Long Bangla Poems
Long Bangla Poems. Below are the most popular long Bangla by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bangla poems by poem length and keyword.
We've met many years had passed;
Li'l things of me you'd asked.
Our minds might forget;
But our hearts will always remember.
In the drastic change of time;
Impedes us to express our hearts' chime.
We're so young and tender;
Yet our love was passionate and wiser.
At such an hour our minds are thirsty
Go to oblivions crystal-cold spring;
But the churn of the sea,reminds me of your smile.
My heart laments and fears I might not hold you in my arms.
Thy Heaven, I asked...
For a man who would love me until the last.
On the 2nd day of the 4th month of this year;
By the trumpet of Aphrodite, goddess of love;
I received the message from above.
For the moonlight never ceases...
without bringing our memories that our heart misses.
And the stars never shine
without telling me that you are mine...
And arose whence Tagoreweb nature 154
And arose whence
Up she goes and arose whence a misfit
My thyme rosemary and my bay leaf delight leaves a pulpit
A patsy outskirt arose a pinnacle up to zenith sky underneath Bethlehem
A fanciful misfit hue staid in outspoken twilight until alone Eden sank in grief grieving for a leaf
A fanciful Myst of a song soared along the flight of a mundane delight upon a cosmos and a white lily
A sunlit raisin croon and the flight of the song a spell along , o'er the mundane and the cosmic hymn
Up she goes!
And arose whence a soul kindled a verse and the fanciful basilica temple as kismet wills on in wilmette and in jolene!
Ingratitude
Tagoreweb
Raga : Behug- Keertan
Taal: Dadra
Composition time (Bangla) : 1328
Composition(After Christ) : 1921
Composition place : Shantiniketan
Copyright © Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2026
www.tagoreweb.in/Songs/prakriti-236
In a similar poem before
I spoke of snow and snow again
But as we drove down the mountain
The doors led to different store
The snow was melting into green
The more we came down from Zuluk
Now a fountain and then a brook
Sun and shadow in love umpteen
So dense was love of snow for tree
That its very soul turned deep green
As the union grew serene
It was a hilly greening spree
Up and across ever green hill
Now grey and then blue sky above
Almond, coffee, all in green love
Nathula snow now a green thrill
The old silk route trip turned a dream
Then the world returned with a struggle
With our ears on music of gurgle
Jingling from the inviting stream
But to speak of Reshi Khola
I will need another umbrella
Sunday Morning Blues**
Whether it's the vibrant nights of Rio de Janeiro or the electric energy of Las Vegas nightlife,
I’ve indulged in two or three glasses of Twisted Ice Lemonade,
Or perhaps it was an Alabama Slammer. One lesson learned: never trust your memory!
My days and nights have been nothing less than a freight train ride,
And that's the truth!
I can’t forget the Cuban Bulldog that bit me
Three years ago, in Kissimmee, that’s a fact.
It left me weak in the knees,
All thanks to those potent drinks.
Was it that audacious, wild Long Island Iced Tea
That nearly took me down.
After watching a news clip about Muammar Gaddafi,
Or maybe it was an episode of Friends?
Yet, I met my sweet Marlon Brando,
And it was hallelujah and Amen in Key Largo.
So many bartenders, so many smoke-filled rooms,
And once again, here I am, tackling
Another Sunday morning blues head-on.
I
As things do return home like a refrain,
On way back from a country tour were we,
A leisurely long trip—my kin and me,
And met a quaint character on the train,
As I recall, in his late life, nigh vain,
His dress and demeanour indicative,
And we at sea the way he seemed to talk,
His deportment and dialogue of proud cock,
Who discoursed on any a theme on earth,
A Muslim sure from far, not a native,
Listening to him was, not his tale’s worth,
Yea, something sure was there that was not sane.
The Goddess of Learning and Destiny
Seemed to have blessed him— of ports so many,
Who said, forces were at work in the world
Far too secretly, underground, unheard:
Russians, say, have advanced closer to us,
Brit policies have been inauspicious,
Feuds among our leaders have come to head,
Confused and suspicious who see things red.
And flourished our newly formed friend in train
With phony smile: What might cause further pain—
More things happen under and ‘pon this earth
Than reported are as the news of worth.
The home-bound birds like us that had not seen
The world he had, struck were dumb with wonder,
What with his quotes on science, his comments
On Vedas, verses of Persian poets.
Our young ears, untutored to this knowledge,
Caused our admiring bone to turn attuned,
Sure, a magnet, occult power, an astral
Body some sort doubtless has him inspired,
We listened to him with keenest of ears,
Devout mind, he’d our heart all enraptured.
