Writing is a never-ending journey

In my school geography textbook, I was introduced to 'the country where the sun rises at midnight'. That was my first introduction to the countries of the North: to Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Finland.

My second introduction to Finland was as an example of the welfare state as well as the country where the Nokia mobile brand had its home. I am not fond of mobile technology. However, Nokia became my favourite brand.

I will admit that I fight against the dilemma in my mind as to whether I might have avoided the use of mobile phones. This is an on-going battle that never seems to end. It is a time-consuming battle, I have to admit.

But let me put forward a question. Why do I write?

I write because I want to expose the truth. Every human being leads three separate lives in one: a private, a public and a secret life. Even in the secret version of life, the mind silently fights against the devil.

Writing is to see. A writer sees life. Writing is a love letter to contemporary time. Poetry is a secret job. Poetry is an everyday habit – it is part of your everyday life. A sensible human being lives her/his life in solitude. This solitude forces you to dig into your inner self – your mind. Your mind becomes or is a mine to be dug into.

Writing is the loneliest of jobs. It gives you your most blissful moments, it gives you a refined pain. I sometimes wish I could draw pictures and sing. But I do not have those talents or orientations. I do remember, in my childhood I used to sleep with my father when I could not fall asleep. He would sing songs out loud, defying the silence of the night in that very calm and peaceful village we grew up in. I managed to sleep. Recollecting those days, I wonder why I have not inherited any of those qualities from my father. But that is a different issue.

Poetry is a matter of habit. A human being must pass through as well as survive in love, nature and politics. Some try to keep a distance from politics. Such silence is also a kind of politics. In society, in a land where poetry is absent, truth cannot exist. Poets are crows in a city. Making 'Kaa kaa' sounds, the crows announce the coming of dawn. So do poets and poetry.

If we have not forgotten it, Plato banished poets from his imaginary state. He thought that poets did not constitute any class in society. But for a functional state, class division is a must. A poet believes in equality and dignity. However, we lead our lives in unkind divisions. Because of this, some of us are black, some are white, some are Hindu, Buddhists, Muslims, Christian, European, non-European and so on.

Ah! We forget that we all are human beings, indeed. The role of poetry is to hinder our forgetting this, to stand for truth, beauty and life. The job of a poet is not to run away from life, not any part of it.  A poet celebrates life, leads a life and celebrates truth and beauty as well. A poet utters the words of courage in crisis and danger. The poet who fails to do so undermines himself or herself. He or she loses his or her self-respect.

I represent the language and the land of the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1913. Bengali is my language, Bangladesh is my country. I now belong to two countries: Bangladesh and Sweden. Rabindranath is my second passport.

Poets are the guardians of language. Without living literature, a language cannot survive. Sanskrit and Latin are examples. Poetry is the water-flow of a language. Language is a river, literature is its water. If you want to write in people's language, you have to go to people. You have to bear witness to their pains and pleasures. Ibsen wrote in the language of 1.5 million speakers. Today he is a writer of 5 billion people.

My poetry exposes my pleasure, my pains, deprivation, politics, revolution, surge, dilemma, my provocation and my appeal. From the very first piece of writing to the last one in life is a single volume of writing. Life is a journey. This volume is a travelogue – a travel log. What I am writing today, what I am telling you is a part of my travelogue.

A poet lives in strange times. He exists in his exiled mind. Who is not in exile, no matter whether you are in your homeland or in another land? A poet who can recognize this state of mind knows why he writes poetry. To be a poet is to celebrate the freedom of imagination. A pen and pieces of paper are the light in this celebration. Writing is the only power for a writer, he has nothing else. Out of this, a poet is a prisoner of society, of the state, and even of his family. The Bengali poet Jibanananda Das recognized it as a crisis of his sense and sensibilities. The poet Rafiq Azad said, witnessing some follies around him, "I wish I could slap those stupid people across their face. But I cannot do it. That is why I write poems and endure sleepless nights". Ibsen said, "To be a poet is a never-ending fight against the devil inside".

I have been asked to talk about my own poetry. I do not feel comfortable doing that. I do not have that courage and capacity. I am never fond of my own poetry. I do not want to carry the poetry of my mind and expose it to anyone. I want to get relief from it. I want to forget it. I do not like my poetry because I know the best of the limitation in my poetry. Nobody else knows it. How could I turn myself into something like those poems that are full of limitations, as far as I can see?

I want to dedicate more time to my pen of poetry, I want to write and re-write the poems. If I could spend night after night discussing with fellow poets or colleagues or at the desk where I write, what would be best for me? I could see what writing courses are offered by schools or universities on poetry.

Does this mean anything to the spirit of Allens Ginsberg's apartment in New York and the Poet's Circle at Beauty Boarding in Dhaka? Did I do wrong when I accepted garlands and embraced the troubles in my life, imprisoning time and being the emperor of imagination after I decided to become a poet? How does this question come to my mind again and again? Was it a mistake to decide to become a poet? No, of course, not.  Never.

If I am asked, will I choose this same life again? Absolutely. I will gladly relive and accept this same life. I will just make the best use of time by reading all the many books that I have wasted in not reading. I will be more dedicated to the making of imagery in poetry and acquiring knowledge of advanced rhyme and rhetoric.

Despite being a prisoner of sense and conscience in your prison, I will sing my song of truth, beauty and life in my own poetry. I am afraid whether my poetry can make such sense. My poems may be nothing. In fact, I am quite sure. But I just continue writing, I cannot stop. I have dedicated myself to writing poetry — day after day, month after month and year after year. I have learnt one crucial thing: that to be a writer is to read, to never stop reading, to write, to never stop writing. This is my never-ending journey.