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The Sagacious Woody

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Behold! The old beardy hunches over his pot – He licks up, in broad daylight, his damp woods stewed hot! He shakes his head, keeps muttering hymns like a mage – From his ways, you would think he’s no less than a sage! Blabbers all day long – you’d wonder from where they stem – “The sky’s full of cobwebs, so woods have holes in them.” He raises his bald head and beads of sweat run down, “Nobody can fathom its gravity –” he’d frown, “These foolish dunderheads, to such matters purblind, Don’t seem to take in – always wrangling in their mind. Which wood has more essence – blind to facts such simple – Why on eleventh lunar days, woods get dimple.” Scribbled around all o’er, in fact, is his account Of cracked woods and notched woods – he loses not a count! Which hole tastes delicious, and which hole’s insipid, Which crack gives off fragrance, and which one smells horrid. Clunk! Clank! Clackety-rattle! He knocks wood with wood, And says, “I know which wood in what way gets subdued. Paying a
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A Spooky Spectacle

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The night before the last night, I caught a glance in plain sight – The live child o’ the Phantom wild – playing in the full moon night! Playing on its mother’s lap, giggling with all its glamour, With a joyous glee, delightedly, frolicking with clamour! Heard its mom’s cheeky chuckle, as she held it in the air, taut, Checking how swift and spry was the ghostling she begot. What a haunting laughter! At lightning speed their sound runs, Their screams are so shrill and sharp, they'd saw through woods at once! She punches it, twists its ears and does what not to the kid  – Out of love, she gives it a blow, in the air it hangs morbid. She calls it, "Come here, my filthy-faced skinny little ghoul  – Turn around and show me your smiley face like the barn owl!" My muddled monkey, cuddled gulpy, an ugly impish beauty, From a dingy forest, a stinky civet, my nitwit cutie! O my rain of hot summer days, you sunlit sleet and ice  –      You're as sweet as the mortar-ground and ca
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Looney Cow

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Looney cow isn’t quite a cow – in fact, it’s a bird, See her in Haru’s office, I give you my word. An elegant profile, with eyes a droopy pair, Well groomed, well trimmed in flair, has a neatly combed hair. Curled up horns like ‘threes’*, and a twisted spiral tail – Touch her once, she yells out loud – like she has an ail! Rickety-rackety rattles up then her bony frame, Scold her vile, she falls in a pile, startled in shame. No poetries are enough, nor is any scripture  To describe her beauty – just look at her picture. Looney cow pants hard, when slants to a wall, Of whimsies unknown, she often begins to bawl. Sometimes charges forward, gets enraged now and then; Topples down as jaws get locked, which occurs quite often. Doesn’t seem to eat grasses, hay or a grain of wheat, Eats neither bread nor seeds, she shows no taste for sweet. Has distaste for meat and desserts – wait, don’t yet mope, She eats nothing else but candles and soup of soap. Feed her anything el
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Jollyfied

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Look we’re laughing, look at us – we laugh with jolly, We bunch of three scrunch and laugh in toothless folly! I laugh, laughs my elder bro, laughs too my younger. None’s sure why we laugh, of laughing we have hunger. I wonder why I laugh, I’d rather stay without it – But we – giggle with glee – just on thinking about it! Feel like laughing when eyes are open or as I close, Even if pinched, or when I stick a finger up my nose. Makes me laugh the crescent moon, weaver’s loom, oars of the boatman, Boats, balloons, beetles, baboons, the trains or the oil can! As we learn our A-B-C, soon we burst into laughter – Our tummy fizzles like soda bubbles thereafter! (Bengali original: Ahladi) Translated by Arkajyoti Banerjee আহ্লাদী  হাসছি মোরা হাসছি দেখ, হাসছি মোরা আহ্লাদী, তিনজনেতে জট্‌লা করে ফোক্‌লা হাসির পাল্লা দি৷ হাসতে হাসতে আসছে দাদা আসছি আমি আসছে ভাই, হাসছি কেন কেউ জানে না, পাচ্ছে হাসি হাসছি তাই৷ ভাবছি মনে, হাসছি কেন ? থাকব হাসি ত্যাগ ক'রে, ভাব
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Horrible Harmony

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Comes the summer, we hear the hummer,  Vishmalochan Sharma – The daunting song is haunting long from Delhi down to Burma. With dogged might, sings day and night, he doesn't seem to tire; The people are muddled, in a chaos befuddled – all run haywire. Helter-skelter all around, the people fidget and bleed, “We soon gonna die,” the people sigh, “STOP YOUR SONG,” they plead. Hustle-bustle astray cattle turn turtle by the roadside, Vishmalochan , indifferent, sings hell-bent with all his pride. Strong are the waves – no one saves the animals which turn turtle; Look and hark! The madman stark – curses aloud the hurtle. Fishes, so surprising, at tranquil, are not rising to the top, While the trees are not at ease, a whole family roots drop. Poor bird in flapping flight, swings in fright, in mid-sky flies sickly, People urge, on death’s verge, “We will die – Stop singing quickly!” What a blunder! The skies thunder – while the mansions crack; Vishmalochan merry, sings al
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Shack of the Hag

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With a huffed mouth full of puffed rice – smiling, The old hag lives in a shakey shack piling. Inky-stinky mats, kinky-curly hair, Hunch on the back and a bunch o' dusty glare. Gum betwixt walls, affixed by needles of knit— Sewed up house with threads, glued up with her spit. Lean on the wall, the house might fall and crash;  Cough with a rack — shakes up the shack in a flash! ‘Squonk’ calls the hawker, and ‘honk’ goes the cart— Framework trembles, ’n’ house dissembles apart! Inclined are the rooms, you'll find ’em empty, As you sweep, chunks of wood heap in plenty. Pours down the sky, hangs down then her drenched dome, With sticks the crone, sticks up alone her home.  All day repair, with extra care and knack— Rickety old hag and her ramshackle shack. (Bengali original: Burir Bari) Translated by Arkajyoti Banerjee বুড়ীর বাড়ী (Burir Bari) গালভরা হাসিমুখে চালভাজা মুড়ি, ঝুরঝুরে প'ড়ো ঘরে থুর্‌থুরে বুড়ী ৷ কাঁথাভরা ঝুলকালি, মাথাভরা ধুলো, মিট্‌মিটে ঘো
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The Tickling Old Man

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Across the seven seas, go wherever you like you can,  But beware! Never ever approach the tickling old man. A terrible old man – dare not step into his hut – He’ll tickle you on and on till rips apart your gut. No one knows where he stays, in which land so eerie, Once he finds you alone, he’ll read you out a story. So strange his tales are, God knows from which days of yore, They have not the least fun, but they’d make one feel sore. Those tales have no head or tail – total gibberish! Still it is must to laugh – that too against your wish. If it is just a story, one can still bear and endure, But he tickles you with a long feather, and that’s for sure. Keeps on blabbering, “Ho! Ho! Ho! William’s aunt Always sold pumpkins, yams, duck eggs and linseed plant. The eggs were long, the pumpkins but crooked and bent, On the yams were sketched designs in colourful paint. The aunt, in a faint voice, hummed and sang the whole day, Meow-meow, coo-coo-c
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