Taslima Nasrin Poems
|44.||A Letter To My Mother||3/27/2012|
|47.||Boro Voye Gopone Gopone Bachi||3/27/2012|
|48.||Eve, Oh Eve||3/27/2012|
|50.||Bhul Preme Kete Gelo Tirish Boshonto||3/27/2012|
|52.||Girl From Switzerland||3/27/2012|
|53.||Can'T I Have A Homeland To Call My Own?||3/27/2012|
|58.||At The Back Of Progress||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,
The Unrung Ring
So many things ring,
the cells of the body,
the ankle bells as they dance,
the silver wrist bangles.
As the monsoon rains fall on the window
the glass panes musically ring.
As clouds clash with clouds
lightning rings out.
Dreams ring, keeping time to their beats,