Mohammad Nurul Huda

Whitepaper on Bachelorhood
how long have you been anxiously waiting
in Time's gay courtyard?
Look at this tree in the dusky gloom,
at the lovely art-work on its clustering leaves.
It is but an ancient image of our earth
at whose feet I sit.
I sit here, Flora,
an undefiled hermit
at the top of a towering hill.
Down below stretch dense forests
full of pines, orange groves and apricot trees.
Alongside, Life's twin lakes flow,
deep and mysterious.
Like a hunter's arrow
these scenes fly before my eyes
while sorely wounded I sit here
a bleeding sinner.
you have blossomed in the blue night
of happy times,
you whisper into the ears of the wind.
Or, are you writing in perfumed green ink
the silent history of some other maiden?
I do not understand what you say,
as if I were stupid.
I do not hear what you utter,
as if were deaf.
I do not see anything of your history,
as if I were blind.
I am blind, deaf and stupid,
a sleepless sinner of the earth
with no interest in history
or geography.
With steady eyes
I keep staring at the virgin land,
the whitepaper of my bachelorhood
lies open,
a divine pen attached to my body.
I do not write a word.
I only get drenched
in nature's blue deluge.


Everywhere you see heads :
dark heads, golden heads, heads with
luxuriant hair.
You see only heads,
progenitors of scenes,
material world,
world of ideas.
On the top you see hair or grass or a roof of leaves;
inside you find brain as you find fire or watery expanse
in the womb of the earth.
Heads of various kinds;
round heads, square heads,
all with steadfast goals.
In the field they remain steady,
they grow restless when they march in processions.
Classic heads move on river banks,
on wide green fields,
on the hot sands of the Sahara,
or in Greece or lthaca or the equatorial zone.
In the sun the helmets glitter.
This ancient earth,
the favoured child of the universe,
turns on its axis in history or geography.
And these heads turn on two feet,
nude all over.
They run from one sunny spot to another,
seek a cool shaded path in the dark.
Disappointed, the entire scene throbs
as they loudly shout.
In the forest the lions roar
while in the universe of the housewives
roar the carriers of sun-scathed heads.


The beach gets warm
even under the cool sun.
At this hour
in the inner chambers of the blue sea
there goes on exotic cooking
while cranes fly over the waves
fluttering their huge wings.
They raise a symphony in the wind
and strike a chord
in dreamy purple hearts.
Over the blue flames of the sea
that looks like a giant stove
a golden sunny egg slowly gets fried.
In taste and smell intertwined,
merged into one inseparable body,
without any coitus
or any visible proof,
the oysters grow alive and pregnant.