Mir Abdus Shukur Al Mahmud commonly known as Al Mahmud is a Bangladeshi Poet, novelist, short-story writer. He is considered as one of the greatest Bengali poets emerged in 20th century. His work in Bengali poetry is dominated by his copious use of regional dialects. In 1950s he was among those Bengali poets who were outspoken by writing about the events of Bengali Language Movement, nationalism, political and economical repression and struggle against West Pakistan Government.
Early Life and Career
He was born in Morail Village, Brahmanbaria District, Bangladesh. Mahmud started his career as a journalist. He came into recognition after Lok Lokantor was published in ... more »
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Al Mahmud Poems
By Your Hand
I wish I ate the ancient koi of Kurulia fried especially by your own hand. I wish sitting like a crow in the veranda of Munsi House I enjoyed your scrubbing.
How far Man has advanced! Hypnotised by ceaseless shower I am sitting on my own heels even today.
In the Valley of Dreams
Once we went on a journey through a dense opaque fog. Suddenly our path became illuminated by the flash of light in horizon.
Last night Death drove its hand into my room. Through the gap of window that long hand, like the feeling-power of a blind man, advanced a bit towards my bed.
Poetry Such As
Poetry is nothing but the memory of adolescence; The melancholic face of my mother often remembered by me; Poetry, the yellow bird sitting alone on a bough of Nim tree;
The Shame of Return
To catch the last train I reached the station running. I noticed the signal of blue light on. The train, like Despair, suddenly left the station playing on its cruel whistle.
People call me fugitive my heart aches . Still I want to be a fierce salmon-trout into the tank of life. Where will I flee when every night I feel my beloved wife's breath on my face and eyes?
Bent on the Ground
It's not mere turning off but keeping the genius of eyes closed from the attack of sight bent on the ground. Eyes touch severely the edge of deadly blood.
The Foam of Wind
Nothing lasts, behold. Behold how the leaves, the flowers, the old villagers, the pose of rivers' dancing, the brazen pitchers and the fire of hookah
The Sound of Bathing
I don't know how I, at this midnight, have become two eyes having all my existence within me, as if they were a pair of twin bees sitting abreast on the tepid flesh.
Partition of Heritage
Why don't forget if you can? Forget our walking nights accompanied by the Moon. Forget the dewy grasses in the Niaz field.
In the New Year
The smell of rice hurts my nostril. As soon as I get back my conscience, I notice all the doors closed. When I dare open them all, the capitalists frown at me addressing as blind.
In this Fascination
Wandering over the whole world, I come back for you to knock at your door . For you I defeat the maddened sword of poverty.
Comes More Not
Keeping the stone of Paharpur on the left , crossing the canal if anyone approaches the moat, never he comes back --- you knew it well, nevertheless why did you allow him to enter the heart of the hut?
Comments about Al Mahmud
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
By Your Hand
I wish I ate the ancient koi of Kurulia
fried especially by your own hand.
I wish sitting like a crow in the veranda of Munsi House
I enjoyed your scrubbing.
Would you say then, 'Who the bull there?'
Nobody realises more than me
the beauty of waves of your black hair
broken down on back.
Yet you waiving your hands
showed me the way to the city.
[Translated by Sayeed Abubakar from Sonali Kabin]
Translator's not: Koi: A kind of fish