Poems List
Prostitute
Who calls you a prostitute, Mother?
Who spits at you?
Perhaps you were suckled by someone
as chaste as Seeta.
You may not be chaste,
yet you are one of the family
of all our mothers and sisters.
Your sons are like any of us sons,
as capable of achieving fame and honor
as any of us,
as capable of entering heaven.
The great hero Drona
was the son of Ghritachi,
a prostitute in heaven.
Krishna-Daipayan,
who was universally respected,
was the son of an unmarried girl.
Karna the Benevolent
Was born of a maiden.
Ganga, expelled from heaven,
was married to Shiva.
King Shantanu, too,
offered her his love.
Their son was the immortal Bheeshma,
to whom Krishna paid homage!
The Sage Satyakama
was the illegitimate son of Jabala.
The conception of the great lover of humanity, Jesus,
remains a mystery.
None is,stained with sin here,
none is an object of hatred.
Millions of beautiful lilies
blossom in the lake of lust!
Listen to this message of humanity:
After birth, all human beings
are free of all impurities.
Because I have once committed a sin,
have I no right to return to virtue?
Hundreds of sinful acts
did not take away the divineness of the gods.
If Ahalya was freed of sin,
if Mary was canonized,
truthfully, why shouldn't you, too,
be worthy of worship?
Who are the bigots
who condescendingly label your son
as an 'illegitimate' child?
To them I simply ask these questions.
How many of the 1,500 million children
of this world were born
purely out of the purpose of procreation,
and not out of lust?
How many are pure and chaste?
For whose sin do millions of sucklings
die in the cradle?
Purely from carnal urge
do men and women unite.
We are children born of that lust.
Yet how proud we are!
So, listen, religious leaders:
There's no difference between 'illegitimate'
and 'legitimate' children!
And if the son of an unchaste mother is 'illegitimate,'
so is the son of an unchaste father.
[Translation: Sajed Kamal]
Poverty
O poverty, thou hast made me great.
Thou hast made me honoured like Christ
With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me
Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe
My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue.
Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword.
O proud saint, thy terrible fire
Has rendered my heaven barren.
It has prematurely dried beauty.
My feelings and my life.
Time and again I stretched my lean, cupped hands
To accept the gift of the beautiful.
But those hungry ones always came before me.
And did snatch it away ruthlessly,
Now my word of imagination is
Dry as a vast desert.
And my own beautiful!
My yellow-stalked pensive desire
Wants to blossom like the fragrant shefali.
But thou cruel one
Dost ruthlessly break the soft stalk
As the woodcutter chopsthe branches
Off the trees. My heart grows tender
Like the autumn morning
It fills with love
Like the dew-laden earth.
But thou art the blazing sun
And thy fiery heart dries up the tiny dropp of the earth
I grow listless in the shadowy skirt of the earth
And my dreams of beauty and goodness vanish!
With a bitter tongue thou askest,
'What's the use of nectar?
It has no sting, no intoxication, no madness it.
The search for heaven's secred drink
Is not for the in this sorrow-filled earth.
Thou art the serpent, born in pai.
Thou will sit in the bower of thorns
And weave the garland of flowers.
I put on thy forehead the sing
Of suffering and woe.'
So I sing, I weave a garland,
While my throat is on fire,
And my serpent daughter bites me all over!
O unforgiving Durbasha! thou wanderest
From door to door with thy beggar's bowl.
Thou goes to the peaceful abode of
Some sleeping happy couple
And sternly callest, 'O fool,
Knowest thou, that this earth is not anybody's
Pleasure bower for luxury adn ease.
Here is sorrow and separation
And a hundred wants and disease.
Under the arms of the beloved
There are thorns in the bed,
And now must thou prepare
To savour these.' The unhappy home
Is shattered in a moment,
And woeful laments rend
The air. The light of joy is extinguished
And endless nights descends.
Thou walkest the road alone
Lean, hungry and starved.
