বৈশাখী প্রিয় কবিতা উৎসব – গণী মিয়ার সাথে

কবিতা প্রেমের রাজধানী। এই প্রেম শুধুমাত্র কপোত-কপোতীর প্রেম না। কবিতা সবার আগে মানুষকে নিজের  প্রেমে মজতে শেখায়। কবিতা অসময়ে ছায়া দেয়, সুসময়ে ছায়া দিতে শেখায়। কবিতা মানুষের বুকের ভেতরের কথা বলে।

পহেলা বৈশাখ ১৪৩২ উপলক্ষে আমরা জানতে চেয়েছিলাম আপনাদের প্রিয় কবিতাগুলো। মাত্র একদিনের নোটিশে এই আয়োজন আমরা করতে চেয়েছিলাম। ভয়, শঙ্কা দুটোই ছিলো। কিন্তু আপনাদের উৎফুল্ল অংশগ্রহণ আমাদের শুধু সাহস যোগায়নি, দিয়েছে অনুপ্রেরণাও। আপনাদের প্রিয় কবিতাগুলো নিয়ে আমাদের এই আয়োজন অব্যাহত থাকবে।

আজকে থাকছে গণী মিয়া -এর প্রিয় কবিতাগুলো নিয়ে আয়োজন। আশা করি তার প্রিয় কবিতাগুলো আপনাদেরও ছুঁয়ে যাবে।

হাওয়ার রাত – জীবনানন্দ দাশ

গভীর হাওয়ার রাত ছিলো কাল— অসংখ্য নক্ষত্রের রাত;
সারা রাত বিস্তীর্ণ হাওয়া আমার মশারিতে খেলেছে;
মশারিটা ফুলে উঠেছে কখনো মৌসুমী সমুদ্রের পেটের মতো,
কখনো বিছানা ছিঁড়ে
নক্ষত্রের দিকে উড়ে যেতে চেয়েছে;
এক-একবার মনে হচ্ছিলো আমার–আধো ঘুমের ভিতর হয়তো—
মাথার উপরে মশারি নেই আমার,
স্বাতী তারার কোল ঘেঁষে নীল হাওয়ার সমুদ্রে শাদা বকের মতো উড়ছে সে!
কাল এমন চমৎকার রাত ছিলো।

সমস্ত মৃত নক্ষত্রেরা কাল জেগে উঠেছিলো— আকাশে এক তিল
ফাঁক ছিলো না;
পৃথিবীর সমস্ত ধূসর প্রিয় মৃতদের মুখও সেই নক্ষত্রের ভিতর দেখেছি আমি;
অন্ধকার রাতে অশ্বত্থের চূড়ায় প্রেমিক চিলপুরুষের শিশির-ভেজা চোখের মতো
ঝলমল করছিলো সমস্ত নক্ষত্রেরা;
জ্যোৎস্নারাতে বেবিলনের রানীর ঘাড়ের ওপর চিতার উজ্জ্বল চামড়ার
শালের মতো জ্বলজ্বল করছিলো বিশাল আকাশ!
কাল এমন আশ্চর্য রাত ছিলো।

যে-নক্ষত্রেরা আকাশের বুকে হাজার-হাজার বছর আগে ম’রে গিয়েছে
তারাও কাল জানালার ভিতর দিয়ে অসংখ্য মৃত আকাশ সঙ্গে ক’রে এনেছে;

যে-রূপসীদের আমি এশিরিয়ায়, মিশরে, বিদিশায় ম’রে যেতে দেখেছি—
কাল তারা অতিদূর আকাশের সীমানার কুয়াশায়-কুয়াশায দীর্ঘ বর্শা হাতে ক’রে
কাতারে-কাতারে দাঁড়িয়ে গেছে যেন—
মৃত্যুকে দলিত করবার জন্য?
জীবনের গভীর জয় প্রকাশ করবার জন্য?
প্রেমের ভয়াবহ গম্ভীর স্তম্ভ তুলবার জন্য?
আড়ষ্ট—অভিভূত হয়ে গেছি আমি,
কাল রাতের প্রবল নীল অত্যাচার আমাকে ছিঁড়ে ফেলেছে যেন;
আকাশের বিরামহীন বিস্তীর্ণ ডানার ভিতর
পৃথিবী কীটের মতো মুছে গিয়েছে কাল;
আর উত্তুঙ্গ বাতাস এসেছে আকাশের বুক থেকে নেমে
আমার জানালার ভিতর দিয়ে সাঁই সাঁই ক’রে,
সিংহের হুংকারে উৎক্ষিপ্ত হরিৎ প্রান্তরের অজস্র জেব্রার মতো।

