Life, Dreams and Reality -- Sohel's Blog

No One By Mahbubul Karim (Sohel) September 27, 2009 He built the largest building Pyramid of concrete and granite Middle of envious kryptonite No limit and no holding She traveled the world in eighty days And nights like Jules Verne’s story Getting love, endless glory Her passion weathers rebuke, dismays The group of four astronauts Gone and returned from landing moon Walking the vast empty space swoon Conspicuously bail outs Lifted their souls from purgatory Of economic depression Right into wilful oppression Hell fire in Friedmanite gory No one was spared from judgement Of threshing laughter and jeer Economics voodoo’s clear Acceptance, sheer fraudulent No one spared! No one dared To croak words Of sanguine flare Market goes up Market goes down The gloomiest clown Drowned in speculative burp

This article published in the New Scientist this week is engaging. I have not read any of the writings by Kim Stanley Robinson before. The Guardian writes that "Kim Stanley Robinson, one of the greatest science fiction authors writing today", therefore giving the writer's name a respectable meaning to me. Robinson attached the Booker Prize juries for not selecting any science fiction novels, and especially this year, when five short listed novels are all historical fiction. Here is a snippet of Robinson's argument from this article, "This is important, because you need the literature of your time. You can't get the meaning of our life in 2009 from historical fiction, nor from science alone. Novels serve us, and are treasured, because we want meaning, and fiction is where meaning is created. Scientifically minded people could perhaps conceptualise novels as case studies or thought experiments, both finer grained and wider ranging in their approach to meaning

Reflection on Harmonium – a Prose Poem By Mahbubul Karim (Sohel) September 12, 2009 Once it used to be the lifeblood of a musical lore. Once it used to lighten up the room with impeccable tune playing the auditory dance with a classical voice of a singer. Pumping the below in one hand, and the other to play the plastic covered black and white keys, harmonium player raced the musical field like a man in a battle. Striking the keys with force, pulling and pushing the below with vigour, matching the tabla player’s fierce tempo in bayan while leading the singer’s vocal to crescendo perfecto. Now as it lies abandoned, replaced by glittery synthesizers and digital gizmo, harmonium’s last breath extends: not giving up! Not giving up! Unlike its brethren accordion, you don’t have to strap it on your chest. Unlike the cousin violin, you don’t have to place it on your shoulder. No bow is needed. No feet pump is required. Harmonium, the maestro, sits in a forgotten corner of locked up clos

Classroom By Mahbubul Karim (Sohel) September 12, 2009 A rainy and cold morning Of waning summer. Boys and girls Wearing the blue sky uniforms Reading the poetry of Tagore. The classroom looks serene. In the blackboard Imprint of white chalks Measuring the rhymes and similes Dissected stanza’s rustic glamour. The teacher with neatly parted receding hair And large spectacle hanging from nose Is pacing from one corner to another Reciting the pleasing poem in soothing voice. The boys and girls are following the teacher Each word, each pause and tribulation Bouncing off the rhythmic lyric Shouting and murmuring the opening words: “It’s the morning! Open the Door!” (Bhor Holo! Dor Kholo!) A rainy and cold morning Of waning summer. Boys and girls Wearing the blue sky uniforms Reading the poetry of Tagore. Dedicated to the Bangla and English literature teachers of University Laboratory School at Dhaka. Inspired by poem Memory

Slippery, Silvery Fish By Mahbubul Karim (Sohel) September 11, 2009 I had no sense of dying I had no sense of the God divine Or the screechy scream of a slaughtered Negated swine Water was filling up my lungs Was I wheezing? Coughing? Can one cough while drowning? Silvery fish were swimming by, But the river, down there Cold and shady Impish bungs A boy of year two Even death seemed an escapade My flailing fingers grasping thru Water charade The swarming fish Slippery as they were Sinking as I was In the depth of that murky swish Of waves looked jovial While water filling up my lungs Twirled tongue, not trivial I looked up Splintered rays from heaven Slicing the shadow of a dingy boat No stethoscope, no white coat Someone grabbed my shoulder The right one, Trembled, deaden And pulled me up There I was On the boat In cradle of patriarch Beside sobbing matriarch Coughing and wheezing All the rive