Tareq Samin is a Bangladeshi Author. Born in Tangail, in 1977.He writers in Bengali Language. His first book ‘The Lost Poet’ is a collection of 49 poems. His second book ‘Nonviolent Revolutionaries’ is a collection of 14 Short Stories. His Third book is a Novel ‘Shahrin-Suja’.
In personal life he is an Information Technology businessman. He was a serious bookworm from his early teenage.His first poem published in 1993. From 1997 to 2014 he did not write at all. His first book “The lost poet” has this grief of staying out of writing for 17 years. He came back as an author in2015.
Nature, Love, spirituality and human values are his writings main subjects.
His hobbies are reading, writing and traveling.
Author website: www.tareqsamin.com/welcome
Twirl of civilization
One hundred years ago,
To promote the message of socialist equality
That young man was killed in police firing;
Hundred years later after his rebirth
For people’s right of religion and freedom of expression
He was hanged till death by the communist.
Thousand years ago the spiritual man
who lighten the dark society
by the teachings of great religions
On that day, his beheaded head, scarred body
Was found for talking against religious extremist.
The young man who ignored the bitter cold
of the Himalayas
spends twenty years in meditation,
His body was found yesterday
Due to modernization of thoughts.
The young women who was a decade in prison
Was shot for free thinking at her last life.
Because of inhuman’s
Socialism becomes dictatorial system,
Looting became a democratic system
Dishonesty becomes religion,
Freedom of speech is used to spread hatred
Everything because of power greedy people.
Those who gave their lives for the noble ideology
They are all great man, dignified.
Monopolization of their ideology, selling their name
greedy politicians take advantage from it.
Thus, the good from the evil, evil from the good
Turn around in the world continued
civilized became savage due to prejudice and ignorance.
Death could not lose you
You are still alive in your writing,
Every death is separation and bereavement
But the death of author to readers
more than anything.
Your pen is silent in your death
The birth of each word is end now
You may not understand the pain of readers
So may not write it.
your death just not put us in sorrow,
Continue muted us.
You will not write!
Such a pain
What could be more for the reader!
Death could not lose you
Your creation is still alive.
In memory of Poet Allen Ginsberg
Beside the ‘Jessoreroad’ under the trees
Broken camp; humans covered with polythene,
Thin naked body, hollow eyes
Near Bangaon border in September’ 1971.
Allen Ginsberg angered in grieves;
insulting his almighty government
He wrote the immortal poem, “September on Jessore Road”.
Millions of East Pakistani refugees
Mourning, anguish and tremble of grief
afraid of torture , inhuman horror of war.
Hyena-like Kissinger-Bhutto’s atrocities
Yahya’s bayonet-bullet-bombs and bloody wounds
Howl of Bengal, silent in Western world.
Allen Ginsberg seen in small scale
Yet the poet’s heart has felt countless
Sorrows of Human-soul.
‘Why not you draw my picture?’
suddenly she said.
A girl of twenty,
depth of forest in her face
eyes are blue lagoons
lips are as soft as lotus.
thick black hair like a shiny river,
many monks lost their way at her neck.
breast are like volcano
eruption is underway.
beside the curvy Silk-Road
undulating desert parks her hip,
a spring beneath the mountain deep.
No other artist could be
canvas painted something different.
Yet she made me
painted her picture