I am handed a bottle of wine
I am told it's French and then, well, that's it
I offer my son another mint
He'll one day discover mint sauce
I'm drinking yoghurt out of a glass
I'm annoyed at the hotel buffet
The fried eggs have all gone
The chef can't keep up
I offer my services behind the counter
I hear the waiter changing his accent with different customers (again)
Love waffles
A bowl of stupid
Liquid breakfast
Eat my shorts
But there was man
Who wanted a statue of himself
In his hometown
On horseback
In the nude
Name a bus shelter after me
Bygones are again beginning.
Big Nose Kate and Doc Holliday
bang and toss China plates,
bothering my ears with their
blooming Southern inhospitality.
Bedbugs, I never want em,
because they bite in the night
bedsits' in Birmingham Alabama
big red marks on my bum.
Bad dream now
beetles crawling up my legs,
brown ones,
Brobdingnagian bugs.
Bangladeshi late-night dinner
blighted the bathroom a bit.
Bored with these bloody bygones
butterfingers strum banjo blue notes.
Brad Pitt hates that redneck hokey,
but I don't care.
Mr. Ashraful Hossen alias Hero Alom
Bangladeshi model and political gnome
Though so many trolls against him
He is still dogged in his work hymn
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
15/02/2023
No rain cries today on the field of Bengali
literature
Cloudy nymphs have gone too far away from
nCoV-19 weather
The hottest sun makes my body cry by sweating
Weeping drops full in my cotton handkerchief
No more he is
No more in our Bengali literary kingdom
No more the National Professor
No more Bangladeshi academic of Bengali literature
So easily I've written the above words
Like the ungrateful follower
But sorry to say
I'm saddened by his eternal farewell
Some death makes me very angry at this
worldly rules
Yet, no hand there is in the realm of death to stop its goal
Maybe
Tonight's decaying half moon will greet the darkness
Where unsatisfied souls for corona couldn't touch
the bier of this greatest
14.05.2020 Chattogram
****
I pay respect to the memory of National Professor Anisuzzaman (18 February 1937 - 14 May 2020)
How, How Much....?
The blood was very pure
The green grasses were childlike sure
The war brutally destroyed our war heroes and heroines
Thousands of peoples died
Thousands of mothers and sisters couldn't save their chastity
for this land, for the freedom of this land
This is our land, holy land, and motherland
We, the Bangladeshi,
The pure Bengali of world history
The pure Bengali on the holy lap of the earth
Who are they?
Who will give them nationality?
Who will give them back their state?
How much will the pure Bengali tolerate these peoples vulgarity?
………? ? ?
-Monday, July 29, 2019 Chattogram
Poor Man On A Bike
There is a viral photo of an Indian/Bangladeshi on a bike...
With 5 little children and his bedraggled suffering wife....
They all are seated on the bike, one kid seated up on his neck...
Another was sandwiched between him and his wife seated behind.....
Another kid was seated precariously on the handlebar of the bike...
One child was seated in the front basket to sandwich his kid brother against the father...
You and I, we see a poor man on a motorbike..
We shake our heads and wondered inwardly how they survive....
For the poor man, his children are his wealth....
With blessings from God above, he will be alright...
Yes, for the present he suffers to provide...
But over the passage of time, his many children will prove him right...
The poor man knows, it is a challenge to provide for his large family...
But when they are grown, they are priceless assets he owns...
For the poor man and his wife, his children are God given assets....
His duty is not to moan and groan why, his is to provide and survive....
Heavens on earth comes later when all his kids are grown...
For the present, he is just another Poor Man On A Bike....
Hohoho....
Fifty men of Bangladeshi mining workers have to sleep-
A large room in a warehouse,
While the light reservoir plays all the time,
From there, sometimes the sound of tired crying is fiddling.
The palms of their hands are like stiff rocks,
With that hand they have to cut stones,
The sweat is coming out from thier body,
They are going through the pressure of excessive work pressure.
Thousands of people are carried at dawn-
The train is reached by the dark cave,
Someone says 'save me', someone says, Oh! Oh! !
Some people blame their fate.
During lunch, they look intently,
Japanese engineers eat the table in the shady tent,
They pass their time with smiles,
But the workers stand by plate with their hands.
There is no place for them to sit,
There is no table for them,
Many people want to make chaos,
There is no one to hear their complaints.
After a while everything has gone as before,
They keep weaving new new dreams,
They want to get their relatives left at home,
Someday they will dance with the loud cry.
Riding a local train
through the Bangladeshi scorching heat
an old man told me
how his houses were submerged
into the Bay of Bengal at night.
The gentle breeze will blow,
It will bring news for new.
The old will become young,
Everywhere the birds will make song.
Bangladeshi white lily will offer their fragrant,
There will be no chance to be arrogant.
The rain will put their droplets on the water,
The golden frogs will dance here and there.
The pigeons will make love up on the tree,
The nature makes everything for them free.
We know our life is so short,
Sometimes we can pass our life into a resort,
If we deposit today's joy for tomorrow,
May be tomorrow we will have to face sorrow.
After day there will be night,
The days beauty will be out of sight.
The flowers beauty is very dear,
Enjoy its fragrant before its disappear.
No more chatting for the past,
Nor for the future, let our lives go fast.
Shahadat has made the journey to life for you,
If he dies earlier there will be left lots of due.
Mr. Robinson’s going into a coma
Slowly… gradually…
All his family’s seeing him
But nothing to do anything
Mr. Robinson’s going into a coma
What a deep sleep it’s!
How much long a death is it?
Little by little Mr. Robinson’s
going to be unconscious…
The sun will rise in the east
The sun will set in the west
Moons…
New moon
Half moon
Full moon-
How many silver moons as glittering coin of 5 Taka*
Will come and down in the night- sky?
Mr. Robinson will sleep for how many days
And his family will stand beside his bed
Being anxious family members
Will stare at him for how so long…?
His body’s going to be frozen
Sense’s going to an unknown world
Heart beat’s being slower
Mr. Robinson’s going into a coma
Slowly… gradually…
*Taka= Bangladeshi money
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!
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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