Author Archives: Sid

About Sid

Abu Siddik is an Assistant Professor in English in Plassey College, Nadia,West Bengal. He is a bilingual author, editor, critic, poet, and storyteller and has been published in India and abroad. His short fictions and poems appeared in Muse India, Indian Ruminations, Setu Bilingual, spillwords.com, mercurialstories.com, GloMag, induswomanwriting.com, and in anthologies, Serious and Hilarious, Cherry Toppings, Rise to Higher Essence. He has three books— Representation of the Marginalized in Indian Writings in English (Falakata College Cell, 2015). Misfit Parents in Faulkner’s Select Texts (Authorspress, 2015), Banglar Musolman (Sopan, 2018). For more please visit him at www.abusiddik.com

It Is Dead Of Night

It is dead of night and

Blocks begin to de-light!

A fleeting relief!

Same corner, same table,

Same talks, same laughs.

Same men, same women.

Same girls, same boys.

Same streets, same malls,

Same faces, same thanks.

Same blares, same demands,

Same crowds, same yells.

Same poets, same readings,

Same followers, same clamours.

Same leaders, same promises,

Same butchers, same goats, same pigs.

Same alleys, same women,

Same bargains, same bliss.

A dog barks, a child cries,

Bats screech, winds howl.

Why Do I Speak?

I have a sweet home,

A loved wife, celestial children,

Nice neighbours,

And a fine job,

So why do I speak?

I have the warmth of the sun

Coolness of the moon,

Bliss of night, embrace of the hills,

Seas and the skies,

So why do I speak?

Buddha, Krishna, Jesus, Yahweh, Nanak,

Muhammad and other prophets —all have spoken

For light and kindle seas of masses

What else is left to speak now?

I’m a great commoner

Happy with home and hearth,

Who am I to speak against wrongs,

 Ills, and wounds?

Moreover, I’m apolitical poet

I worship nature and its immaculate beauty,

Children and farmers, workers and flowers,

Drink fine arts and crafts by indigenous wo/men,

And I’m happy!

So why do I speak against civilized ills, wounds, and wrongs?

Nothing Can Be Done

What can a poet do in perils?

I have full faith in our guiding statement

‘Nothing can be done.’

 I can speak through my metaphors

And irony may wind my sails

And I know my words make nothing happen.

So what can be done?

‘Nothing,’ they say.

But can’t a song be sung?

Cannot a voice, be it ineffectual, be voiced?

My wings may be broken,

Or I may be caged,

Still I sing.

Friends!

More I be burnt,

More mastery I have with my lyre.

On a Sunday Haat

O

On a Sunday haat

I’ve seen a girl

Sixteen or so,

Selling vegetables,

With a wow child on her lap,

Scrambling for breasts.  

The girl dithers,

And fears the male eyes,

They aren’t her suitors,

All busy gentle clients,

Time is money,

And not a minute more they spare.

So what’s the choice?

Some faces are known,

And many strange,

A festival day she calculates,

And looks sideways,

 And tears asunder the door of subsistence.

Beginning days were hard,

She was shy, and timid,

And knew not the ways of the bazaar,           

Day by day,

She counts coins,

And becomes bold.

So she wars with the lusty gazes,

 And thumps her baby

Under her sari,

And the child gropes and scrabbles

And sucks her mother,

And she flashes.

I Ask You Friends

I ask you friends,

Am I to touch the feet of the tyrants?

Or demolish their white towers?

Am I to kill the killers?

Or forgive them in tears?

Am I to swallow the sweet pills?

Or resist the orators?

Am I to raise my voice against the ills?

Or be a mute spectator and carry the wounds?

Am I to support the traitors of my people?

Or smash their wings to the ground?

Am I to witness to a hauling of a girl by wolves?

Or cut their secret things and fling them to dust?