Bangabandhu, The Hero of Bangla
Bangabandhu, you are the hero
Not only in a movie or a drama
You are the hero
Of the whole Bangla
You are the icon of truth
Have shown your patriotism in every root
You are the icon of brave
Having no fear of falling to the cave
You are the poet of independence
Opening the eyes of every Bengalis lens
You are the icon of motivation
Never stopped in any severe situation
Fighting in faith
Salute to them for the country who are dead
You are the icon of love
Remaining in every Bengalis heart
You are the icon of true sole
Hats off to you, to your role.
Robiul Awal Esa is a 1st year student of Diploma in Nursing Science & Midwifery Course in Government Nursing Institue, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
The backyard was a confusion of Victorian classicism and Medieval cloister. With its 2-by-2’s painted like fluted columns and plywood painted with trompe d’oeil triglyphs, a crumbling shed stood like the cella of a long-abandoned temple. The half-caved roof let bits of light illume what was once hidden. In front of the shed’s doors, one missing, the other with sagging hinges, a concrete Venus standing on a seashell held a scalloped dry birdbath basin on her head.
In the opposite corner of the yard, the Virgin Mary, her heel on the head of a serpent, brooded with downcast eyes. Near the gate, St. Francis held both his face and his right hand aloft for a fluttering starling to perch. His left hand clutched a crucifix hung with a simple cord around his neck. Even what appeared to be the remains of a conciliation cross lay toppled among a patch of overgrown honeysuckle that conquered the eastern half and slowly worked its way across westward towards the setting sun.
As if the center of this known world, a peach tree with cankers on its trunk and scabs on the fruit completed the scene of apocalyptic desolation.
The house itself fared no better. Many of the windows were boarded. The screens all were ripped out. A partially shattered front window gaped with sharp edges, like the grin of a demon. Gaps in the roof tiles almost looked intentional, as if someone were making a found-object art piece. The front gutter hung crosswise. During heavy rains a torrent of water cascaded over the front steps, then pooled in the yard to flood both the street and the basement.
Big Bob lived there, with his dozens of cats that he never let out. On hot days, the smell reached up and down the street. No one ever saw him. He was like a god who existed only in fairy tales. Neighborhood parents warned their children, beware.
The boys used the shed as a clubhouse during the summer. Today, the sun began to set and the cool of the day descended upon the hot and humid earth. Rickie and Danny slid through the broken fence slats on the far side of the yard. When they entered the shed, Robbie was spread out length wise on the floor. He smoked a Camel.
“Benjie here says he has hair on his balls,” Robbie said. He was older than the other three. Much older.
Benjie stood on the other side of the shed with feet spread and hands on his hips. Robbie took a long drag then offered the cigarette to Rickie and Danny. Danny took the cigarette.
“You two talking about each other’s dicks?” Danny said between puffs.
“Only interesting thing to talk about,” Robbie said. He signaled for the cigarette.
Rickie sat on his haunches, took one last drag, then passed.
“I got a dick as big as yours,” Benjie said.
Robbie tossed the butt of cigarette through a tear in the back wall of the shed.
“Big as mine?”
“Bigger.”
Robbie stood, undid his pants, and flung his dick out. With a few shakes, he was hard. Benjie did the same.
“Lemme see your balls,” Robbie said.
Benjie dropped his pants to his ankles.
“Balder than a baby,” Robbie said.
Danny and Rickie laughed but when Benjie looked at them, they stopped.
“You gonna leave?” Robbie said. “Or you gonna watch?”
“Just watchin’ is gay,” Benjie said.
Danny stood, shrugged to Rickie, and took his dick out.
“Let’s go,” Robbie said and he began to jerk off. Benjie did, too. Danny tried but his dick stayed flaccid.
“Don’t leave me hanging,” Danny said.
Rickie unzipped his jeans and barely took the head of his dick out and just played with himself.
The afternoon air was quiet. A car passed a block away. Maybe there was the drone of a plane thousands of feet above. Or the deep moan of a truck horn. Besides those, no sound. Except the soft, mechanical, repetitive muffled movement of the boys masturbating.
“Jesus Christ,” Robbie said, “fuck me.”
He came on the gray pressboard floor of the shack. Robbie put his dick back in his pants and buckled his belt. He stood behind Benjie and rubbed his shoulders.
“Come on, you can do it,” Robbie said.
Benjie cried out, like a wounded animal, then dribbled a bit on his hands. Danny stopped. Rickie zipped up his jeans.
Robbie shook a cigarette out, put it between his lips, lit it, and took a long drag. He sighed and smiled at the three boys with him.
“Like what you see?” Robbie said. He stepped to the open door of the shed.
With their eyes opened, the other three boys turned towards the house. Danny covered himself in his shame. Big Bob stood in the shade of the peach tree. He wore stained jeans and a fraying sweater. The uncut grass reached to his belt.
