 

Mahalaya, 2023

Fragment 5

I see you-

The people,

I see myself there, 

Just there.

From here,

To here

Navigating, slowly, silently like a 

Super sleuth or a cautious frog

I am going

I am traversing.

I am visualizing images

Like a heap of moments

So transitory

So illuminating

Ephemeral like wind

Like a second.

It evaporates,

It evokes out the smell of

Loveliness

Loveliness of the face

That is standing in the dark,

The eyes as dark as caves

Dark as the veiled sky,

I am standing in the mid centre of stage

Called life.

How ironical it appears!

I am cycling through the words 

Some want to become the dusk

And I want to become a dawn.

Tears blow like wind

Only to make a bridge

Between you and me

Me- the mind

And you- 

The people, the receiver

And the audience. 

17.11.2023

Fragment 6

Two years have passed.

I forget to read the notes. 

There is a coin in the notes.

The coin that I place on my palm 

Only to listen to its subtle sound 

Is a boon to anyone’s miserable days. 

This sound is so silent 

That the deaf intends to receive its noiseless words. 

Sometimes, it is my soul 

That reciprocates to the sound of my brain. 

Who gives me signals? 

Me to my selves?  

Or something else?

18^th November

2023

Fragment 7

I can smell the smell of the dead men

But, I forget to smell the odour of the flowers

Of my garden.

I see the vision of the forebears in the 

Eyes of the girls,

I can smell the smell of their bodies

I smell the smell that is yet to come

But, I forget to smell

That is already there.

Is it just my fear?

Is it something else?

I think and overthink

To let my thoughts flow

Through my veins

And I walk

I go.

25^th November

2023

Full Tourist

I’ve been a tourist all my life –

Always passing through

Touring from here to there

Always trying to recall where

I am today and on to tomorrow.

I’ve been looking for a guide

To direct me in a language I know

(English spoken slowly, a little

Frence and of course

My high school Latin) spoken

Clearly and loud enough.

I’m a  tourist taking selfies and

Buying post cards and souvenirs

To remind me where I’ve been

And all the things I’ve probably seen.

I’ve learned to live in and out

Of a suitcase, rummaging about

Through underwear and socks

Enough of both I’m always hoping

But never sure – just ask me.

I’m always a tourist planning my next

Excursion, out and back, next and

After that, every day, all day, smiling at

And wondering about all these locals

Natives of the place.

       Packing Up

I picture you packing

A backpack, a carry-on

And you didn’t mention

Anything else, so my

Picturing will be limited.

A few weeks in Europe

Touring, sightseeing, and

dressed to the nines, as

I expect you will be, will

Need careful selecting

Folding and matching

One thing with another.

Walking through the Roman

Forum, sipping the right

Wine in a Parisian café

Standing in line for just

About anything this time

Of year, hottest it’s been

In Europe in recorded time.

Your backpack and carry-on

Left in that bed and breakfast

Your kids picked and there

You are – I can picture it –

Dressed for whatever comes

Your way.

           Time Travel

We time travel, but not like Wells

In a machine going back or

Ahead, blurring centuries as

We find out what went on or

What will happen. No, the kind

We do, requires that we just

Sit back, stand back and let

It happen. It’s inevitable, so it

Needs no outside assistance.

We’re travel through time, going

Forward on the clock and on

The calendar, sometimes plunging

Ahead, sometimes tick-tocking

Onward, but always moving on

Shedding yesterday, disposing of

Last week, last year, and what it

All meant. We do carry ourselves

So things accumulate on us, in us

Follow us, become part of us. We

Never get to go back to relive and

Or improve on what happened in

Our past. We travel forward, but we

Don’t know when it all will end, don’t

Know when our clock unwinds or

When that last alarm goes off and

We can’t get up and start again.

got my chakra

got my chair

eyes are going

can’t tell one from the other

keep trying to sit and

falling out of

enlightenment

What Became of Me

Your smallest word is enough—
just that little whisper,
yet it comes like a Boishakhi storm
braided with torrents of rain.

It flows in an unbroken current,
through ages beyond memory,
stirring silent uproars
deep within my chest.

