Poetry
Poetry / Cog against the machine
you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again
for my weeping mother
her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger
Shamim Reza creates new frontiers with his new poetry collection
Over the last 30 years, he has received multiple national and international literary awards for his work. He is, currently, the vice-president of PEN International, Bangladesh chapter.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / On rainy days and reading
The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".
POETRY / Dark, blue night
Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–
POETRY / Memory
Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light
Fable Factory / Concrete sorrow
We grasp on and we hold tight.
Baba
try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last
POETRY / Heathen
Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.
for my weeping mother
her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger
Cog against the machine
you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again
Shamim Reza creates new frontiers with his new poetry collection
Over the last 30 years, he has received multiple national and international literary awards for his work. He is, currently, the vice-president of PEN International, Bangladesh chapter.
Dark, blue night
Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–
On rainy days and reading
The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".
Memory
Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light
Concrete sorrow
We grasp on and we hold tight.
Baba
try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last
Heathen
Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.
Droplets of eternity
Dissipated, my thoughts wander finally taking refuge in sleep.
