কমরেড

 কমরেড  


কমরেড এভাবেই কাশতে কাশতে 
হৃদয় উজাড় করে থাকা সূর্যের গমকে  
চিলের ডানার মতো যত কাশফুল 
মেঠোপথে ছড়িয়ে ছিটিয়ে চমকে চমকে 
লুব্ধক থেকে সমকোণে স্বর্গে নরকে; 
এভাবেই কাশতে কাশতে যত কাশফুলে  
মাটির পথ ধরে রাস্তায় সরে সরে 
আবার সেলাম করে 
উতলা হয়ে স্বাতীর কেন্দ্রে ঘুরে ঘুরে 
ঝরে গেলো সীমাহীন নক্ষত্রের জলে
যেভাবে তুমি বলেছিলে আবার মাতবে 
কালপুরুষের মতো সপ্তর্ষির প্রশ্নচিহ্নের তরে 
আমার বুকের ভেতর কঙ্কালের মতো 
সেই প্রশ্নের বান ছিল যত উজাড় করা 
তার পিছু নিয়ে দৌড়েছি তোমার সুরে 
যতটা কাঁটায় কাঁটায় ঠিক - অথবা 
প্রতিবিম্ব; শুধু নীলের খেলায় ধুধু করা সবুজ প্রান্তরে 
তোমার থেকে জাগ্রত ক্রীড়াময় অসীম 
আমি শুনেছি অগুনতি, অন্তর্লীন 
শুধু দ্বন্দ্বের অসংখ্য ধ্রুবকে লীলাময় হে কমরেড  
একপা এগোতে গেলে কতশত দুইপা পিছোতে হয় !  


সন্দীপ চক্রবর্তী,

শ্রীরামপুর, 

মহালয়া, ১৭/০৯/২০২০ 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ludvik

There is no start. So the end is also meaningless. My life is more a metaphor than a visual thing. And it is for this reason I touched it by dint of metaphors…that is my life itself. Most of us remain in a state of material inertia unless there is a flash of blue light that burns the sleeping body and let soul look at it in its own eyes. So I woke up one night or was I still sleeping? And I went into another sleep, another awakening in another sleep. The ether always hits soul like a blue wave…the same way I was bathing in a river. I guess life is a river that merges with its own longing for ethereal streams. I often watched the sky, space, stars in those eyes that seek bathing in light, breeze and all the ethereal charms…So I needed metaphors, I needed constant excitement, flashes, sparks. I was always interpreted as mysterious, arrogant, penetrating, enigmatic, stupid person. But our social constructs are so weak that it itself surrenders to rejoice. Yes. I seduced others. They are m...
Read more

Looking at the hat

Image
And the wind walked in front like time. Homework was undone for long. And evening bells kept on talking to the last trace of light. It was important since a flower was about to come. This was the message from smell. Like a butterfly it goes and enters spring. Where are those books? After school, college they went to the library and the librarian went for holiday hoping that sea had not retired so far, and in Vietnam there was a small hut open for likeminded strangers. Time always travels away from it and further towards its inside and when I saw Chen, I remembered May, first. Now I remember that the librarian was calculating crosswords and suddenly he found the name Suzanne. And am sure the racks for old newspapers like always listen to raindrops, when those old papers are wet. I was travelling in a bus to university and it was clear by then. Economics is not a positive science, not even aesthetic science. So I saw Chen seated on a rock. Chen must have known that there is a relation be...
Read more

Memory of Yangzi

Image
Chanting. But wonderfully the music is revolving, splashing within and outside. A tension that perpetuates like a trekking through forest. From far and suddenly from near a trace of light. The leaves as you may wish, keep dancing like water dances when a young river hugs rocks facing its way. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. You are the secret music that controls my senses. Chanting. You occupy my mind and body like air occupies a flute. And dissolved into your whims I play. You know more. I raise more. You wonder about your smell that ancient graphics absorbs and becomes a code of whisper. I can’t be chained and yet I am. I can’t be frozen so you look outside of the cloud. I can’t be compact so you secretly desire. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. Play relentlessly the Pipa. That calls me. Play indomitably the flute. That enervates ...
Read more