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Bangladeshi
Poem | | 
The Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar
At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai,
The Little Master chose to say good-bye;
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes,
He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.
Gods spurned earth but as living Avatar
Though Sachin was not from Superman star,
Yet rolled cork and leather, he hit so far
Which soared not from willow but from his roar.
And when his bat was laid up for the day
After ferrying his side to safety bay,
He donned his landscape painter’s sunshade hat
And took his long-on stance as humble brat.
A twelve-year old watched India lose the Cup,
At thirty-seven roused his side, backed up
To the topmost crest in cricketing tide
And put one voice in a people torn aside.
A whole nation woke to the cry: Tendlya:
Beggar, Brahmin, Bhai and even infidel.
All drenched in the tide of common feeling
For one novelist’s second book breeding.
Only five-foot five, strong neck in between
Body made to withstand pace bowling steam:
No bumper nor full toss cowered him down
Not even that mean ball bled his nose brown.
At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
The Little Master chose to say good-bye,
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
He whispered thanks up to high-open skies.
Then the nation held its breath at ninety-nine,
While Sachin knocked nineties, not the last nine
To make that long-awaited world history,
Until Bangladeshi ODI test victory.
Over heads of cover and point with off-lifts
Elegant leg glances through long-stop rifts
Straight drives above umpires’ dreamy heads
Dashing pulls past gaping square leg dreads.
Back to back boundaries and easy singles
Late cuts through second slips’ shocking bungles
Then the home-stretch past the century post
When India at last roared in burning thirst.
Myriad mrthangists thumped the beat
Plaintive senais by the million broke out neat
Temple bells joined in the merry festival:
Ton-up! O! Ton-up! No more survival !
But the Champ had other ideas in sight
Like the fastest one day fireworks of might,
So he flashed his blade all over the tight field
To rob the world of its remaining shield.
Now he says forty is not really old
Cricket’s not the only thing to be sold:
To be a god in Hindustan is not all
To be a PM is not given to all.
Not one vote will go to the other men
Not one voice will be raised against batsmen
Who put the nation on the map of runs:
The man with the bat is the man who runs.
At Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai
The Little Master chose to say good-bye:
His Rembrandtesque canvass hat shading eyes
He mumbled something to himself between sighs.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
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Bangladeshi
Poem | |
You my friend In White Saree and grim faced
Your dresses were, as always, colorful and laced
What happened to that enchanting, infectious smile?
Where is that enthusiasm, your charming style
Death is a reality and everyone must die
The living ones mustn't be left for agony to fry
Humans are not candles that burns through the night
Tell me why widowers are not made to wear White
Why should only women this branding endure
They are also human with a heart and soul for sure
Change this White Saree and in the garbage throw
This is how a system that is archaic must go
Come to me, my love, let me teach you what is life
Your being mustn’t be embodiment of agony and strife
Give up this white coffin and wear red, scarlet and pink
The fountain of life is gushing out; it is for you to drink
Let us, like our olden days, in horizon of thoughts fly
Life’s rainbows await you; so do colors of butterfly
Shed your gloom and let the roses of your cheeks blossom
Walk along the valley of life hand in hand with a handsome
1. Widowed women wear only white in Hindu Religion
2. Saree is the dress of Indian and Bangladeshi women
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Bangladeshi
Poem | |
White Saree
You my friend! In White(1) Saree(2) and grim faced
Your dresses were, as always, colorful and laced
What happened to that enchanting, infectious smile?
Where is that enthusiasm, your charming style?
Death is a reality and everyone must die
The living ones mustn’t be left for agony to fry
Humans are not candles that burn through the night
Tell me why widowers are not made to wear White
Why should only women this branding endure
They are also human with a heart and soul for sure
Change this White Saree and in the garbage throw
This is how a system that is archaic must go
Come to me, my love, let me tell you what is life
Your being mustn’t be embodiment of agony and strife
Give up this white coffin and wear red, scarlet and pink
The fountain of life is gushing out; it is for you to drink
Let us, like our olden days, in horizon of thoughts fly
Life’s rainbows await you; so do colors of butterfly
Shed your gloom and let the roses of your cheeks blossom
Walk along the valley of life hand in hand with a handsom
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(1) In Hindu religion the widowed women are forced to wear only white cotton clothes
(2) Traditional dress of Indian & Bangladeshi women and also some other far eastern countries
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Bangladeshi
Poem | |
I am not ugly but no one loves me
They are so hungry for sex and money!
I am not sexually impotent guy
But up to now my life is full of good bye!
The people insult me for my gray hairs
They do the things whatever devil dares!
God knows I am not at all a bad person
But they treat me so bad for no good reason!
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