About Md. Ziaul Haque

Md. Ziaul Haque is a 'poem-eater', literally! His heart leaps in ecstasy when he starts writing poems. Notably, he has dared to coin a new term i.e. 'Poe'ten'ry' (poems of ten lines) and the readers will come across the fact that each of his poems contains 'ten' lines. He 'shall' carry on writing poems so long as his 'time' makes its presence felt! At present, he has been working as a Senior Lecturer in English at Sylhet International University, Sylhet, Bangladesh. Md. Ziaul Haque can be reached at: mdziaulhaque708@gmail.com

Work: The Noun that Verbs the World!

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Work, a duty, one’s accustomed means of livelihood,
Devoid of it, everything seems to be lifeless,
When done for others, amplifies the sense of brotherhood,
A gift, teaching us to get rid of slowness.

“Work is love made visible”, so uttered Kahlil Gibran,
Warning us not to devalue ‘work’ of any sort, but adore,
The very precision will drench us with the ray of heavenly sun,
Move heaven and earth and chase those yearning for more.

It is work alone that is verbing the world, indeed,
A core literally seizing both the plant and the seed.

The Fugitive Cloud

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It’s been long since we talked to the cloud,
You asking me on its whereabouts,
I, in vain, started crying aloud,
Time and again, no trace, the mind, contracts.

Please! We beg thee to surface straight away,
And lessen the famine of psyche,
We know, for sure, you’ll call our waiting a day,
Stop being a raucous escapee.

Why not? You ‘can’ emerge out of the blue,
We, on earth, are beseeching for the least clue.

‘S’ Desire

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Beauty of yours doesn’t let me lie,
Breathtaking eyes seem to be galloping,
No sense of premonition, even when to die,
To feel your lips with mine, yearning.

No matter what come may,
True lovers shan’t draw back,
But display courage to, everything, say,
The infrequent valor that others lack.

The aroma of yours making me feel numb,
An airborne message to embrace, you, being dumb.

The Thought Police

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We can’t ceaselessly reckon what we yearn for,
The gargantuan norms creating constraints, shadowy,
And distressing innate form of judgment,
Slaying the blossoming ideas by shutting the door.

This is unerringly what the ‘Thought Police’ is good at,
But, at times, drawback envelopes him,
The out of the ordinary beings penetrate,
Pronouncing war and making their existence felt.

Agreed! The Thought Police is meant to perish,
Let’s keep the helms of ideas going, yield not to anguish!

Roster

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Thou shalt perform your roster,
Being salient, not grimy,
Inundated with sense of duty,
Belonging to a master.

Roster, to some, is folded with monotony,
Teacher shouts, students devoid of interest,
The lecture, albeit, is the best,
He wishes if he could get extra money.

Aura of freedom reigns as the class is set to finish,
The very feeling lends their boredom a hand to diminish.

Tagore’s ‘Short Story’ Redefined

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Tiny caliber, petty agony, a few words of grief,
Elegant and lucid indeed,
Myriad of oblivious parts floating away on a daily basis,
A few fragments of those are in need.

Neither the vivid touch nor the opulence of incidents,
Devoid of data as well as precept,
Soul, left with unquenchable thirst, hitherto yearns to conclude,
Seems finished, not so entirely yet!

Short story is not, in essence, miniature,
Resplendent with the titanic yarn of human nature.

Success: The Dream of ‘Heaven’ on Earth

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All and sundry, making headway,
Endeavouring to lay a hand on success,
Save for, success, akin to air, cannot be clasped,
Can merely immerse in its ray.

Pessoptimism, stanchly, coerces its helm,
Seeing as Man proposes, God disposes,
Hitherto, ‘time’ mends the lesions,
Ins and outs of its realm.

The dreamers ‘shall’, indeed, taste success,
Squashing the negativity, mendacity and faithlessness.

Life of Grass

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Albeit grass, to a handful, surfaces vain,
The very being of it,
Mounting ubiquitously, reminding of equivalence,
Endures incessant pain.

Dedicates altruistically, as victuals, to others,
None, wryly, cares whatsoever,
We, at times, laze on the carpet, natural,
Tumult of exuberance, through its vein, runs.

To be found at a pose, shoddier,
Fixing eyes on the heavens, forever.

Give Me a Sky to Fly!

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Give me a sky to fly!
With clouds being a home afloat,
Where, can I, ponder and sigh,
Travel freely as if on a solitary boat.

Ears o’ mine receiving messages heavenly,
The birds, translating resonance from the wind,
Shower bliss with utter ecstasy,
Beckon, the Creator, for being thus kind.

Yearning to tap the horizon afar,
Once, I, who knows! may draw closer.