হৃদয় ভ’রে গিযেছে আমার বিস্তীর্ণ ফেল্টের সবুজ ঘাসের গন্ধে,
দিগন্ত-প্লাবিত বলীয়ান রৌদ্রের আঘ্রাণে,
মিলনোন্মত্ত বাঘিনীর গর্জনের মতো অন্ধকারের চঞ্চল বিরাট
সজীব রোমশ উচ্ছ্বাসে,
জীবনের দুর্দান্ত নীল মত্ততায়।

আমার হৃদয় পৃথিবী ছিঁড়ে উড়ে গেল,
নীল হাওয়ার সমুদ্রে স্ফীত মাতাল বেলুনের মতো গেল উড়ে,
একটা দূর নক্ষত্রের মাস্তুলকে তারায়-তারায় উড়িয়ে নিযে চললো
একটা দুরন্ত শকুনের মতো।

The History Of One Tough Motherfucker – Charles Bukowski

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,”not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…”
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
“you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,”look, look
at this!”
but they don’t understand, they say something like,”you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine?”
“no,” I hold the cat up,”by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

The Crunch – Charles Bukowski

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers

strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.

or an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.

it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don’t ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about
it.

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way we have not yet
thought of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
“no.”

Air Talk – Yoko Ono

One, two, three, four, five, six

It’s sad that air is the only thing we share
No matter how close we are there’s always air between us
It’s also nice that air’s something we all share
No matter how far apart we are an air links us

It’s sad that past is something we can never share
No matter how close we are the past is between us
But it’s also nice that without the past
We’d have never known each other
No matter how far apart we are it brought us together

Yes, it’s very nice to have someone to share
There’s something very nice to have someone to care
We may not share our past but we have our future to share

It’s sad that life is such a heavy thing to bear
No matter how close we are it’s easy to despair
It’s also nice that you and I know it’s what we all share
No matter how far apart we are we can learn to care

There’s something very nice to have something to share
There’s something very nice to have someone to care
We may not share our bodies but we have our minds to share

Notes On Vision – James Douglas Morrison

Look where we worship. We all live in the city.

The city forms- often physically, but inevitably
psychically- a circle. A Game. A ring of death
with sex at its center. Drive towards outskirts
of city suburbs. At the edge of discover zones of
sophisticated vice and boredom, child prosti-
tution. But in the grimy ring immediately surround-
ing the daylight business district exists the only
real crowd life of our mound, the only street
life, night life. Diseased specimens in dollar
hotels, low boarding houses, bars, pawn shops,
burlesques and brothels, in dying arcades which
never die, in streets and streets of all-night
cinemas.

When play dies it becomes the Game. When sex dies it becomes Climax.

All games contain the idea of death.

Baths, bars, the indoor pool. Our injured leader prone on the sweating tile. Chlorine on his breath and in his long hair. Lithe, although crippled, body of a middle-weight contender. Near him the trusted journalist, confidant. He liked men near him with a large sense of life. But most of the press were vultures descending on the scene for curious America aplomb. Cameras inside the coffin interviewing worms.

It takes large murder to turn rocks in the shade
and expose strange worms beneath. The lives of
our discontented madmen are revealed.

Camera, as all-seeing god, satisfies our longing for omniscience. To spy on others from this height and angle: pedestrians pass in and out of our lens like rare aquatic insects. Yoga powers. To make oneself invisible or small. To become gigantic and reach to the farthest things. To change the course of nature. To place oneself anywhere in space or time. To summon the dead. To exalt senses and perceive inaccessible images, of events on other worlds, in one’s deepest inner mind, or in the minds of others. The sniper’s rifle is an extension of his eye. He kills with injurious vision.