Suddenly some sight makes thy eyebrows
Arch in annoyance and thine eyes
Blazeforth-fires of anger!
And lo! famine, pestilence and tornado
Visit the country, pleasuregarden burn,
Palaces tumble, thy law
Knows nothing but death and destruction.
Nor for thee the license of courtesy.
Thou seekest the unashaamed revelation of stark nakedness.
Thou knowest no timid hesitation or polite embarrassment
Thou dost raise high the lowly head.
At thy signal the travellers on the road to death
Put round their neck the fatal noose
With cheerful smile on their faces!
Nursing the fire of perennial want in their bosom
They worship the god of death in fiendish glee!
Thou tramplest the crown of Lakshmi
Under thy feet. What tune
Dost thou want to wiring
Out of her violin? At thy touch
the music turns into criesof anguish!
Waking up in the morning Iheard yesterday
The plantive Sanai mourning those
Who had not returned yet, At home
The singer cried for them and wept bitter tears
And floating with that music the soul of the beloved
Wandered far to the distant spot
Where the love anxiously waited.
This morning I got up
And heard the Sanai again
Crying as mournfully as ever.
And the pensive Shefalika,
sad as a widow's smile,
Falls in clusters, spreading
A mild fragrance in the air.
Today the butterfly dances in restless joy
Numbing the flowers with its kisses.
And the wings of the bee
Carry the yellow of the petals,
It's body covered with honey.
Life seems to have sprung up suddenly
On all sides. Asong of welcome
Comes unconsciously to my lips
And unbidden tears spring to my eyes
Some one seems to have entwined my soul
With that of mother-earth. She comes forward
And with her dust-adorned hands
Offers me her presents.
It seems to me that she is the youngest daughter of mine,
My darling child!
But suddenly wake up with a start. O cruel saint, being my child,
Thou weepest in my home, hungry and stoned!
O my child, my darling one
I could not give thee even a dropp of milk
No right have I to rejoice.
Poverty weeps within my doors forever
As my spouse and my child.
Who will play the flute?
Where shall I get the happy smile
Of the beautiful? Where the honeyed drink
I have drunk deep the hemlock
Of bitter tears!
And still even today
I hear the mournful tune of the Sanai.
[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury ]
Pioneers, O Pioneers
O you who look so soiled and weary,
Collect your armour for the struggle,
Your rusty shovels, heavy hammers,
To save the earth from dire disaster.
We have no time for sport or revels,
No leisure for procrastinating.
The war's begun in deadly earnest;
We've deeds to plant and crops to harvest.
I see the young on fire and marching
Onward past mountains, vales and rivers,
Unbent and proud man's heritage,
Freedom and honour, in their keeping.
The ancient East, inert, feeble,
A waits a voice to end its slumber.
We will once more awaken, rouse it,
And set it stirring, breathing, moving.
The murky past is dead and buried.
We must emerge from sunless caverns
Into broad uplands bright and shining,
Create a world of newer splendour.
We'll scale the peaks and cross the gorges,
And overcome what risks lie hidden.
We'll fell old trees to build our bridges
And go down in the mines for treasure.
We are awake, no longer sleeping;
We have descended from the plateaus,
Reckless of hungry wounded tigers
And we must move and look not backwards.
We are beholden to those countries,
Egypt and China, Spain and Norway,
Russia, Korea, who have broken
Their age-old chains and savoured freedom.
O Fortune's darlings, I, the poet,
Have nought to offer but my anguish,
My hopes, My dreams, the red blood dripping
From Within my heart beating wildly.
Invoke the gods of ruthless terror,
Shrink not from blood, as green and daring
You must unfurl your country's banner
Armed to the teeth and marching forward.
Listen! beloved fearless children;
Wild beasts and vultures squeak behind you,
And rotting corpses leer, or, frowning,
Earn praise from those who're scared of movement.
