You are tired, (I think)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

The Picture of Dorian Gray

You have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realised the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Dorian to Sibil Lane, Chapter 7

Funny how one would sympathize with Dorian until the quote is read in context.

In light of Mladic's extradition...

I am reminded of the millions exterminated in my birth country that will never have "justice." Human Rights Watch published an article last month on the Bangladeshi government finally bringing those that took part in the 1971 genocide to trial. You can read it here:

http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2011/05/19/bangladesh-unique-opportunity-justice-1971-atrocities

I stopped reading it when I saw this:

"In a concession to Pakistan, the law excludes the prosecution of Pakistani military officials and soldiers."

Granted, many of those responsible have died anyway- receiving full military burials with honors (and praise from the late Bhutto herself).

The story of Bangladesh
Is an ancient one again made fresh
By blind men who carry out commands
Which flow out of the laws upon which nations stand
Which say to sacrifice a people for a land
- Joan Baez

Lupe's twitter raps (via @Jcadet11)

My friend Jay compiled the following from twitter...enjoy!

"fiasco took to twitter to unleash some nice 'raps' for the fans yesterday & i thought they were good enough to share...."

every year we do better, steady on the rise,

the tears for lost ones weigh heavy on the eyes,

dita sunny's, gold prezzy, twin turbo chevy fo' a ride of course,

from the backseats of phantoms i thought of leaving thru suicide doors,

love got me thru it, best fans ever made the whole world care,

had 51st & 6th looking like Tahrir Square!

apologize for dumbing it, but look what has become of it,

"All Black Everything" some old white southern woman humming it,

Took Gaza Strip's Politics and put them number one and shit,

took the myth that conscious dont equal commercial and mothafuckin pummeled it!

weapons for the weak, lessons for the meek,

the too proud to beg, and the too poor to speak,

the too smart to listen, and the too dumb to teach,

two sides to every story so i listen to both speak,

shout 2 all the dj's, who gave a nigga replays,

@fakeshoredrive @rapradar & the whole internet space,

U put it online I put it in they face,

and there it will remain, for atleast another week,

right at number 1, hahaha yeah nigguh, stay strong Japan, Nate Dogg REST IN PEACE!!!

From 'Graves' by Jasimuddin

Jasimuddin is well-known in Bangladesh as a folk poet. Most of his work relates to villagers and was meant to bring attention to the hardships of village life in Bangladesh.

This is from his most famous poem, 'Graves,' which was actually used in the matriculation exam for the University of Calcutta in 1929. This was pretty remarkable because not only was he a student at the time, but was a Muslim as well.

It just spoke to me because a farmer's life is the only life my late grandfather knew, and because he also died in April, exactly a year ago.

Bangla is so pretty, I don't think the translation does this poem justice and makes it seem archaic (although it is from the early 1900's).

One April morning my boy called out,

'Father, I cannot go to the fields today.'

I spread out a mat on the floor for him, said 'Sleep, my Son.'

How could I know that this would be his last slumber?

A clean coffin I made him, and as I carried him here

'Where are you taking my father?' you followed crying.

I could not answer, my little son,

All the words in the world turned away grieving.

Night and day your mother's tears were unceasing,

Clasping your father's yoke and plough in both hands.

For sorrow the leaves fell from the forest trees,

The winds of April wailed in the empty rice-fields;

And villagers passing along that path wiped their eyes.

Even the leaves they trod underfoot crumpled and died.

From their stall the two bullocks regarded the unploughed fields

While your mother clung to their necks with heart-broken sobs

Till it seemed the whole village would drown

In oceans of her weeping.

Perhaps the tears of that lovely girl

Found a path to the land of the dead.

In the morning ofher life she longed for evening;

Ah, poor girl, she wove her own shroud with her hands.

Before her death she summoned you to her:

My child, she said, my greatest pain is

Leaving you motherless in this world,

My darling, my jewel, my son.

What blessings she gave you!

Then to me, 'Over my grave hang my husband's wide wicker

sun-hat;

It will swing in the wind.'

Long ago that hat fell and mixed with the dust.

But the pain in my heart still cries out

For these two that sleep in the shade.