Laughter and tears descend together,
like rain bending every vine,
every shrub, every tree.
Nature itself becomes
a heavenly message of grace,

finding its way
into the lightless, blind corridor.
Who is left to notice?

Across the grey horizon,
along an endless untamed trail,
someone suddenly asks,

“How have you been?”

That single sentence
casts its spell over everything.
Like the fragrance of dawn
breaking an ancient silence,

something within me—
something beyond words—
quietly becomes
something else.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

08  July, 2026.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.     

From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry. 

On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium. 

On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.

In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively. 

His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix.  His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings. 

Philosophical Reflection on Love

Gaurav Ojha

After having read various philosophical works, I have come to realize that the scope of philosophy is not just limited to all that difficult stuff great philosophers write. Philosophy is not just an academic pursuit; it serves as a daily analytical tool that prompts us to question, reflect, and uncover the larger context behind the various aspects of our lives. Hence, anything from an intense political debate to a personal dialogue with your lover on the turgid matters of falling and being in love can be quite philosophical.

For an analogy, just hold yourself and think for a while when your lover asks you the next time, “Do you really love me?” Instead of answering the question bluntly, you need to analyze and reflect on his or her concern for a while and then ask yourself, what does love really mean? Why do we fall in love? Is love about giving things, holding hands, or something deeper? Why is she asking this question? Is she insecure? Is she in love with me for what I have or who I am? Now ponder over these thoughts for a while and what you are doing is the philosophy of love. After reflecting on these questions, you may feel that even a familiar thing like being in love carries so many concerns, questions, and enigmas.

Perhaps too much has already been said about love, from poems, essays and bulky philosophical treatises to the complex plots of novels reflecting on its complex, contradictory and inexplicable nature. And, among many such reflections on love, I find French philosopher Jacques Derrida’s thoughts on the paradoxical nature of love rather philosophically intriguing. When asked to say something about love, rather than answering the question, Derrida simply obscures the question itself and makes the idea of love look rather odd by exposing the paradox between what we love and who we love.

Derrida argues that before we say anything about love, first we need to reflect on our ways of loving, whether we love each other for who she is (her being) or for what he has (his possessions). Are we in love with the right person (who), or does that person have all the right possessions we need and want to be in love with? Here “being” reflects who a person is as an individual, how her life speaks, and a sense of joy, laughter, support, transparency of thoughts, and inner connections you experience in her presence, whereas “having” indicates what a person owns in terms of accumulations, possessions, opportunities, purchasing power, social security, and control.

In our idealist imaginations we want to presume that we always love the person before his/her possessions; however, in reality we are also evenly aware that probably we are in love with the person for his/her physical attributes, social status, skills, knowledge, influence, and other material possessions. The joy of philosophizing about love lies not in finding answers, but in exercising our minds, posing questions, and analyzing the familiar experience of falling in love from various unexpected angles, all with the aim of expanding our understanding of that passionate and whimsical phenomenon we refer to as love.

(Ojha is a faculty member specializing in communication, critical thinking and research at various educational institutions in the Kathmandu Valley)

Wet Stars

I lean against the wall.

The sky is half torn open —

stars threading through broken cloud,

rain falling like it can’t decide

whether to drown the night

or just wash it.

The streetlamps along the sidewalk flicker,

surrendering one bulb at a time.

Below them, the puddles hold

whatever’s left of the sky —

a smear of starlight and headlight,

no longer telling which is which.

Then she arrives.

The rain doesn’t care that she’s coming.

It falls exactly as it would

on an empty street.

Her hand reaches me

before her face does —

a cigarette held loose between two fingers,

nails long, lacquered a green so bright

it cuts through the rain

from half a block away.

She lifts the cigarette,

and for a second

its ember is the one star

on this street

that isn’t drowning —

small, orange, only hers.

I hear her

before I see her shoes —

ankle boots, leather, six centimeters of heel,

striking the wet ground

like small, deliberate clocks.

Her coat is long,

black leather, soaked through,

and it doesn’t shine

so much as exhale —

the smell of rain

caught in old hide,

each step releasing a little more

of the storm she’s already walked through.

