When My Faint Heart

When my faint heart would cease to throb
and with limbs sprawled when I would lie,
the crowds of faces both sad and curious
in petty words of ignorance
would envelope my destiny.
Had they known that my senses were
still alive so I could hear, feel and see!
Then when someone would close my eyes,
finally, with fingers, shaking
from sadness and a fear of death,
or with indifference of a wonted hand,
with or without any prayers to the God,
would I be free from the weight of this earth,
growing heavier with each pulse of my blood!

In Your Absence

In your painful absence tonight,
my eyes have missed your face so much
that I could sense a drought inside
and a parching within my heart.
So I wondered, is it Love, even though
I could feel no burning flame of desire
to satiate the thunders that raged in me
or to caress your bedewed love gently.

We Can Hardly Turn Around

Can the mountain peaks with their ice caps receding
foresee the ominous days up ahead?
Can the icebergs in the poles, shrinking fast,
taste the bitter trace of doom in the brine?
Do we, human beings, miss the rain save those
toiling on the fields for the year around, to plow,
and till the ground for tender seeds to grow?
All of that to feed the indifferent ones
who would rather build a house than a farm!
Do the seasons miss the dates they used to come?
Do they heave a sigh for the setting gloom,
the mountain peaks and icebergs in the poles?
Can the forest trees sense the looming saw
of progress and light on their ancient roots?
Though we can pine and shout or we can blame and cry,
as the need is too deeply ingrained in our blood
we can hardly turn around and start walking back
on the way our forefathers had paved for centuries.

Humayun Ahmed: The Most Popular Writer of Bangladesh

Humayun Ahmed: The Most Popular Writer of Bangladesh
Watch and Listen to a reading of the Poem by me.


The world is teeming with the likes of us
while the stars are falling down all around
and the brightest of them all is now dead
as the blood has ceased to flow from his heart.
Memories, all too fresh and vivid still,
drown the plains of our woeful existence
with faces, sketched by a pen in the dreams,
some that taught us how to love or be loved,
some that told us how to leave and forget,
some that showed us how to live through a death.

Words, emotions curved on a page still green
and young are stirred back to life yet again
from some of his stories in black and white
and some that he chose to write on the reel.

Moments of joy in hearty laughter and
those tear drops shed that tasted briny and sad
in grief and delight engraved by his pen
are alive too in the wake of his loss.
For each letter that we read in our native tongue
our heart shall sing him love to teach us how to read.

A Metaphysical Quest

When emptiness fills the world from within
beneath the clouded sky, on a dark, lonely night,
when the dust and the sound of life are gone,
waiting for the day, the quester inside
with all its limbs stretched, wakes up from sleep.
Then its eyes blink to synchronize with the darkness,
as deep and large as the Caribbean Sea,
both of the mind and around the dying soul.
Up and running, soon it begins to fly
towards the universe of open space
where bodies larger than the Jupiter
and brighter than a thousand Sun, since they were born,
move away from each other as long as they live
in search for nirvana of annihilation.