How lovingly the tree-boughs bend above;

The fire-fly maidens of evening light lamps

And the crickets make music with small bells tinkling.

Fold your hands, grandson and pray: 'oh come, eternal God,

Let Paradise descend now for father and mother.'

-Translation from Jasimuddin.org

From Kristof's "Divorced Before Puberty" Times Op-Ed

Sent to me by Angie this week..a quote from a NY Times op-ed about Nujood Ali:

"Consider Bangladesh. After it split off from Pakistan, Bangladesh began to educate girls in a way that Pakistan has never done. The educated women staffed an emerging garment industry and civil society, and those educated women are one reason Bangladesh is today far more stable than Pakistan."

-Nicholas D. Kristof, "Divorced Before Puberty" March 3, 2010

He makes some pretty interesting points. Although, I should add that women in the Bangladeshi garment industry are often looked down upon by society (even today) because of the "independent" nature of their lives.

War.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like of old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind:
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in sonic smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not talk with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

-Wilfred Owen (1917)

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

-Randall Jarrell (1945)

Madrugada (Translated 2005)

This is the only poem I have translated (when my language skills were much better). I tried my best to preserve the Spanish, but took the liberty to add my own "style" to the translation. However, the meanings are just about the same.

For reference, Juana de Ibarbourou was a Uruguayan feminist poet- something you can probably pick up from the poem itself. Photo from Wikipedia.

MADRUGADA

He pasado la noche inquieta y desvelada.

Aclara el día y me escurro de la cama, aburrida.

Hoy yo sola paseo por esta calle extrema

de portones cerrados y de casas dormidas.

Amanecer como de humo.

Parece que el sol, malhumorado,

con leña verde peparara el fuego

para cocer su desayuno.

El viento es húmedo como recién salido

de un baño. En el cielo pálido,

las estrellas descoloridas

poco a poco se van borrando.

Pasa un lechero con boina roja.

Desde lo alto de un viejo muro,

me tienta un gajo curvo y felposo,

lleno de nísperos maduros.

Ando, ando, ando, ando.

Cuando retorne y hacia él me incline

con un beso, para despertarlo,

él pensará también, con gozo ávido,

que acabo de salir del baño.

-Juana de Ibarbourou

DAWN

I have passed the night, troubled and kept awake.

The day is clarifying and I slip out of bed, bored.

Today I alone pass through this far-carrying street

of small closed doors and of sleeping houses.

There is a dawn like smoke.

It seems that the ill-humored sun

has kindled a fire with green wood,

with which to cook its breakfast.

The wind is humid as if

it has recently returned from a bath.

In the pale sky, the colorless stars

are erased, little by little.

There passes a milkman in a red beret.

From the tallness of an old stone wall,

a curved, plush branch touches me

with the heaviness of its ripe medlars.

I walk and I walk,

and I walk, and I walk.

When I come back and incline towards him

with a kiss, meant to awaken him,

he too, will think with eager joy

that I have just returned from the bath.

-Jasmin Sultana, trans.

"Their Eyes Were Watching God" (2005)

In laymen's terms, a found poem is one that is formed by rearranging words, phrases, and lines from another piece of writing (such as a novel) to create an original poem. Technically, this poem is my own but I should state that I have used groups of words from Zora Neale Hurston's novel (of the same name). For more information, see here.

"Their Eyes Were Watching God"

If love is a bed-quilt

of things done and undone

of remorseless sweet

like the sanctum of a bloom

then is it the rose of the world

on a cracked plate?

For she had come back

from the sodden, the bloated

and he was asking questions, smoking a cigar,

saving his breath on talk.

They sat in judgement

of dragged out dramas,

skins powerful and human.

They sat in judgement.

On spiritualism

Thought I'd share a few of my favorite writings and quotes that deal with not only life, but the sentience of our souls if that makes sense.

The world is iconic, or it is ironic.

The devil, not God, heareth the zealot's prayer.

Judge people by the extent to which they are alive.

He is dead, who does not feel the Qur'an move in his hands.

We would change the world, did it not entertain us so.

There is justice, and there is just-us.

