Taslima Nasrin

(25 August 1962 - / Mymensingh / Bangladesh)

Taslima Nasrin Poems

1. Israfiler Jor Hoyese 3/27/2012
2. Interned 3/27/2012
3. The Unrung Ring 3/27/2012
4. Some Tit-Bits Of My Life In Captivity 3/27/2012
5. Run! Run! 3/27/2012
6. Not My City 3/27/2012
7. The Safe House 3/27/2012
8. Live 3/27/2012
9. What A Country! 3/27/2012
10. Venomous 3/27/2012
11. Sans People 3/27/2012
12. My Bengal 3/27/2012
13. Self-Portrait 3/27/2012
14. Terror 3/27/2012
15. The Game In Reverse 3/27/2012
16. Mother's Story 3/27/2012
17. So Let Them Rule The World! 3/27/2012
18. We! 3/27/2012
19. Talaknama 3/27/2012
20. Noorjahan 3/27/2012
21. Time 3/27/2012
22. The Room In Which I Am Forced . . . 3/27/2012
23. Jodi Manush Na Hoy Pari, Pakhi Hoyeo Firbo Ekdin 3/27/2012
24. Mosque, Temple 3/27/2012
25. No Man's Land 3/27/2012
26. Women And Poems 3/27/2012
27. Oviman 3/27/2012
28. The Woman Breaking Bricks 3/27/2012
29. Prottyasha 3/27/2012
30. You Go Girl ! 3/27/2012
31. The Female 3/27/2012
32. Prem Korecho Koro 3/27/2012
33. Masturbation 3/27/2012
34. Things Cheaply Had 3/27/2012
35. Acquaintance 3/27/2012
36. Girl From Switzerland 3/27/2012
37. Hand 3/27/2012
38. For Some Years Now 3/27/2012
39. Granary 3/27/2012
40. Dukhoboti Ma 3/27/2012
Best Poem of Taslima Nasrin

Happy Marriage

My life, like a sandbar,
has been taken over by a monster of a man
who wants my body under his control
so that, if he wishes,
he can spit in my face,
slap me on the cheek,
pinch my rear;
so that, if he wishes,
he can rob me of the clothes,
take my naked beauty in his grip;
so that, if he wishes.
he can chain my feet,
with no qualms whatsoever whip me,
chop off my hands, my fingers,
sprinkle salt in the open wound,
throw ground-up black pepper in my eyes,
with a dagger can slash my thigh,
can string me up and hang me.

His...

Read the full of Happy Marriage

Mother's Story

1
My mother's eyes became yellowish, egg-yoke like.
Her belly swelled out rapidly like an overly full water tank
ready to burst at any moment.

No longer able to stand up, or sit down, or even move her fingers, she just lay there.
At the end of her days, she did not look like Mother any more.

Relatives appeared each morning, every evening,

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