Language

Medicinal Scribble

                                                       
   
A rhyme is deciphered in multiple ways,
            Perception is vital,
                           As is the length of one’s daze,
The spelling of words can hold meanings construed,
              Making some rhymes sound different
                             If heard, and not viewed.

Inflections on words can be easily read,
            Better yet, when expressed from the heart…
                                      …(not the head).

A title can mimic the gist of the rhyme,
            Or take one on a journey
                             Through eons of time.

One thing is for sure about all that you’ve read,
           When we touch with our heart,
                           And reveal in our head,
What we feel becomes worth something more when expressed,
            On a piece of plain paper,
                          In truth or in jest!

You see, when stagnant feelings are held in the chest,
            The results of this could be your worst or your best,

Transformed feelings have less chance to become,
            Heart attacks that would otherwise
                           End lives of some.

 

 

© 2002

Title change  2013

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thoughts on paper...purges the toxins. Ahhhh...

The Other Side

The Other Side

Years ago, after the freedom,
On a map laid on the table,
Some colonial masters,
With forks of perfidy,
Put us apart on the
Other side of Zakiganj.

Kushiara swells abound,
In my veins, but my
Heart aches in pain,
To toil the land in vain,
Still my roots remains on the
Other side of the stream.

Years later like a nomad,
I don’t find my roots,
Can’t hold anymore,
The strains of existence,
With so many identities,
Here on this side of Zakiganj.

On this side of the land,
I don’t find my roots,
My language, my songs, and
My tongue annoys,
So many who hates,
To see me survive,
And live after so many days.

On this side of the land,
The soil is only for her sons,
I find not a voice to listen,
I can’t call a place my own,
I hide even my whispers,
To earn respect, and
Lest they call me an alien,
I just sing their song.

……….
Baharul Islam | Guwahati | 20 July 2011

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The poem depicts the ‘rootless’ feelings of people of a small part of Syllhet district (Bangladesh) who were divided at the time of India’s independence and now live on the other side river Kushiara that falls in India. The voice here laments the division and feels like an alien. Zakiganj is a town on the side of Bangladesh, Karimganj is the town falling on this side of India in the state of Assam.

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