Taslima Nasrin Poems
|1.||The Unrung Ring||3/27/2012|
|2.||Some Tit-Bits Of My Life In Captivity||3/27/2012|
|4.||What A Country!||3/27/2012|
|6.||The Game In Reverse||3/27/2012|
|8.||Jodi Manush Na Hoy Pari, Pakhi Hoyeo Firbo Ekdin||3/27/2012|
|10.||The Woman Breaking Bricks||3/27/2012|
|13.||Prem Korecho Koro||3/27/2012|
|14.||Not My City||3/27/2012|
|16.||The Safe House||3/27/2012|
|22.||The Room In Which I Am Forced . . .||3/27/2012|
|24.||No Man's Land||3/27/2012|
|26.||Women And Poems||3/27/2012|
|27.||You Go Girl !||3/27/2012|
|30.||Things Cheaply Had||3/27/2012|
|34.||Ccu To Ccu (Coronary Care Unit To Calcutta)||3/27/2012|
|36.||For Some Years Now||3/27/2012|
At The Back Of Progress
The fellow who sits in the air-conditioned office
is the one who in his youth raped
a dozen or so young girls,
and, at cocktail parties, is secretly stricken with lust,
fastening his eyes on lovelies' bellybuttons.
In five-star hotels,
he tries out his different sexual tastes
with a variety of women,
then returns home and beats his wife
because of an over-ironed handkerchief or shirt collar.
In his office Mr. Big puffs on a cigarette,
shuffles through files,
My mother's eyes became yellowish, egg-yoke like.
Her belly swelled out rapidly like an overly full water tank
ready to burst at any moment.
No longer able to stand up, or sit down, or even move her fingers, she just lay there.
At the end of her days, she did not look like Mother any more.
Relatives appeared each morning, every evening,