Let not these horrors daunt Or frighten;
But torch in hand advance, resistless;
The battlefield is strewn with martyrs
Who died in hundreds faces shining.
The earth is pulsing with a new life,
A tremor coursing through its arteries.
Ours is the strength of many armies;
Our comrades wait in every hamlet.
Sailors and ploughmen, slaves and masters,
Workers and lovers, waifs and prisoners,
Unhappy men who know no laughter-
They too are actors in Our drama.
The day that wanes, the night that follows,
The planets which you see revolving,
Children not born yet, our future soldiers,
They too are bound on this quest endless.
Sisters, awake, your brothers need you
They'll lag behind if you are missing;
Arise and join them, Jet the vanguard
Move forward, rank on rank in order.
I hear the sound of bells announcing
The coming age, when dreams and reveries
Will be fulfilled, and hopes turn rosy,
And we will reach our destination.
We have no use for lifeless knowledge
Stored in thick tomes; We want no false dreams
Or short-lived joys, bejewelled footwear,
Or cushioned thrones, no wealth that's rotten.
We shall survive on bread and water.
And sleep on hard floors, learn to hate those
Who are enslaved by greed, those gluttons;
We will go forward, we the fighters.
Do wipe away your tears, my comrades,
And rest a while if are weary,
Do not lose heart if night is falling,
Our will is firm, our aim is steady.
[Translation: Syed Sajjad Husain]
Pain of the Poor
These children-suffering
from a lack of mother's care,
in rags, their bodies covered with dirt,
faces dried up from starving all day, scornful,
their bodies feverish, skin chapped all over.
They can't even get a meager meal
from laboring all day.
Ignoring them-O Rich, O Ruler,
how can you stand the taste of monda, mithai, khaja?
Starving, when they see you-eating,
they beg silently with their pathetic eyes.
Shame on you!-How do you still go on gorging?
All that rice you store in your binsjust
a portion of it could save them.
You have such a wide variety of clothing;
these children do not have even as much
as the rag you polish your shoes with.
You've trunk loads of clothing,
while these children freeze to death all night long
with their mothers lying in corridors and lanes.
You feel so happy from hugs and kisses
from your children,
their mothers weep holding them in their bosoms.
Your children have no dearth of toys,
their toys are what's been thrown outan
embarrassment for their mothers.
Their unkempt hair, turning brownish and matted,
their skin blackened from roaming about in the sun,
for no reason they get beaten and scolded by people.
Your children cry 'bloody murder' for minor incidents,
whereas they have at most a sombre face
even when their hearts break from sadness.
The mothers of these unfortunate childrenstanding
aloof-who understands how much pain there is
in their tearful eyes?
If there's a slight touch of fever
in your children, ten doctors come rushing to check them.
But for these children-even when they have a high temperature,
there's none to offer them even a sip of water;
reduced to skeletons, they die in their mothers' arms.
They don't eat pomegranates or grapes when they are sick;
they think they have the world
by getting just a piece of sugar candy.
Your children go to sleep in rocking cradles,
these children sleep under the tamarind tree;
even the most stone-hearted aught to be moved to see this.
Nobody understands their misery,
everybody despises them
and thinks, 'Why do they litter the streets?'
So take heed, a burning stomach needs to complain;
I don't wish that even on my enemies. .
Even in such misery,
God will supposedly grant them welfare-that's
the only consolation for the poor.
[Original: Goriber baytha; Translation: Sajed Kamal]
O Thou Nightingale of Madina
O thou Nightingale of Madina?
What's that ghazal from the lips of thine
Which has made the rose of love
Bloom in the bower desert wild?
The song-birds started singing
In regions far and wide!
Thro 'the heights of. the etherial sky,
Rang thc Muazzine's melodious cry!
In the Sahara desert, parched cou1d dry,
Thou had created a garden of flowers
Where the Companions came like bees
And hummed the hymn of 'La Shareek'!
