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Poems On / About RIVER  4/21/2015 12:48:55 PM
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  345.     

First Latter For My Dear

First Latter for my Dear

The girl whom I love, posterior touch silky black hair her wave of sea swings in her body where she walks about. Trees of both side of road spread wings. Birds fly to moon land.
Touching the foot through that way I climb on sky. The girl is my beloved her anklet jingle in my mind. As the door of sea sounds by southern wind, breaking that door my mind goes away on the other side of seven seas- where I have left my sathronga. Whom I love I address that girl sathronga. She taught me laughing as the full moon laughs. She taught me cry- as the exuding flower. Like the Mediterranean can sea’s soundless cry at moonless night. As the puzzled sailor does at stormy night, she taught me to be delighted also in hardship. Piteous cry of beloved due to delivery pain- the trouble and anxious of the man standing other side the door. A male of new soul comes as aggregate of these. That is a gift of my sathronga. Glorious-glorious o my creator. According To your acute pain we move. The girl whom I love I address her rainbow. Do you know sathronga? From my childhood I had wish to visit the seven wonder of the world. After I got you these all have become insignificant. These are negligible in compare of you. Pyramid of Egypt moved me but not to that extant as the little floating boats on the Neal River did. Sathronga you told, are not those boats one of the seven wonders? Got in on that boat I was floating on the river Ganges accompanied by you. Three fourth earths would remain out of our touch if there would be no boat. The Tower Eiffel of Paris astonished me but not as much as the bridge in front of it caused. Sathronga could you remember, we looked on the sky putting hand on hand Standing on Jamuna bridge. Sathronga all these creation would go in vain if you were not. If you are not the boat would be useless, if you are not hen the bridge would be ineffectual. Sathronga often I wish to float on sky, sometime wish to eat the moon, sometime to sun. So far I could I save my soul, at last being tired exude at foot of world. Continuous pattering of rains at tin shed suppose rise wave in your mind. That day you told over telephone, pattering of rains causes your mind fly to bride chamber full of joy at deep dark. I told that is nothing but memory. It only gives pain, causes storm at garden of mind. Yes, have we caught by fever? Have white ants build dwelling at home of mind? Or God has thrown both of us like Adam and Eve on two edges to test our love? Being best creation of creature we are helpless. We have to obey fate, to obey nature. That time we feel ourselves helpless. Does the inability and helpless called limitation? Perhaps, that is limitation of our ability. But limitation never clash with mind. So, mind fly away to your window in shape of cloud. You wrote in letter that the love you gathered by whole Life will offer at my feet to fulfill my mind. And I say what I have got as provender will be sufficient to cross the decades from Adam- Eve to Prophet Noah. I am not too strong to reach near you within a moment cutting open the earth. I am Bengali imaginative, lover of conceives could pass the time looking at the bright moon, being water goose swimming on cloud could.
Knock at the door of green Bengal. At night crammed with thick and silent star- when
Glow worms gather at bamboo clump then you weep. Under compulsive gasps- feel my presence hiding face in pillow with my memory! In thus manner time will pass going on within. Perhaps one day we shall meet. But shall we get return those day which have been lost. My sathronga, how much time like this, how much time has to wait. We went to Verona. As a tourist to see the marks of Romeo- Juliet. The palace- The corridor of Juliet is just that as it Was before. Only they are no more. They have become the part of history. Sathronga, I do not wish to be history like that. I promised at sea beach of lido of Venice to soak leg in water of her at that day. When I could tress out my queen of dream? Honey moon will take place at summit of Venice. If all dream was truth! If all roads of world was thorn less! If all flower was bloom at our deep breathing! All rivers of earth mix with sea. Does the sun- touch causes ebb of sea? Hope, wait, patience are companion of curve way of life. Sathronga, perhaps we are in play of tides and ebb at curve of some river. One day we shall get together in salt sea by support of snake. Putting on diamond ring I shall say, sathronga period of waiting has become excessive, Let us settle down.
 
BONGOKOBIDA ZAKARIA

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  346.     

This Side Of The River

There's no happiness this side
The river is without a tide
The soil unfertile for seed
Here grows nothing but weed.
Behold the river's other side
Soil is rich so is tide
Spreads out mile after mile
Lands rich and fertile.
I wish I were on that side
This is not the place to reside
There I could get good harvest
There I could build a happy nest.
The man on the river's other side
Finds his river without tide
Finds everything there vile
The land barren unfertile!
 
Pradip Chattopadhyay

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  347.     

Drought

Pedaling along river drive
empty plastic grocery bags
fluttered and flapped from tree branches
like lost battle surrender flags
that line the drought-stricken river.
Their interspersed clings reminded
me of inundated levels
this now anemic river reached;
where once the floodwaters surged south
along its journey to the sea
its now imperceptive flow
struggles, its intimate's exposed:
river-bottom, water-worn rocks
sit like petrified bowler hats.
 
Albert Ahearn

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  348.     

The River And Her

in the slow history of the river flowing
she wants to mark her own name with her fingers

religiously she goes there on a ritual of her own
naked she dips her skin on the water

so soft are her feet on the bed of pebbles
deep down the fishes ask for more of her toes

touched the river begins to sing a song for her
the bamboo leaves keep watching what happens next

will love dance on the surface of flimsy reasons?
will passion appear and last forever?

the banks want to close in on them: the river and her
the sun is worried what will happen next


it did end, but it was sad, as sad as the butterfly that lost one of its wings.
the river loses its name as she plunges deep to the tight arms of death.
 
RIC S. BASTASA

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