This poem was originally posted on September 3, 2007. Categorized under A Ragpicker’s Story, the poem was meant to be another extension of the ‘Love’s Ragpicker’ thematic of my blog and also an attempt to trans-write one of my Bengali poems. Of course, all of my writings are veiled expressions of my emotional states, references to which are – very loosely or not at all – required to appreciate my writings.
I wish to wrench myself away from this poem. Presenting a state of final fanaa (along with the image of a chained Prometheus) the poem was about a moment when the union with the beloved, death by execution and an act of supreme revolt become synonymous. Death becomes the ‘milady’, the beloved, for whom the sufferer-lover is waiting when rain-drenched, drowsy and callous executioners are waiting for the king’s green signal and state’s torturers – the royal eagles with metal beaks (the US Eagle when I was writing it out) – have completed their ordeal. Yes, I had Jesus in my mind.
I am withdrawing from this poem and dedicating it to the memory of Rizwanur Rehman, who lived out the death of my torturous imagination. The city is rain-drenched – sky crying without thunders to mourn him – these days; the king is fiddling somewhere; the executioners are barking hoarse – justifying their involvement with this and ir-responsibility of that - and the eagles are cleaning the blood smeared in their beaks…
Rizwanur is Love’s Ragpicker… Priyanka should be left undisturbed with her legitimate tears, wherever she is now…
Come on to me, my little woman,
Ragpicker is singing his insane song again
The Poet said once what should be sadder
Than a lonely train drenched in the rain
Waiting for you in the final station
Come on baby, we have nothing to fear
The guards are gone, the doomsday near
When the world is wrong, but the king says its alright
When either means or, nor is neither
I’m waiting for you, for my execution
And our kisses be sweet, sweeter than the Sin
Let our whispers float higher than the din
We will bleach the sky, we will reach the high
Where the Pegasus rides
Come on ma belle, my Goldilocks
Ragpicker is chained on the rocks
The king’s eagles have metal-beaks
My guts are nibbled, my eyes are picked
My pains have crossed the final station
Come on my wounds are begging your touches
The gaps, the holes waiting for your searches
To find those places for kisses to fill
I will never die, I will be forever killed
Just waiting for you for my resurrection
And your kisses be sweet, sweeter than the Sin
We have our shame to lose, and bliss to win
We will dumb the preachers, and numb the teachers
Of moral-universities
… … …
I am shivering and waiting for the train-whistles
In the walls of rain
The gunmen yawning, since the King is buggering
But his balls are drained
The Eagles dozing drenched and fed
Of poet’s entrails
There are women knitting and their endless yarns
like blindmen’s brailles
Are reaching your rise!
Come unto me my love…I’m waiting…
*** *** ***
A more – but not exact – literal translation of the original Bengali poem would be like this, another poem for you sweet prince…
Here I am, spreading my arms above
high with hopes for you
Filled deep within with filthy shame and sin
Here I stand, looking above, shivering for you still
Here I am, filling the sky above
With hues of hopes for you
they wash my blistered skin with their blanched nothings
Here I wait, blind enough, when are you coming to me?
I’m spreading my arms above, waiting for clouds to burst
When will this humanbirth be birthable enough
Waiting to rise above fears and lust and thirst
Becoming one with you, beyond those pains and laughs
I will stand in heat and rain, arms above again
Maggots my flesh will feed, serpents will snuggle in me
My meat will turn to mud, tendrils will circle me in
Herbs will root me deep, I will be turned to tree
Here I am, spreading my branches of hope
blooming with fruits for you
they shower my barks and skin with despair and defeat
I am still dithering, come on, come to me
And time will wither me ‘way, mute my calls for you
The storms will shake me in, crack my ribs they will
My body will turn to dust, blowing like answers in winds
Each grain of dust will trap each drop of rain hurtling
Back to you
I’ll carry each drops back earth, to wash my roots anew
I’ll be born afresh, I will, scream again just for you…
Back to you, I’m coming back to you, I’m coming to being
I’m coming to begin…to be you
Visit here for another poem dedicated to Rizwanur: The Heart of the Corpse Speaks to the Commissioner of Police
Related Posts
10/10/2007: Yet another couple of poems, The Greatest Lover
17/10/2007: The Voices in the Attic
