Best poems of Asim Saha

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Bangladesh witnessed the worst carnage of recent history in We were forced to wage a war of resistance that soon turned into a liberation war. Many of us had perished before victory came, and the whole country was left in an immense pool of blood.

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Flowers do not bloom on such a landscape; one does not expect to reap a harvest of carnations in a land strewn with bones. But the krishnachuras of hope germinated even in those darkest of days. The poetry of the post-war period recorded the traumas and travails of the time most graphically as it also celebrated the hopes of a nation emerging from them.

In the light of what happened in , the post Bangladeshi literature can be called an orchestration of the notes of pain and lamentation: The poets recorded their agonized feelings about death and destruction experienced during the war in a keenly emotive language. The 'war-poetry' of Wilfred Owen, Sigfried Sassoon and others marked a definite genre in the post-First-War English poetry; a similar appellation might be appropriate for the body of poems written during, and after, the Bangladesh War of Liberation.

These poems form a well-defined and easily distinguishable corpus, nothing like which will ever be produced again. Time has encapsulated and enshrined them in itself and, we surmise, will preserve them for eons, when this generation of ours will be swept away by oblivion and death.


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Emanating as they did from the deepest core of our national psyche, they will always be revered as the authentic recordings of our poets' sincerest feelings in the most trying of circumstances. Gone are those days of glory; the poets who had written them have aged; some have already crossed into that country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

We can only read and re-read their verses, and try to re-live their experiences and emotions, well-nigh impossible though the latter task may be. After the horrifying massacre at midnight of the 25th of March, , people streamed out of the city of Dhaka: This exodus, like all other exoduses in history, was full of tragic anecdotes, beset with tears and travails. Shahid Quadri's poem captures a snapshot from that enormous canvas of tragic waste:. By the side of the heaps of rubbles at the road-crossing, in the light of dawn, I saw Bangladesh lying like a broken violin.

And that young lad, who had grown up with the wish that he would play it the way he wants, is lying beside it, donning his blood-soaked shirt. The vibrant image of 'the broken violin' speaks for the expressive might of Quadri's poetic language. A city-dweller and city-lover, Shaid Quadri resolves against leaving his milieu, come what may Everyone will go away leaving the city behind And they are leaving, in throngs. But we, a few of us, will stay here till death, touching this heap of rubbles, in our native land, amidst the corpses of our dear ones.

Every day every night at dawn and in the evening in this suffocating blackout in the curfew-ridden city our livers are torn away, eyes scooped out-- Bayonets pierce the Bangali's rebellious heart. The following excerpts from Ahsan Habib's poem 'Search' depict the pall of darkness, of doom, that covered the sky of Bangladesh at that cataclysmic time:.

The heavy hands now search the loins. No, nothing is there. The above-quoted poems belong to the category of generalised depiction of the war scenario and were written by poets who did not actively participate in the war but whose hearts were bloodied by the sufferings of the millions around them. The best among these poems is Shamsur Rahman's famous 'In order to get you, O Freedom', which he wrote in the besieged city of Dhaka and, reportedly, smuggled across the border.

What makes the poem a startling specimen of our 'muktijuddho' poetry is its synthesis of despair and hope, death and rebirth, a sense of total annihilation and an undying belief in the indomitableness of the human spirit.

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Freedom in this poem is not just a vague concept; it is as palpable as the scenes of carnage that it entailed. And above everything the poem is aglow with hope as it begins and ends with an insistent demand, 'Tomake Ashtei hobe he Shadhinata: Come you must, O Freedom', because In order that you would come, O freedom, Sakhina Bibi's lot has become a wreck; the vermilion mark is wiped out from the forehead of Haridasi.

In order that you would come, O Freedom, Olive-coloured tanks rolled into the city bellowing like a monster; In order that you would come. O Freedom, Dormitories and slums were laid waste With a burning declaration reverberating from one end of the globe to the other, flying a new flag, filling the horizon with the sound of a drum in this Bengal of ours, you must come, O Freedom.