[Original in Bangla: Ay moru-parer hawa; Translation: Mizanur Rahman]
The myriads of song-birds came apace
And sang the song of Allah and the Prophet!
Under the leaves of Al-Quran
Swelled the flood of Love Divine!
O Destitutes!
With the curved smile on your tender lips, O crescent, is it a crooked suggestion?
Are you looking for companions to join you to loot every home in desperation?
As if at the command of Allah you are proclaiming from the sky,
O martyrs, why the rich do not pay zakat any more - ask, ask them why?
In surplus of these wealthy and rich, there is definitely a right
of all those hungry and deprived: this is Allah's message, so clear and trite.
Take away their surplus and their undeserving wealth; yes, take away!
You will be fulfilling a divine command, who stands in the way?
Why are you like living dead, imprisoned by powerlessness or decrepitude,
The plate of food rests close to you, yet why embracing death in hunger is your
attitude?
Have you no courage to extend your hand! Is your hand disabled or feeble?
I am, the bandit, here to collect the poor-due; get up and join me, don't quibble!
I have brought the message of Allah through the Eid's crescent that shines above,
We will break our fast with all those treasured surplus during this Ramadan - a month
we all love.
Everyone will eat and satisfy their hunger during this Eid celebration,
Don't despair and resign; rather loot your share of the blessings of God in rightful
jubilation.
[Original: Sharbohara (eid) by Kazi Nazrul Islam; Translation: Mohammad Omar
Farooq]
My Songs
My songs like wounded birds, faIl
At thy feet, O darling. Pick up all
Those bleeding birds in your breast
Tenderly and let them meet their eternal rest
At thy bosom, a death beautiful and serene.
Borne on the wings of music they were seen
Flying in the sky when the arrow of thine eyes Pierced them:
And with their dying notes there
did arise
A new flood tide of songs, O my hunter
Thou brought for me a taste of nectar
Shrouded in death's melancholy.
[Original in Bangla: Gaan-guli mor; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
My Prophet Mohammad
Syed Makki Madani,
he is my prophet Mohammad.
The friend of God, full of kindness,
he is the dearly beloved of all.
Adam, Noah, Abraham, David,
Solomon, Moses and Jesus
all bear witness to his glory.
Over all their message
prevails the message revealed
to my prophet.
In him the world glimpsed
the hint of God's flaming light
It was he who brought to this sinful world
a foretaste of Heaven's delight.
In vain did Alexander seek
to find on this earth the nectar of Paradise.
My prophet freely distributed the same
in the assembly of mankind.
For nothing did Zuleikha lose her head
when she met the beautiful Yusuf.
Had she seen my prophet
gladly would she have renounced the world!
If David could hear
the honeyed words of my prophet
surely he would have prayed for his advice.
Noah's ark did not sink
only because it had my prophet's blessings.
Jonah, swallowed by the whale at sea,
continued to live,
and Nimrod's fire failed to kill Abraham,
only because my prophet showered on them both
his gracious blessings.
I for one have drunk deep the Quran's nectar
Hell I have made for ever harman for me!
[Original: Syed Makki Madni; Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]
My Explanation
I am a poet of today, not a prophet of a future day,
Poet or worthless, call me whatever, I put up with anything you say.
Some say, to the future you belong,
Your place, as a poet, tomorrow will come along.
How come you lack message enduring like that emanates from Rabi's hand?
I am blamed, but I wont' quit playing rising sun's music band.
My fellow poets are disappointed, they read my works and sigh,
Saying: the good one is becoming no good, as he can't say to politics good-bye.
Does not read a book - finished is this chap!
Some say: His wife has brought, indeed, all this mishap!
Some say: The fat one is spoiled, playing cards - non-stop - in the jail,
Others say: You were better there; toward jail again you should sail!
Mentor says: You're no good, except shaving using a sword!
Every Saturday my lover's letter conveys me, 'Nothing useful in you is stored.'