The assassin(?), in flight, gravitated with
unconscious, instinctual insect ease, moth-
like, toward a zone of safety, haven from the
swarming streets. Quickly, he was devoured
in the warm, dark, silent maw of the physical
theater.

Modern circles of Hell: Oswald(?) kills President. Oswald enters taxi. Oswald stops at rooming house. Oswald leaves taxi. Oswald kills Officer Tippitt. Oswald sheds jacket. Oswald is captured. He escaped into a movie house.

In the womb we are blind cave fish.

Everything is vague and dizzy. The skin swells and there is no more distinction between parts of the body. An encroaching sound of threatening, mocking, monotonous voices. This is fear and attraction of being swallowed.

Inside the dream, button sleep around your body
like a glove. Free now of space and time. Free
to dissolve in the streaming summer.

Sleep is an under-ocean dipped into each night At morning, awake dripping, gasping, eyes stinging.

The eye looks vulgar
Inside its ugly shell.
Come out in the open
In all of your Brilliance.

Nothing. The air outside burns my eyes. I’ll pull them out and get rid of the burning.

Crisp hot whiteness
City Noon
Occupants of plague zone
are consumed.

(Santa Ana’s are winds off deserts.)

Rip up grating and splash in gutters.
The search for water, moisture,
“wetness” of the actor, lover.

“Players”-the child, the actor, and the gambler. The idea of chance is absent from the world of the child and primitive. The gambler also feels in service of an alien power. Chance is a survival of religion in the modern city, as is theater, more often cinema, the religion of possession.

What sacrifice, at what price can the city be born?

There are no longer “dancers”, the possessed. The cleavage of men into actor and spectators is the central fact of our time. We are obsessed with heroes who live for us and whom we punish. If all the radios and televisions were deprived of their sources of power, all books and paintings burned tomorrow, all shows and cinemas closed, all the arts of vicarious existence… We are content with the “given” in sensation’s quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.

Not one of the prisoners regained sexual balance.
Depressions, impotency, sleeplessness…erotic
dispersion in languages, reading, games, music,
and gymnastics.

The prisoners built their own theater which
testified to an incredible surfeit of leisure.
A young sailor, forced into female roles, soon
became the “town” darling, for by this time they
called themselves a town, and elected a mayor,
police, aldermen.

In old Russia, the Czar, each year, granted- out of the shrewdness of his own soul or one of his advisors’- a week’s freedom for one convict in each of his prisons. The choice was left to the prisoners themselves and it was determined in several ways. Sometimes by vote, sometimes by lot, often by force. It was apparent that the chosen must be a man of magic, virility, experience, perhaps narrative skill, a man of possibility, in short, a hero. Impossible situation at the moment of freedom, impossible selection, defining our world in its percussions.

A room moves over a landscape, uprooting the mind,
astonishing vision. A gray film melts off the
eyes, and runs down the cheeks. Farewell.

Modern life is a journey by car. The Passengers
change terribly in their reeking seats, or roam
from car to car, subject to unceasing transformation.
Inevitable progress is made toward the beginning
(there is no difference in terminals), as we
slice through cities, whose ripped backsides present
a moving picture of windows, signs, streets,
buildings. Sometimes other vessels, closed
worlds, vacuums, travel along beside to move
ahead or fall utterly behind.

Destroy roofs, walls, see in all the rooms at once. From the air we trapped gods, with the gods’ omniscient gaze, but without their power to be inside minds and cities as they fly above.

June 30th. On the sun roof. He woke up suddenly.
At that instant a jet from the air base crawled
in silence overhead. On the beach, children try
to leap into its swift shadow.

The bird or insect that stumbles into a room and cannot find the window. Because they know no “windows”. Wasps, poised in the window, Excellent dancers, detached, are not inclined into our chamber. Room of withering mesh read love’s vocabulary in the green lamp of tumescent flesh.

When men conceived buildings,
and closed themselves in chambers,
first trees and caves.

(Windows work two ways,
mirrors one way.)

You never walk through mirrors
or swim through windows.

Cure blindness with a whore’s spittle.

