Quazi Johirul Islam
THIRST
Every morning, we go walking in Cunningham Park.There’s a one-mile walking loop embraced by green,
and circling it,
we return home having walked nearly three miles.
On days when I’m late getting ready,
my wife sets out ahead of me.
Entering the park, I walk the loop in reverse.
Soon, I see her radiant face
emerging from the frame of lush trees—
each time, I’m overwhelmed
as if witnessing the sunrise over the ocean for the first time.
If, on some day, I leave earlier,
my wife, ever punctual,
walks the loop in regular order.
That day, we don’t meet.
And my thirsty eyes compose a poem
of unfulfilled longing
on the running track of Cunningham Park.
When everyone walks in the same direction,
they never collide—
neither do they exchange the warmth of hearts.
We must walk in opposite directions in a circle,
beginning the journey
with our backs to each other.
Every journey is, in essence,
a circle or series of circles.
Walking in reverse
brings us face-to-face again and again.
It is thirst that draws a person to the water’s edge—
in truth, thirst creates the water itself.
A thirsty soul finds water even in the desert,
but one without thirst, even sitting by the sea,
feels nothing of the water’s roar.
It is the thirst that pulls me to the opposite path.
THE CHILDREN OF THE FEET
Every day, paths emerge from my feet,
Roads, highways,
Winding trails and crooked dirt paths
Between my toes, inside my nails,
Hidden secretly are thousands of path eggs.
The rough sole tickles with anticipation,
"Let the path eggs hatch."
When feet tread through dust, mud, misty waters,
Thousands of path eggs hatch in clusters,
As if swiftly
Corn kernels are popping in the heat of the sand.
So many children of the feet run in all directions,
From their bellies emerge even more
Bright branches of paths,
grandchildren of feet, blind alleys...
Some descend into the ocean's depths
With a thirst for eternal dreams,
Some spread wings in the sky...
A few very silently and alone
Build ladders of fortune,
Many collapse in the darkness,
Falling into millennia-old,
foul-smelling rotten sewers.
SHADOW-THOUGHTS
Childhood dreams are like morning shadows—long, lingering…
In youth, shadows slip into the body,
and in the heat of noon,
the body burns with the weight of reality.
The helpless gaze of old age
Casts lengthening shadows in the fading afternoon.
Evening—
a sharpened blade,
slicing through the bright ribbons of light.
A night torn by light,
Shadowless, formless, a vast bed of emptiness.
FOOTSTEPS
I hear a sound—
As if someone's footsteps are breaking the spine of the road.
Something stirs somewhere—
With closed eyes,
I count the marks left behind.
Who walks there?
Are they departing,
or is some unknown soul from afar
Coming toward me?
The sounds are bursting through the air on every side.
Why do I tremble?
Is a great soul approaching,
Riding a stream of light?
Up and down
An ocean of light flowing from sky to earth.
Is it Tagore, or Al-Biruni?
Is someone tracing a new path
Upon the footprints of Jesus, Moses, or Mohammed?
For I can hear the sound of those sacred steps.
There, he comes—
The noble sage of a new dawn.
THE TALE OF THE APPLE
Born from a ripe apple seed.
Even today, in juicy illusions and ancient tales,
The tech-advanced man
Weeps out his thirst, drowning his yearning heart.
In forests, in bark-wrapped civilisations,
And even now,
In this youth of modern era,
The contemplation of the apple continues ceaselessly.
The shadow of the apple tree grows shorter,
Leaning in the prostration of twilight’s aging hour,
Sons of Eve stoop beneath the vineyard's shade.
The yellow birds of Maghrib returning home
Sip away the grape’s nectar.
With dry grapes in their mouths,
Toothless tiger-lives
Ruminate on the days of the apple.
SUBWAY STATION
Midnight, tossing and turning.
The bed held captive by insomnia.
Inside my ears, echoes of the late afternoon subway station—
crowds, noise, commotion,
the restless urgency of homebound people.
Amid the thrill of thundering drums,
four Haitian youths leap in acrobatic flair,
a circle of curious elders and new immigrants watches closely.
A little distance away, a Chinese child
plays a piano, a black hat flipped upside down on the station floor;
the hunter’s eyes of the child swiftly scan the escalator’s gaze.
On his fingers ripple the waves of Beethoven.
Two escalators compete in speed, pulling forth an endless stream of people
from the belly of the station—
never seeming to end.
But we know,
even the colourful ribbon a magician pulls
from a person’s mouth ends eventually;
Only Dushasana never understood the secret of why Draupadi’s Saree never came to an end.
The Seven Train halts on the platform with the fury of a red X mark,
its plump Guyanese driver blares the horn for no reason,
and insomnia surges a little more.
I can't board this train—
it won’t stop at Seventy-Four station,
I have to wait for the green O marked local one.
How strange!
I’ve boarded the F Train
crossing the Seven Train platform quite sometimes now!
Who brought me to this Grand Central Station
to place me on the Seven Train?
Who? Who? Who is doing all this?
SUBCONSCIOUS OR NAMELESS
Ancient mountains, whatever name etched upon them, Nilgiri,Himalayas, Alps, or the towering Aconcagua of the south,
Are essentially silent trees;
Their rocky roots flow like twisted ropes
Into the earth's belly.
And they travel continuously within the earth,
Embracing each other.
These countless names of mountains belong only to the peaks;
People named the chest that holds the peak,
The waist bone that shields the chest might also have a name.
Standing upon countless roots,
Embedded deep in this vast earth;
Do you know their names?
Does anyone know?
When all are one, can there be a name?
Have you seen our roots?
They are planted
In
