The Shine Journal

Badminton

In the midsummer of my life, through half-opened
Window, I hear the slap, slap, slap …
Of the shuttlecock as it is knocked around;
I imagine the smoking breath of the players,
The lights that fall on ground that a few days ago
Was green, and will be green again when winter’s
Over, and winter’s sport; I recollect more than 
Imagine: my parents’ youth, which fused the arm with racket.
Each winter takes a bit of energy
Dissipated in games of badminton
Begun at sunset, when it’s cool enough,
Continued long past midnight: no tomorrow,
Pity that summer’s just round the corner,
Otherwise we could have played forever….
 

sunset at khagrachari 

 
this autumn
things have changed
since
last summer
 
the chengi
still curves
eastwards
under the iron bridge
 
but the monsoon
has emeralded
the sylvan
western hills
even more
 
the rains 
have washed
the dust
and through
the transparent
ether
blue the northern
hills
 
the pampas grass
wasn't there
in june
they hold 
themselves high
either side of the chengi
miracles of
monsoon
 
the spotted 
dove
still adorns
the black
electric wire
its chessboard neck
as clear
to view
as its
call of contentment
to the ear
kroo kroo kroo
 
the green
bee-eater
still dives
like a lethal
f16
for its dinner
in an
aeronautic
display
of power and grace

the tripura girls
like terrestrial birds
in particoloured
thabin and angi
begin to burn
the pampas grass

the clouds of
altostratus translucidus
let sunlight through
like ground glass
 
then pink and 
purple
west to east
and the northern
hills blush
 
then pinks and 
purples
the changeling chengi
burning like
phlegethon
in the sunset's flush
 
burning like
phlegethon
and the pampas grass
on each bank
the aspiring smoke
ghosting
the moribund day 
 

 Time

 
 Was there anybody so perfect? Won’t 
 The cosmos be worse off when you’re not there?
 I recollect tonight how we met, how
 We have lived, how we have remained united;
 Then pass on to the inevitable thought
 Of the inevitable parting; but what makes life
 Valuable is not just time, time, time,
 But what it holds, like a vase full of roses.
 So the passing of perfection will make
 Of the universe a mausoleum;
 And who would wish to live there? Not I. Yet
 Today, my happiness uncircumscribed,
 What makes life valuable for you and me
 Is just time, time, time, a vase full of roses.

Motivation: Badminton is very popular in this country - it can only be played in winter because at other times it is too windy. So, it's a winter sport. Winter is a metaphor for life's end, but here it becomes the opposite: a metaphor of vitality, strength and youth. sunset at khagrachari was written in the south-eastern hills...it is a place of breathtaking beauty, and the details were there right before my eyes: however, the day was ending and the rising smoke seemed to embody the death of the day...Time was clearly motivated by love ... and the end of love in death. But the focus is not on death, but on the present.

Bio: I was born and live in Bangladesh. I teach English. I have contributed to Opednews.com, Mobius, Online Journal, Enter Text and other publications. My wife and I love to tour Bangladesh.