-Abdal-Hakim Murad

Let sorrowful longing dwell in your heart,

never give up, never lose hope.

The Beloved says, "The broken ones are favored."

Crush your heart, be broken.

-Shaikh Abu Saeed Abhil Kheir, Sufi Poet (967-1049)

"If a son of Adam had one mountain of gold, he would only want a second one."

"...be like the first and the better of the two sons of Adam who said,

'If you raise your hand to kill me, I will not raise mine to kill you;

surely I fear God, the Lord of the worlds.' "

-The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.

I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument, while the song that I came to sing remains unsung."

-Sir Rabindranath Tagore

Paradise is in your mind

I love India Arie- she's a great lyricist. This is from "There's Hope."

Off in the back country of Brazil

A met a young brotha that made me feel

That I could accomplish anything.

You see just like me he wanted to sing

He had no windows and no doors

He lived a simple life and was extremely poor

On top of all of that he had no eye sight,

but that didn't keep him from seein' the light

He said, what's it like in the USA

and all I did was complain

He said- livin' here is paradise

He taught me paradise is in your mind

You know that

-India Arie

Ms. Emily Moore, I adore you.

I've had the pleasure of being taught (twice) by poet Emily Moore at Stuyvesant. A graduate of both Phillips Academy and Princeton who is now teaching high school English, she's definitely helped me to discover my own style of poetry. "Perhaps you should stick to all lowercase, like Frances Chung?" she suggested one afternoon. You will notice that most of my work is now in lowercase, and many are dated from when I first started writing poems in her class in 2003.

My compilation of Ms. Moore-related-news-and-anecdotes:

From her article in NewsWeek, Why Teachers Are Not 'Those Who Can't', a must-read for any aspiring teacher:

"I feel extraordinarily blessed to have been called to a profession in which I am always learning. It is grueling, exciting, gratifying work. As a student teacher in New Jersey last fall, I looked out at my high-school students and saw a field of possibilities. I looked at their clunky boots and spiked hair and adored them.

Naturally, there were downsides. On bad days, I felt I was preaching to a swarm of gnats. Yet as wretched as my students could be, it's been far more distressing to be told by adults that I have wasted my degree."

From her final review of my poetry portfolio:

"Jasmin, you truly see life with the eyes of a writer."

Whenever I feel that I am producing absolute garbage, this sentence never fails to remind me that someone I look up to believes in me. It really meant a lot to me as my parents (wonderful as they are, Alhamdulillah) didn't encourage my writing while I was growing up.

Ms. Moore is in a band now?
Yes. And it is called Menage A Twang, "country twang meets the urban real estate market."

Lastly, her amazing piece in The New Yorker:

Auld Lang Syne by Emily Moore

I last saw her in Soho a couple of years ago- I hope that I can pay her a visit in the near future and share my thesis portfolio from college with her :-)

Photo is from the Stuy Spectator.

From 'Life of Pi'

I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.

-Yann Martel

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

-Maya Angelou

Diary of a Cat

A recently spayed Paris

Found this online, thought it was cute enough to be shared.

DAY 752 - My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 761 - Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded, must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair...must try this on their bed.

DAY 762 - Slept all day so that I could annoy my captors with sleep depriving, incessant pleas for food at ungodly hours of the night.

DAY 765 - Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was...Hmmm. Not working according to plan ......

DAY 768 - I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time however it included a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a liquid. My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.

DAY 771 - There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 774 - I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The Bird on the other hand has got to be an informant. He has mastered their frightful tongue (something akin to mole speak) and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room his safety is assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time.

O God, What is more painful than for the beloved to be rich and the lover poor?

Do not remain a man of intellect among the lovers, especially if you love that sweet-faced Beloved.
May the men of intellect stay far from the lovers, may the smell of dung stay far from the east wind!
If a man of intellect should enter, tell him the way is blocked, but if a lover should come, extend him a hundred welcomes!
By the time intellect has deliberated and reflected, love has flown to the seventh heaven.
By the time intellect has found a camel for the Hajj, love has circled the Ka`bah
Love has come and covered my mouth.
It says, “Throw away your poetry, and come to the stars!”