In Rome, prostitutes were exhibited on roofs
above the public highways for the dubious
hygiene of loose tides of men whose potential
lust endangered the fragile order of power.
It is even reported that patrician ladies, masked
and naked, sometimes offered themselves up to
these deprived eyes for private excitements of
their own.

More or less, we’re all afflicted with the psychology of the voyeur. Not in a strictly clinical or criminal sense, but in our whole physical and emotional stance before the world. Whenever we seek to break this spell of passivity, our actions are cruel and awkward and generally obscene, like an invalid who has forgotten how to walk.

The voyeur, the peeper, the Peeping Tom, is a dark
comedian. He is repulsive in his dark anonymity,
in his secret invasion. He is pitifully alone.
But, strangely, he is able through this same silence
and concealment to make unknowing partner of
anyone
within his eye’s range. This is his threat and
power.

There are no glass houses. The shades are drawn
and “real” life begins. Some activities are impossible
in the open. And these secret events are the voyeur’s
game. He seeks them out with his myriad army of
eyes- like the child’s notion of a Diety who sees
all. “Everything?” asks the child. “Yes, every-
thing”, they answer, and the child is left to cope
with this divine intrusion.

The voyeur is masturbator, the mirror his badge, the window his prey.

Urge to come to terms with the “Outside”, by
absorbing, interiorizing it. I won’t come out,
you must come in to me. Into my womb-garden
where I peer out. Where I can construct a universe
within the skull, to rival the real.

She said, “Your eyes are always black”. The pupil opens to seize the object of vision.

Imagery is born of loss. Loss of the”friendly
expanses”. The breast is removed and the face
imposes its cold, curious, forceful, and inscrutable
presence.

You may enjoy life from afar. You may look at things but not taste them. You may caress the mother only with the eyes.

You cannot touch these phantoms.

French Deck. Solitary stroker of cards. He dealt himself a hand. Turn stills of the past in unending permutations, shuffle and begin. Sort the images again. And sort them again. This game reveals germs of truth, and death. The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet possibly finite, card game. Image combinations, permutations, comprise the world game.

A mild possession, devoid of risk, at bottom
sterile. With an image there is no attendant
danger.

Muybridge derived his animal subjects from the Philadelphia Zoological Garden, male performers from the University. The women were professional artists’ models, also actrsses and dancers, parading nude before the 48 cameras.

Films are collections of dead pictures which are
given artificial insemination.

Film spectators are quiet vampires.

Cinema is most totalitarian of the arts. All
energy and sensation is sucked up into the skull,
a cerebral erection, skull bloated with blood.
Caligula wished a single neck for all his subjects
that he could behead a kingdom with one blow.
Cinema is this transforming agent. The body
exists for the sake of the eyes; it becomes a
dry stalk to support these two soft insatiable
jewels.

Film confers a kind of spurious eternity.

Each film depends upon all the others and drives
you on to others. Cinema was a novelty, a scientific
toy, until a sufficient body of works had been
amassed, enough to create an intermittent other
world, a powerful, infinite mythology to be dipped
into at will.

Films have an illusion of timelessness fostered
by their regular, indomitable appearance.

The appeal of cinema lies in the fear of death.

The modern East creates the greatest body of films.
Cinema is a new form of an ancient tradition- the
shadow play. Even their theater is an imitation
of it. Born in India or China, the shadow show
was aligned with religious ritual, linked with
celebrations which centered around cremation of the
dead.

It is wrong to assume, as some have done, that cinema belongs to women. Cinema is created by men for the consolation of men.

The shadow plays originally were restricted to
male audiences. Men could view these dream shows
from either side of the screen. When women later
began to be admitted, they were allowed to attend
only to the shadows.

Male genitals are small faces forming trinities of thieves and Christs Fathers, sons, and ghosts. A nose hangs over a wall and two half eyes, sad eyes, mute and handless, multiply an endless round of victories. These dry and secret triumphs, fought in stalls and stamped in prisons, glorify our walls and scorch our vision. A horror of empty spaces propagates this seal on private places.

Kynaston’s Bride
may not appear
but the odor of her flesh
is never very far.

A drunken crowd knocked over the apparatus, and Mayhew’s showman, exhibiting at Islington Green, burned up, with his mate, inside.

