Poetry is the memory of adolescence.
It was my mother's face,
the yellow bird on a neem tree,
my little bothers and sisters
sitting at night around a fire
made up of dry fallen leaves,
father's home coming,
the ringing of a by-cycle bell-Robeya,Rabeya and
the opening of the southerndoor
at the sound of my mother's name.
Poetry was wading through a knee-deep river
across a fog-laden path,
the morning call for prayer, or the burning of poddy stalks
after the harvesting, the lovely dark dots of rye
on theplump crust of a home-made country cake,
the smell of fish, a fishingnet spread out
on the countryardfor the sun to dry,
and grandpa's grave under a clusterof bamboo leaves.
Poetry was an unhappy young body growingup in the fourtings
a truant pupil's fugitive attendence at public meetings,
freedom, processions, banners, the piteous story
of a fierce communal riot told by my elder brother,
returning from the holocaust a pauper,
Poetry was a flock of birds on a char land,
carefully collected birds eggs,
fragrant grass, the run-away calf of a sadlooking young farm-wife,
neat letters on secret writing pads in blue envelops
Poetry was Ayesha Akthar of my village-school
with her long loose flowing hair.
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