“Perverts,” Big Bob said. He limped as he walked back to the house.
Richard Stimac has published a full-length book of poetry Bricolage (Spartan Press), over forty poems in Michigan Quarterly Review, Faultline, and december, and others, nearly two-dozen flash fiction in Blue Mountain, Good Life, Typescript, and three scripts. He is a poetry reader for Ariel Publishing and a prose reader for The Maine Review.
Court-métrage
The Rōshi enters the meditation room. All is silence.
He claps his hands. "How can you tell when a persimmon is angry?" he puts to the room.
The silence deepens.
Circumstantial
Every human being needs to feel that they are important,
valued. Now is the time to move from rhetoric into action.
The path to sustainable development must ensure that people
living in poverty are included. Communication styles can help.
Music can inspire. Its manifestations permit the possibility of
a chance encounter between trans Americans & the current Pope.
À la campagne
School. Public
phone box. Un-
used hall. Over-
grown racetrack.
A gravel road
lies ahead.
DoNuts T.®ump looks to swallow up The Holy See
I can change my cookie settings
at any time, but can't change
the cookie cutter paradigm. Which
means that if I don't get in & get a
share of the Vatican action before
those oligarchs arrive & buy up all the
available building land, it’ll have to be
the Sistine Chapel that gets pulled
down to make way for the new
Trump Vatican International Hotel.
The conspiracy fairy left me a silver dollar for my tooth
Jerry Fletcher is a man in love with a woman he observes from afar. Whoopi Goldberg questioned the Moon Landing on "The View." Jesse Ventura & his team of experts examine some of the most frightening & mysterious conspiracy allegations of contrails, which consist of ice crystals or water vapor condensed behind aircraft. Any gap in official information on such violent events is filled by online theorists proffering a "big explanation." Hoaxes go viral because the public rarely makes the distinction between conspiracy and misinformation in the aftermath of tragedy.
Secret schemes that shaped the world around us are hiding in the footnotes of our history books—you just need to know where to look. Urbandictionary.com is being used for governmental purposes. The government is finding out ways to control us, through an event or set of circumstances created as the result of a usually secret plot by powerful conspirators. Secretary Wolf calls these rumors "full of misstatements & misapprehensions."
The ads in this column are not endorsed by the author.
The land of Bangladesh
In the land of Bangladesh,
Where the monsoons bring life and breath,
The people thrive with an unyielding zest,
And their spirit shines through every test.
From the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans,
To the tea plantations of Srimangal,
Every inch of this country bears witness,
To a beauty that's beyond measure or scale.
With a rich history and vibrant culture,
Bangladesh's story is one of grit and nurture,
Where heroes and legends stand tall,
Their stories echoing through every hall.
The red and green flag waves high,
A symbol of pride and unity in the sky,
For a nation that stands strong and bold,
Defying all odds with a heart of gold.
So here's to Bangladesh,
A land of wonders and endless zest,
May her people always find their way,
And her glory shine bright every day.
Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Patience
The future hides, fades away
Gives way to doubt, doubt.
Sleep flees, appetite disappears
Body weakens.
Discouraged, takes refuge in the corner, saddened.
No more inspiration, shrouded in darkness
Desolation, last weapon
Last minute companion.
But in the end, the flip side
Leads the way, brings hope
that lasts forever
The fruit of patience.
_____________________
Patience
L'avenir se cache, s'efface
Fait place au doute, sans doute
Le sommeil s'enfuit, l'appétit disparaît
Ainsi, le corps s'affaiblit.
Découragé, se réfugie au coin, attristé
Plus d'inspiration, plongé dans l'obscurité
La désolation, dernière arme
Compagnon du dernier moment.
Mais en fin, le revers de la médaille
Ouvre la voie, apporte l'espoir
Qui dure à toujours
Le fruit de la patience.
Rebirth of Love
See the heart of the world
It is not imagined by lovers so called
The sun rises everyday in eyes
Everywhere the dream independently flies
Mountains travel beautiful places
The tree talks to its branches
With sweet voice fountain sings
Beauty flies on the air's wings
The sky sleeps on the flying cloud
Raindrops play like brotherhood
Love deserves loneliness
Relation builds on avoiding ugliness
Birds adore first night
Nature refreshes morning sight.
Rebirth reproduces generation's wheel
Though the world will be a shelter of nil.
In a Day of Winter
Winter is a season of cold and mist
This time dew shines on the leaves
It shows a lot of beauty of nature
In a day of winter,
I was walking on the street, I saw
The trees were dry
The leaves left the trees, I think
The leaves did not want live with the trees
The sun rays hide back of the dew
It wants to reach on the earth, I think
If I could be the sun rays!
I would come on the earth
To make happy the trees
To remove the dew and mist and make clear the sky.
Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