I say: Honey, shall I reveal the secret?
Letters stop in a hurry; not one more I get.
Sacrificing everything, I got married: Hindus say, 'Get lost'!
Am I Muslim or a heathen? Where is my pigtail or beard, or the hem of loin-cloth?
All the goody-searching priests or Mollahs wave their hands and pronounce:
This one invokes names of deities; this rogue one we must denounce!
Hear the Fatwa: Kafir is this Kazi; nothing else,
Even though he wants martyrdom, or so he tells!
Some scripture we know, and we still earn our livelihood!
Hindus detest my use of Persian words saying: from us, this guy deserves no good!
No one is happy with me; the disciples of non-violence? of course, not!
I am blamed I play the violin of violence; I get the revolutionaries' hot heads even
more hot.
The revolutionaries say: This one is non-violent,
My songs deal with spinning wheels: they resent.
Top Brahmins find me atheist, lesser ones regard me as one of the Confucians;
Independence lovers don't accept me; their opponents prefer me to be with those
Europeans!
Men think I am a feminist; women, however, think otherwise,
I never went to England; I am worthless in my expatriate friends' eyes!
My admirers see me as Rabi of new age,
If not of new age, at least a poet of these trendy days!
I hear all these, bemused; exercise for a stronger heart,
Lie down with eyeglasses on; sleeping through the day is my life's part.
I don't know what I write; Do I even understand anything of my own?
I couldn't raise my hand in protest, so I write with my head down.
Dear friends, I did not find appreciation in you,
but my name shines in government's list in lieu.
Honoring my works as invaluable, without value people take it.
Have you heard anything else? Be careful, may not be far a government spy's pit!
Friends, you have seen me engrossed in my own mind's temple,
I rebuke and admonish my mind, but bringing it under control I wish were so simple!
Every time I chain itself, somehow it escapes free
I beat it, and the same I repeat, to complete my victory,
I wish this mad mind would listen to me, but even to Rabi or Gandhi, it did not listen,
Abruptly it wakes up and then wanders in the jungle's darkness in search of roaring
tigers that glisten.
I say, O this insane one, you are doing so great in the community,
You are already a half-leader; but if you lose this opportunity,
would you ever be a full leader,
and weep with the crowd as a speaker?
Pick up the fish in the net now, O fool, before it slips away, I bet!
Take this break to get your leaky house fixed, otherwise soon you will regret.
Who understands that this minstrel's mind roams around singing and reciting!
This name hardly rings any bell; Days are passed chewing Betel leaves, ah, a taste so
inviting!
May be some day there won't be any more of epidemic of malaria,
Especially, since the autonomy is coming in its full pomp and euphoria.
Yes, we want moon, but those hapless ones cherish a meal, as teardrops of their little
ones dribble,
The agonized mother shouts: Hush, you miserables! See, independence is coming - no
more quibble!
But those hungry kids can't care less about autonomy; their desire: a little salt and
some rice,
Ah! the hour is late; nothing they have nibbled yet; the flame of hunger seeks no
advice.
When I hear that cry, my insane mind charges in a rush,
My intoxication for autonomy seeks shelter merely in my dream's brush!
I say, bemoaning: O God, are you still there? Why are they not, then,
Humiliated or destroyed, those who suck the blood of these children?
We all know, to bring independence, those lofty slogans we have devised,
And, at the same time, how burning hunger of so many million children, we have
compromised!
So much money was raised, but independence still remained a dream,
as the hungry people can't pay enough, they are so weak even to scream!
When a baby is snatched away from the mother's bosom, we plead, O royal tiger,
please eat grass!
The mother keeps begging from door to door, while in her shack hiding the baby's
carcass.
My friends, I can't say any more; my mind feels so much agony and pain,
I have gone mad; now, I utter whatever my mouth throws out in disdain.