In 1832, Gropius was astounding Paris with his
Pleorama. The audience was transformed into
the crew aboard a ship engaged in battle. Fire,
screaming, sailors, drowning.

Robert Baker, an Edinburgh artist, while in jail for debt, was struck by the effect of light shining through the bars of his cell through a letter he was reading, and out of this perception he in- vented the first Panorama, a concave, transparent picture view of the city. The invention was soon replace by the Diorama, which added the illusion of movement by shifting the room. Also sounds and novel lighting effects. Daguerre’s London Diorama still stands in Regent’s Park, a rare survival, since these shows depended always on effects of artificial light, produced by lamps or gas jets, and nearly always ended in fire.

Phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows, spectacles
without substance. They achieved complete
sensory experiences through noise, incense,
lightning, water. There may be a time when
we’ll attend Weather Theaters to recall the
sensation of rain.

Cinema has evolved in two paths. One is spectacle. Like the phantasmagoria, its goal is the creation of a total substitute sensory world. The other is peep show, which claims for its realm both the erotic and the untampered obser- vance of real life, and imitates the keyhole or voyeur’s window without need of color, noise grandeur.

Cinema discovers its fondest affinities, not
with painting, literature, or theater, but with
the popular diversions- comics, chess, French,
and Tarot decks, magazines, and tattooing.

Cinema derives not from painting, literature, sculpture, theater, but from ancient popular wizardry. It is the contemporary manifestation of an evolving history of shadows, a delight in pictures that move, a belief in magic. Its lineage is entwined from the earliest beginning with Priests and sorcery, a summoning of phantoms. With, at first, only slight aid of the mirror and fire, men called up dark and secret visits from regions in the buried mind. In these seances, shades are spirits which ward off evil.

The spectator is a dying animal.

Invoke, palliate, drive away the Dead. Nightly.

Through ventriloquism, gestures, play with objects,
and rare variations of the body in space,
the shaman signaled his “trip” to an audience
which share the journey.

In the seance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants, dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice, convulsive movement. He acts like a madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit-world. Their mental travels formed the crux of the religious life of the tribe.

Principle of seance: to cure illness. A mood
might overtake a people burdened by hisorical
events or dying in a bad landscape. They seek
deliverance from doom, death, dread. Seek possess-
ion, the visit of gods and powers, a rewinning
of the life source from demon possessors. The
cure is culled from ecstasy. Cure illness or
prevent its visit, revive the sick, and regain
stolen, soul.

It is wrong to assume that art needs the spectator
in order to be. The film runs on without any eyes.
The spectator cannot exist without it. It insures
his existence.

The happening / the event in which ether is introduced
into a roomful of people through air vents makes
the chemical an actor. Its agent, or injector,
is an artist-showman who creates a performance
to witness himself. The people consider themselves
audience, while they perform for each other,
and the gas acts out poems of its own through
the medium of the human body. This approaches
the psychology of the orgy while remaining in
the realm of the Game and its infinite permu-
tations.

The aim of the happening is to cure boredom,
wash the eyes, make childlike reconnections
with the stream of life. Its lowest, widest
aim is for purgation of perception. The happening
attempts to engage all the senses, the total
organism, and achieve total response in the face of
traditional arts which focus on narrower inlets
of sensation.

Multimedias are invariably sad comedies. They work as a kind of colorful group therapy, a woeful mating of actors and viewers, a mutual semimasturbation. The performers seem to need their audience and the spectators- the spectators would find these same mild titillations in a freak show or Fun Fair and fancier, more complete amusements in a Mexican cathouse.

Novices, we watch the moves of silkworms who excite
their bodies in moist leaves and weave wet nests
of hair and skin.

This is a model of our liquid resting world
dissolving bone and melting marrow
opening pores as wide as windows.

The “stranger” was sensed as greatest menace in ancient communities.

Metamorphose. An object is cut off fom its name,
habits, associations. Detached, it becomes only
the thing, in and of itself. When this disintegration
into pure existence is at last achieved, the object
is free to become endlessly anything.

The subject says “I see first lots of things which dance…then everything becomes gradually connected”.

