Through a shower of classic water.

Shikdar Mohammed Kibriah, a renowned poet from Bangladesh, shares his poetry

Shikdar Mohammed Kibriah, born on 1st July, 1968, in Sylhet, Bangladesh, has Masters in philosophy, and is a globally published, awarded, translated and featured renowned poet, essayist, story writer, critic, and translator. He is a bilingual poet and writer writing in Bangla and English. He is the founder and president of Poetry and Literature World Vision. The number of his published books is 19, including eight of poetry, eight of prose and three of story. His writings have been translated and published in 40 languages. He has been featured as a global poet many times. He participated in world poetry conferences, fairs, festivals, recitals and literary conclaves. His writings are often published in world famous print and electronic magazines, journals, newspapers, websites, blogs, and anthologies etc. His poems have been translated into Spanish, French, German, Russian, Italian, Serbian, Romanian, Arabian, Hebrew, Portuguese, Hindi, Indonesian, Polish, Dutch, African, Vietnamese, Greek, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Albanian, Chinese, Filipino, Japanese, Persian, Azerbaijani etc. For his brilliant contribution in world poetry and literature he is awarded lots as a Literary Laurel, Universal Gold Star 2020 , Universal Excellence, Poetic Excellence, The most influential personalities, Golden Heart, Best personality, Global Poet, Poet for Peace,  and honorary Doctorate Degrees and a lot of diplomas and certifications.

CLASSIC WATER AND GEOMETRIC LIFE

Haven’t you experienced water!

Having smelled pre-historic water,

You can notice it is purely simplified.

Life is geometrically formative too

Through a shower of classic water.

Earthen productivity, smiling corn,

Floating life-time in low-down water,

Endless march of Adam’s children

All are geometrically ridged in the map.

Don’t you sense the science of water?

The universal cycle revolves with

Water cycle.

House of God is on creative water

That rolls to the ocean straightly

Producing vapour, clouds and rain

Water runs to the sea through drains,

Canals and rivers in a cyclic order.

Would you really like having water?

Give out the fragrance of your wet hair

Like raindrops in a nonstop shower.

***

INERTIA

All types of modernity obviously a black sea

While it’s an inertia.

Still covered my poetic corridor

With some modern grasses.

Symbolic moons try to remove darkness

Even though they know little how to cross

A black sea.

Then, is it pre-historic or nonconforming?

My poetic pulse begins to beat

With some ordinary words and

Makes a poetical hut.

An advanced city looks back to a moon

Brightening archaeological Harappa, and

I open all of my windows to enjoy

A post-modern morning.

I’m neither symbolic nor a saint of words

I’m to touch reality with an intuitive turn,

And cross the modernism

At least like a pre-historic world

Freely rounds the sun.

***

A THOUGHTFUL KITE

Opened a website of the sky

For an endless quest of experience.

Grey sky has worn a widow’s sari

With shuttled clouds to and fro.

And above there is a cerulean ocean

Of a tranquil cover.

Going round all the planets

In a regulation.

In fact, there is nothing to be endless

Hence, the thoughtful kite runs after

In quest of boundary and starts

To the north

In a motive to touch the edge.

After crossing the North Hemisphere,

It is thrown into outer-space

Alike nothingness.

Experience is nothing but the lost aeroplane

In Bermuda Triangle, broken Discovery

Or Pathfinder on Mars.

Is the Logic final option?

Then where is the border of nothingness? Nothing has no border for its infinity.

Therefore, how the infinity could be existent

While extremely everything is to be limited.

The thoughtful kite keeps constant circling

In the skyline——

Then a cycle of fallacy dominates

The brain-monitor creates a grey-illusion;

Here-after an astral sky of night starts

To flash the red signal.

Declining the moon the vanishing sky comes down

Into my eyes with a sleep

Alike a dead-planet and killed the website.

Sitting on the top of the tree

An aerial mother-kite is hatching her eggs.

***

A GRASS PROJECT       

From the pre-historic time

I’ve been walking through this planet

My worldly visit took its road through

Babylon

Now stepped in such a territory which is,

In fact, a panoramic internet

Of numerous rivers.

In this river basin

A huge and historic human habitation

Green fields, mountains and forest sides

Made its landscape to outstanding sketches

Bangladesh is the name of this green Delta.

Miles after miles                        

I’ll walk by the side of small rivers,

Green corn-fields and greener villages.

In the overwhelmed scent of green grasses

I will sleep full of spell-bound night.

I smelt it in the spiritual world

While the angels were moving fast

With the grass, leaves, seeds and semen etc.

It was then mixed with my sensation.  

Just changed my world from one to many

Actually I’m who was green all the time

Like the grass.                                        

On this planet I’ve come with a grass-project

I’ll grow perpetual grass and observe

How much green

The living being will have been attained.

***

I’M IN MY EXISTENCE

 While thoughtful Descartes

Of whether he was existent or not,

Sitting in my corridor,

My wife cut fish then.

Out of my courtyard

Some goats were eating grasses

Taking dust in their handful

Naughty boys started throwing

From each other.

Coming back airing dust

Domestic cow herd

Just before sunset

The sun was going down

With a colorful exhibition

Having kissed by the departing sun

The leaves had to fall asleep.

There was a hurry in the ferry

From the river

Returning village wives

With the pitcher full of water

Hanging all the beauties

Of the evening

In the neck of the pitcher

And moving with creating

An artistic swing.

Perceptive all these

How could I refuse?

Descartes started to swim

In the essence

And said,

“I think, therefore I am.”

***

A SURREAL LOVE

Heavily touched a untouched healthy cheek

To touch an impossible reality

Sensitivity knows it’s not in fortune

Yet leave a bait subconsciously to be happy

She is none in the sense lonely noon knows

Even so lighted a darling dawn calling crows.

_________________

Received through Angela Kosta Academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator

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