-Rumi

The greatest lines ever written about New York City.

There are roughly three New Yorks.
There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable.
Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night.
Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something.
Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness;
natives give it solidity and continuity;
but the settlers give it passion.

-E.B. White

Language Martyr's Day

I know I left Dhaka when I was four and have only gone back a handful of times but I still like to commemorate Bangladesh's holidays and events. I guess I take a lot of pride in it because:

1. I taught myself how to read and write Bangla using old Bangali newspapers and books when I was ten. Because of this, I can't recite the names of the letters; I just know what sounds they make. Also because of this- I am a pathetically slow reader in Bangali.
2. It amazes me that these men and women were willing to die for a language. About twenty years later they fought to retain their cultural identities, and eventually, for the right to even exist in the first place. But a language...I can't imagine.

You may notice that I spell Bengali "Bangali." Well first of all, Bangali refers to the people or something that pertains to Bangladeshi culture. If you're referring to the langauge, that's just "Bangla." "Bengali" is the British pronunciation and no Bangali will ever say that. If they try, it sounds like "Bengolee" and that is just weird. Unless you go to Calcutta because I'm pretty sure they say "Bengolee" all the time.

Today is "Ekushey February" (21 February):

• The Pakistani government declared Urdu as the national language (it would be taught and spoken in all schools, institutions, etc. and Bangla wouldn't be recognized).
• Dozens of unarmed civilians (students and activists) were killed on February 21, 1952 when Pakistani police fired upon them for gathering near Dhaka Medical College to protest the decision.
• After several years, Bangla was finally allowed to be "spoken" (that is, until everything else goes down in 1971), and the Shaheed Minar monument was built to remember the language martyrs.

"The monument stood until the Bangladesh Liberation War in 1971, when it was demolished completely during Operation Searchlight, during which the Pakistani Army estimates they inflicted 26,000 civilian deaths, while other organizations such as National Geographic estimate casualties numbering over 3 million. After Bangladesh gained independence, it was rebuilt." (from wiki)

Also, February 21st is International Mother Language Day as observed by UNESCO, and it "took effect on 17 November 1999 when it unanimously adopted a draft resolution submitted by Bangladesh and co-sponsored and supported by 28 other countries." (wiki)

Snce this is mostly a writing blog, here are the most famous lyrics ever written about 21 February:

Amar Bhaiyer Rokte Rangano Ekushey February
(My Brother's Blood is Stained on the Twenty-First of February)

Can I forget the twenty-first of February
stained by the blood of my brother?
The twenty-first of February, built by the tears
of a hundred mothers robbed of their sons,
Can I ever forget it?
Wake up all serpents,
wake up all summer thunder-storms,
let the whole world rise up
in anger and protest, against the massacre of innocent children
They tried to crush the demand of the people
by murdering the golden sons of the land
Can they get away with it
at this hour when the times are poised
for a radical change?
No, no, no, no
In the history reddened by blood
the final verdict has been given already
by the twenty-first of February

Wake up today, the twenty-first of February
do wake, please!
Our heroic boys and girls still languish in the prisons of the tyrant
The souls of my martyred brothers still cry
But today everywhere the somnolent strength
of the people have begun to stir
and we shall set February ablaze
by the flame of our fierce anger
How can I ever forget the twenty-first of February?

-Abdul Gaffar Chowdhury

Ozymandias

I think this is one of the most amazing poems ever written; it actually came up today in Archaeology & Ancient Civ. It makes me want to write more "historical" poems (like my Julius Caesar attempt). The Ozymandias of the poem is Ramses II of the New Kingdom.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Lisa's Substitute

At the train station, Lisa catches Mr. Bergstrom as he's about to board the train to Capital City. Lisa begs him not to leave.

That's the problem with being middle-class. Anybody who really cares will abandon you for those who need it more. -- Mr. Bergstrom's parting remarks, "Lisa's Substitute''

Lisa tearfully understands. He tells her, "Whenever you feel that you're alone and there's nobody you can rely on, this is all you need to know,'' and hands her a note. Lisa chases the train as it pulls away, then looks at the note. It reads, ``You are Lisa Simpson.''

-The Simpsons