Published in the streets of Dhaka

I’m not too big on poetry. I certainly don’t have the knowledge to appreciate Ghalib and Rumi. But sometimes I come across a poem that really makes me want to major in Literature instead of Sociology and Politics next year.


Here’s one I read yesterday


Here I will stay, plumb in the centre
Of monsoon-mad Bengal, watching
Jackfruit leaves drift earthward
In the early morning breeze
Like a famous predecessor used to
And take note too
Of flashing knives, whirling sticks, burning bombs,
And accompanying gutturals and fricatives of hate,
And evil that requires no axis
To turn on, being everywhere
And should all these find their way
Into my scribbles and into print
I’ll cut a joyous caper right here
On the tropic of Cancer, proud to be
Published in the streets of Dhaka

Kaiser Haq

I love this poem. I’m not sure why. Maybe because you can read it all in one breath, maybe because the phrase ‘monsoon-mad’ makes so much sense to someone living in South Asia (and the irony that comes with that, the fact that we have taken the English language and made it our own) maybe the dramatic ending or the rich picture it paints. Or perhaps because the poet takes the good and the bad, the beautiful and the disturbing and casts them all in the same light of love. Whatever it is, I am writing this one on my bedroom wall.