I am Sajal Ahmed. I live in a remote village in Bangladesh. Since I did not earn a degree from a major institution, I have grammatical issues. My birthday is June 22. Even though I worked in a newspaper, I have never published on a page because I never revealed my name. I wanted to see whether my poems are really poems or whether the Bengali literary society would accept them. In this regard, I am disappointed, because even anonymously, my own institutions did not accept my poems.
I have sent two of my poems via email to different newspapers, though they might not have published them due to their grammar rules and language standards. I am not disappointed about this. None of my poems are famous in Bangladesh, I have no readers or fans. Now my expectation is that people at the other end of the world will read my poems, and that these poems will be archived on the Internet for a long time so that people in the future across the world can read them.
My language is rough; I write exactly what comes to my mind. If you are hurt, I take the responsibility, because I write to break you intensely from within. Thank you.
Dear Sylvia Plath
this morning
I dedicate a knife to you.
The blood of my veins and sub‑veins
...
Even from the womb I had heard, only if the father is wealthy does the unborn child's value increase. So I wanted to place my worn-out two feet on the mung-ball planet without stepping into the chest of this tiny man called Earth.
But what to think — God sent me to Earth and that too in the house of some former government slave.
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