once wrote a lot of poetry. The biggest difficulty in writing poetry is whether it is getting better or worse, whether it is becoming poetry at all - it is not immediately understood. There is a need to understand. But as I got older, I realized that poetry is never good or bad. Poetry is poetry. Those who write poetry and want to know whether it is good or bad, are basically the grandsons of poetic showers. I was also a grandson of Shaw at a young age. I wanted to write poems and ask people, bro, do you see the matter. Poetry is not understood by everyone, those who understand are not found everywhere again. So I went to a literary organization to find people who understood poetry. Creative people tend to be a little crazy. That’s normal. But entering that organization was not only crazy, I also met the closed lunatics. One of them was Saber’s (pseudonym) brother. The day I first met him, he pulled out about forty-eight teeth and held a piece of paper in my hand and said, I have just written a poem, Ghapat Ghapat Chuida Aisa, little brother!
I handed over the paper and handed over exactly what I saw -
This is a relaxing mid-afternoon in the city
I was leaving under the Chatim tree.
Just then the wandering distance rang. They said, come.
I went.
Then day and night I gave Chuida canal.
After reading, he wanted to know, do you understand anything?
I said, no brother. I have not yet dared to understand such a great poem.
Then Saber Br said, day and night his lover (mass). They are twin sisters. At the same time, because he is in love with two women, he should not think of Luichcha again. Such is love. Love is to be spread. Love is great. Love is not just for one person.
After the first day's introduction, I promised to stay a thousand hands away from him. But I could not. One day, in the middle of the pouring rain, I was drinking brie while standing on a chip in the university. Suddenly, Saber's brother appeared. He asked Jhalamuria to make things, held a condom in my hand and said, "Bro, phulao to."
I said in a bad mood, what do you mean brother?
When he heard my answer, he smiled and said, Oh. You don't know my style again. Come on, let's teach.
He took a jhalmuri filled with thonga. Then he inflated the condom and dropped it like a helmet on Jhalmuri's thong and said, life hacking in Egla Haitas. I am taking it for day and night. I will be completely intact. Come with me. Let's drink English wine.
I did not want to go. But he will not leave without me. I was forced to go to Jigatala with him in the middle of a heavy rain. I got acquainted with Diba-Nishi. They are not twin sisters at all. There is not the slightest resemblance in appearance. The biggest thing is that I came home; It is not a normal home. A very cheap broth. Leaving me outside, Saber's brother entered the house with a condom helmet, a jhalmuri thonga and Diba-nishi. After a minute, their laughter stopped and the cold started. Sitting outside the door, I was wondering, where is the way to escape from here? Tension ruined my brain function. Once I heard from Amma that one of my uncles had left his wife; Because he had a habit of going to bad places and having fun with the naughty girl. I kept thinking that I would meet that uncle at any moment. He would hold a Navy cigarette in my hand and say, "Tano Vigna." Before the bidi is finished, let the state know about the seats in your neighborhood, I promised.
My thoughts were disturbed by the screams of Sabet Bhai. He almost screamed from inside the room and said, "Quick, take a notebook, pen, little brother." Poetry Aitase in the head.
In this situation, there is no question of writing. But when I heard the six-line poem, I was forced to take the pen out of the bag. I started writing poems written by Saber's brother. He gasped for breath -
Indifferent, indifferent departure
Infallible. Maybe.
Stands opposite to the sunset;
Like a lonely radio tower,
Like a tangled thread at the very end.
An old, incessant call -
Tip tip shouting at midnight; As much love as I have.
Lose, or not lose
I will, maybe not
The last gold leaf of the day wants to burn.
But then the black spots on the chest
The heart wants to become a black spot.
Hence, some instability in this transformation
It goes on and on
Tends to fade
My brilliant dilemma
Dhush-shala - the goods have gone out.
No, the last line is not part of Saber's brother's poem. He might have said a few more lines, but he couldn't move because his goods had already gone out so shamelessly. After a minute, he came out smiling and took the paper from me and said that it was not bad. This is a problem, understand younger brother. No, Chudle doesn't want poetry to come to his head.
That day I discovered Saber's brother in a new form. Although he wrote insane and occasional final bal-skin things in clear Bengali, he is actually a very large-scale poet. He had never been busy writing or publishing a poem in his life, nor did he want to know how it turned out. Saber's brother, who lived in his own world, was happy in his poetic world.
A month after this incident, I escaped from the radius of his wandering. Because, even though everyone loves lunatics, no one wants to be around them. Once in many years he had the good fortune to read several poems. One of the fans of Saber's brother had published some poems without informing him. After reading, I have heard not only me, but also the civil and civil society of the country say at the same time - Genius. This is another strange phenomenon. It is a great privilege to see two groups of two poles come together in the same doctrine.
Saber's brother was accidentally reunited a month ago at an elite shop in the city. I probably wouldn't have recognized him if he hadn't called me. The hair of the head is short and thorny, there is no touch of the sun in the face, wearing a clean shirt and heavy glasses. Introduced to his wife and only son. He is currently employed. Living permanently in Bashundhara. When he found me, he took his wife and son out to look for clothes. He said with a cigarette fire, how is life going?
I said, good. What is your poem Saber brother?
He said in a very happy voice, Vaiga is gone. I don't need poetry in my life anymore. I used to write poems for the sake of survival. Now looking at his wife and Polar, he wants to live like this. Poetry is not needed.
This poem is very mysterious.
Sometimes it is the only means of survival of one's life, sometimes it is the cause of death, sometimes it is a song of never returning home.
Once the need for poetry is gone.
Yet he survives.
Because the tireless responsibility to make this ugly world beautiful has been written down by someone, from the first day of creation.
So God sometimes seems like my poem.