My own blood won't make much difference,
With blood-ink I keep writing, hence,
My head can't forbear robust ideas or big thought any more; so agonized is this mortal,
All those who are in peace and happiness, it's your privilege to write epics immortal.
I don't care any more, if I live or don't, when gone is this trendy sensation,
Rabi is shining above our head, and then there are you, the golden generation.
Those who usurp the morsel of three hundred thirty million people: let our prayer keep
brewin',
In my blood-ink writing, may it be engraved and sealed their utter ruin.
[Original: Bengali, Translator: Dr. Mohammad Omar Farooq ]
My Dearest Nightingale
Please come back, come back to my empty bosom
The morning flowers wither away untimely
Mourning your loss
Won't you return to my empty bosom!
O, my dearest silly one,
Without your presence the moon turned pale
The river cries out in pain
Pleading you to return
O, the beautiful one
The trees search for you spreading out their branches
Up in the sky
The storm churns through the woods
Looking for you
Branches lay on the dirt in deep pain
O my restless one
When you return
Lotus will re-bloom
Your glance will make the gray sky
Turn azure again
O, my dear one, please return to my empty bosom!
Please return!
[Translation: Gulshan Ara]
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Top 20 Classical Songs Of Kazi Nazrul Islam | Arunkanti Ke Go Jogi | Pratham Pradip | Bhoriya Paran
নার্গিসকে লেখা প্রেমিক কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের অমর প্রেমপত্র || Kazi Nazrul Islam Letter to Nargis
Rajbondir Jobanbondi - Kazi Nazrul Islam | রাজবন্দীর জবানবন্দী - কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম | Shamsuzzoha
Kazi Nazrul Islam kobita Lichu chor kobita abritti লিচু চোর chotoder abritti আবৃত্তি। Tannistha।
তালগাছ | কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম | Taalgach | Kazi Nazrul Islam | Bengali poem recitation | Priti Pandit
কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের ৭টি জনপ্রিয় না'ত-ই-রাসুল(সাঃ)।। Seven Na'ts of Kazi Nazrul Islam।।
লিচু চোর - Lichu Chor Bangla Kobita By Kazi Nazrul Islam | Moople TV Bangla
Kabi Kazi Nazrul Islam er lekha kobita "Shishur Sadh" #Bengali Kobita #"Shishur Sadh"
কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের জীবনী। Kazi Nazrul islam biography in Bengali.
Hera Hote Hele Dule | Kazi Nazrul Islam | ABC Radio 89 2 FM
Kazi Nazrul Islam Biography in Bengali |কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের জীবনী |Nazrul Jayanti Speech-Abdur Rahman
কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম || পাঠ-১ || Kazi Nazrul Islam || জীবনী || JSC SSC HSC BCS Admission Job Exam
Hera Hote Hele Dule | হেরা হতে হেলে দুলে | Ishrak Hussain | Kazi Nazrul Islam | Bangla Islamic Song
Shyama Sangeet - Kazi Nazrul Islam | শ্যামা সঙ্গীত - কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম | Devotional Song | Vol 1
মানুষ | কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম | Manush | Kazi Nazrul Islam | Bengali Recitation | Bangla Kobita | Priti
কবি নজরুলের গান বিকৃতি! | A. R. Rahman | Kazi Nazrul Islam | Pippa Cinema | Bollywood | Somoy TV
বিদ্রোহী কবি কাজী নজরুল ইসলামের অমর বাণী | Quotes of Kazi Nazrul Islam | Sharif's Diary
সাম্যের গান গাই... | কাজী নজরুল ইসলাম ‘‘নারী” কবিতার শ্রেষ্ঠ আবৃত্তি | টিটো মুন্সী
Tumi Sundar Tai Cheye Thaki তুমি সুন্দর তাই চেয়ে থাকি - Nazrul Sangeet
Bolo Bir @ Kazi Nazrul Islam বিদ্রোহী কবিতা
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