Objects as they exist in time the clean eye and
camera give us. Not falsified by “seeing”.

When there are as yet no objects.

Early film makers, who- like the alchemists-
delighted in a willful obscurity about their craft,
in order to withhold their skills from profane
onlookers.

Separate, purify, reunite. The formula of
Ars Magna, and its heir, the cinema.

The camera is androgynous machine, a kind of
mechanical hermaphrodite.

In his retort the alchemist repeats the work of Nature.

Few would defend a small view of Alchemy as “Mother
of Chemistry”, and confuse its true goal with those
external metal arts. Alchemy is an erotic science,
involved in buried aspects of reality, aimed
at purifying and transforming all being and matter.
Not to suggest that material operations are ever
abandoned. The adept holds to both the mystical
and physical work.

The alchemists detect in the sexual activity of man a correspondence with the world’s creation, with the growth of plants, and with mineral formations. When they see the union of rain and earth, they see it in an erotic sense, as copulation. And this extends to all natural realms of matter. For they can picture love affairs of chemicals and stars, a romance of stones, or the fertility of fire.

Stange, fertile correspondences the alchemists
sensed in unlikely orders of being. Between
men and planets, plants and gestures, words and
weather. These disturbing connections: an in-
fant’s cry and the stroke of silk; the whorl
of an ear and an appearance of dogs in the yard;
a woman’s head lowered in sleep and the morning
dance of cannibals; these are conjunctions which
transcend the sterile signal of any “willed”
montage. These juxtapositions of objects, sounds,
actions, colors, weapons, wounds, and odors shine
in an unheard-of way, impossible ways.

Film is nothing when not an illumination of
this chain of being which makes a needle poised
in flesh call up explosions in a foreign capitol.

Cinema returns us to anima, religion of matter, which gives each thing its special divinity and sees gods in all things and beings. Cinema, heir of alchemy, last of an erotic science.

Surround Emperor of Body.
Bali Bali dancers
Will not break my temple.

Explorers
suck eyes into the head.

The rosy body cross
secret in flow
controls its flow.

Wrestlers
in body weights dance
and music, mimesis, body.

Swimmers
entertain embryo
sweet dangerous thrust flow.

The Lords. Events take place beyond our knowledge
or control. Our lives are lived for us. We can
only try to enslave others. But gradually, special
perceptions are being developed. The idea of the
“Lords” is beginning to form in some minds. We
should enlist them into bands of perceivers to
tour the labyrinth during their mysterious noc-
turnal appearances.

The Lords have secret entrances,
and they know disguises. But they give themselves
away in minor ways. Too much glint of light in
the eye. A wrong gesture. Too long and curious a
glance.

The Lords appease us with images. They give us
books, concerts, galleries, shows, cinemas. Es-
pecially the cinemas. Through art they confuse
us and blind us to our enslavement. Art adorns
our prison walls, keeps us silent and diverted
and indifferent.

Dull lions prone on a watery beach.
The universe kneels at the swamp
to curiously eye its own raw
postures of decay
in the mirror of human consciousness.

Absent and peopled mirror, absorbent,
passive to whatever visits
and retains its interest.

Door of passage to the other side,
the soul frees itself in stride.

Turn mirrors to the wall
in the house of the new dead.

প্রিয় কবিতার এই পাঠককে অনেক ধন্যবাদ আমাদের সাথে এত দারুণ সব কবিতা শেয়ার করার জন্য। আশা করি তার পাঠক জীবনে তিনি আরো দারুণ সব কবিতা পড়ার সৌভাগ্য পাবেন। তার জন্য শুভকামনা।

আপনিও যদি নিজের প্রিয় কবিতাটি আমাদের সাথে ভাগ করে নিতে চান, পাঠিয়ে দিন আমাদের কাছে। আমরা সেটা ভাগ করে নেব আরো অসংখ্য পাঠকের সাথে।

আমাদের অন্যান্য আয়োজনের সঙ্গী হতে চোখ রাখুন আমাদের ফেসবুক পেইজে, নিয়মিত ভিজিট করুন লণ্ঠনে। যোগ দিন শিল্পের এক নতুন উৎসবে।