She doesn’t slow down.

She walks straight toward me

never breaking stride.

She sits down beside me.

The smell of it pulls

something loose in me —

two months ago, my uncle paid me

not in money

but in a leather coat,

worn soft by someone else’s years,

and I carried it home

like a small fortune.

My brother saw it

before I’d even hung it up.

“Will you give it to me?”

And I did —

the way you hand over

the one warm thing you own

without quite deciding to.

I watched him wear it.

I watched it become his —

like an old door

I keep forgetting is there,

until tonight, when it opened again,

beside her, in the rain.

II

Her fingers find my hand,

slow, like she’s not entirely sure

she’s allowed to.

We don’t talk.

We just look.

Then, without deciding to, she leans in.

Smoke and the chemical

sweetness of her lipstick

reach me before she does,

mixing into something

that isn’t quite a smell anymore.

When the gap between us

runs out of room,

her mouth finds mine,

and I swear the stars hung lower,

trapped between the buildings, blurred by rain,

close enough to mistake for witnesses.

Then it’s over.

We pull apart too fast,

the way you let go

of something hot

before you’ve decided if it burned you.

She goes one way.

I go the other —

walking home under the same wet sky.

III

By morning,

the puddles that held the sky

are dry again —

no trace of the stars

mistaken for witnesses,

no trace of us.

The city had room enough

for the rain.

It never had room

for us against the wall.

——————————————-

When Little Boys Fall in Love

Age 5 — The Sand Kiss

You hated it when someone

kissed your nose.

I buried you deep

in warm sand,

then stole a kiss

beneath the sky.

The waves kept our secret.

Age 6 — First Light

Your nails chewed down

to rosy tips,

sorting bottle caps

with quiet concentration.

You gave me your father’s crown.

I slipped it silently

into my pocket.

Age 7 — The Promise

Beneath sheets stretched

between two chairs,

your breath smelled sweet.

You whispered in the cotton dark:

“Promise our hands will never part.”

Age 8 — First Mercy

Gravel dug deep into my palm.

You kissed the stones away,

the sting turning calm.

Salt and copper on my skin—

your tender lips

made healing begin.

Age 9 — The Communion

You bit the apple,

passed it to me.

I held those tooth marks

like sacred things.

We rode our bikes

at nine each morning,

the air cool,

the streets empty.

When cousins came,

I told them I was busy.

“You might come tomorrow,” you said.

I turned away,

stubborn with pride.

Age 10 — The Fracture

“He throws things

when the bottle’s empty.”

You traced the rusted gate

with careful fingers.

Your voice cracked

like old hinges.

I counted my heartbeats—

sharp, cold—

not knowing yet

what to do

with someone else’s pain.

Age 11 — The Shift

Two knocks: your father.

Three knocks: safe.

But when they cornered me

at school,

you looked away.

I stood there long

after they had gone,

waiting for you to turn back.

You didn’t.

That was the day I learned

that love and courage

are not always

the same thing.

Age 12 — The Breaking

Your mother combed your hair

on Sunday mornings,

pressed you close.

“They say boys like us shouldn’t—”

You stopped.

Looked at the window.

As if the word itself

had weight

you couldn’t carry.

Age 13 — The Aftermath

I passed your house at dawn.

Counted steps since you were gone—

forty-seven to the old front tree

where you used to yawn

beneath the sky.

The moving truck came Thursday morning.

Your mother waved.

My heart broke quietly.

Inside the tree, I found your note—

three words in your handwriting,

the letters uneven,

pressed hard into the paper

like you meant them to last:

I’m sorry. Goodbye.

Coda — Forty Years Later

Sometimes I wake to phantom knocks—

two, then three, then silence.

If I could ride

those streets again,

I’d knock—two, then three—

and wait.

Not to explain.

Not to forgive.

Just to let the boy

behind the door

know that I remember—

every tooth mark,

every promise,

every morning

we chose each other

before the world

taught us not to.

The crown.

The apple.

The rusted cap.

Inside the house,

a boy

holding the door

a second longer

than necessary.