The train reaching a railhead, we waited
In a retiring room, tired and jaded,
As change of train weighed when heavy on eyes.
‘Train's running late', when someone made us wise,
Our wise man then set out a tale to spin,
And our sleep said goodbye with a wry grin!
____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
Sanjay Karmakar
Hey hey! let's give fire to the palace, villas
hold the gunpowder to set to burn down the house, rouse
who are poor slum houses to keep hot, sought
to keep them warmth in winter, in dance & songs
yes we should set on the principle
hot.
Today let's we destroy their supremacy
overwhelmed in such a furor
destroy their palace down to dust; in way to set up equality
to sing the song of freedom in this morn
and to pass them towards extinction
we are the carrier of the bravery and the valor better
we must step on it today, we are arrogant
we will sing that song of humanity
if we have to pay our life too, no matter
The birds will sing in a sweet voice, peace will come to the nest.
hey pay attention, today we will kill the evil
come on to destroy the acts of evils in the country,
come on in a dress of an army
come on to sing the sweet melody, come on, come on.
Set the fire, set set set, come on be fierce to set the fire
come on united to destroy these flowers
those which, gives off its fragrance in the vapor of poison
and spreading the bad lesson
let's we done destroy these today,
come on.
Let's sing that song of peace filled with love
Joy Bangla in a loud voice, in this dawn
to make gold our nation.
With trembling heart, as an attempt I made
To leap across, he woke up with a start,
The sword fell from his lap with a sharp clang,
A terrifying scream when made me jump,
I saw me leaping from my bed, sweating,
A crescent moon looked pale in morning light,
I looked a weary sleep-starved man at dawn,
And my crazy Maher Ali screaming,
As was his daily custom while he strode,
‘Stand back, stand back', he yelled winding his way.
Such abrupt was the end of my first night
That awaited a thousand more of fright!
…..
A gulf growled O betwixt my days and nights,
A worn out and tired me going to work,
Cursing last bewitching night's weird dream,
Yet, all new nights came pledging new promise,
Though shackles of my work were far from sham,
The nightfall would catch me in eerie thrall,
O overwhelming me in total snare,
Intoxicating and overpowering,
When I’d get reborn as an unknown knight
Of a bygone era, playing my part
In unknown history never ere writ,
My English coat and tight breeches standing
The least in my fertile mind's fairy role,
In red velvet cap, pyjamas too loose,
An embroidered tight vest, flowing silk gown,
Many a shaded, scented handkerchiefs,
Musing o'er an elaborate toilet,
I'd sit on a high-cushioned velvet chair,
A hookah filled with rose water in place
Of a usual cigarette and proud face,
In eager anticipation to meet,
Who else? My first night's sorely missed nymphet,
Black beast, pet aversion and dark secret,
But for that spoil-sport eunuch's blocking feet!
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana,
divided in I to XIII parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.
I thought you're just a part of a dream
That could be merely seen
With the appearance that was dim
Just brought my heart with a sorrow that was keen
But when I wake up one fine day
I find myself beside the bay
Imagining the man I see when I sleep
My mind dictates that there is to keep
He is not a part of Greek Mythology
Nor a fairy tale could be
He is a real sailor
Sailing across the border less sea
I wonder not,how Aphrodite
Save her beloved thee
Or Medea have made everything
For Jason whom she covets
Oh Poseidon,God of the sea
Take my sailor away from the peril you can see
Drive him to my heart safely
As he is cruising the world made by our Almighty
Spiros, you've brought
The different sinews in me
And that we meet
By the kingdom of the sea.
For the love of fame
I loved cows sent from the children's home
to a farm because I was in opposition
My job was to milk seven cows in the morning
clean their stalls, muck out, and strew
straws so they could lie down and not be mucky
Cows are clean animals if you see a dirty one
it is because they are neglected
by human helpers
It was not easy to be a cow in Norway
the winter
is long they had to stay indoors till spring
they were interested in other things I did
I was famous I never, had had
the need to be famous again,
believe me, it makes you think that perhaps you
are great, only to realize you
are conduits for other people's problem
“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.
The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.
The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old,
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Form: Rondeau
Date: 13 / 11 / 2016
Sundarbans ( Literal Translation: Beautiful Forest) is a mangrove forest on the delta formed by the super confluence of the Ganges, Padma, Brahmaputra and Meghna rivers across southern Bangladesh and Bengal. It's a swamp land that belongs to tigers, crocodiles and well, millions of people who live there and earn their livelihood from the forest. The environmental importance of Sundarbans is colossal as the mangroves protect the coastal areas from erosion, surge storms and tsunamis. In my opinion, without the forest, the human history of this region would have been a completely different one.