Biography
Manik Chakraborty was born in 1966 in Hat Uttar Sreepur village of Fulgazi Puran Munsi in Feni district of Bangladesh. He wrote with chalk in 1979. The first newspaper was edited by Tarun Kanth. The first organization was the Kamal Sahitya Sangsad, which collected money from the school’s tiffin
Manik Chakraborty is regularly writing and publishing articles in popular magazines of different countries including Europe, America, Iran, Egypt, Turkey, Iraq, Albania, Greece, Lebanon, Vietnam, and outside the country.
Apart from that, he received hundreds of awards from Europe, Middle East Asia and other countries.
Manik Chakraborty is managing four international magazines. 1) bunsare 2) Sovurnno 3) Jhumkolata 4) Sarno lata. Serving as the founder president of two organizations. Manik Chakraborty mainly writes on nature. Acclaimed as a successful rhymer publisher and organizer at home and abroad
Broken heart is dry land
Broken heart is dry land
Burning in the fire of hatred,
In tears, the cuckoo calls
Palash Shimul Fagun.
In the sweet flowers soaked in rain
The smell has disappeared,
In the sweet melody, the rhythm of the beloved’s Nupur no longer plays.
In the deep night, the night’s shadow
Burns with pride,,
Finding a dream that has lost its nest
Going on a boring path
Baishakh noon
Shapla pond
The eagle flies away,
Black black
Cloud children
Wander around in tangles.
On the boat’s sail
To the rhythm of the wind
The water
Is splashing
In the grass
The grass
The grass
Is shaking
The hundred
Groups are shaking.
The chest is cracked
Summer sun
The crow’s chick is calling,
In the blue sky
In search of a nest
Two wings
Have joined.
Forest Sun
In the forest sun,
the smell of grass,
the intoxicating rhythm of the Boishakh wind.
The fire-burning,
the drought-ridden afternoon,
the call of the Dahuk,
the Shapla pond.
In the white clouds,
the goat’s feathers,
the village boy draws a picture
A body soaked in rain
A body soaked in rain
The eyes of the beloved,
The petals of a flower falling
The birds of the storm.
The lost gaze
The silent language,
The soul is dead
There is no hope.
In the lonely darkness
Crying and returning alone,
When and where will you go
You will see her.
In the dusty desert chest
The weary cry,
The twilight of the evening
That sad sadness.
You will come
Are you arrogant?
Come and see for yourself.
I am waiting with the window of Jochna open.
I have written a letter to the clouds,
you will come.
Spreading the wings of whiteness in the folds of white feathers,
smeared with flower pollen,
like a blue fairy,
you will come.
The gray twilight of the sky will touch the sad heart,
two innocent eyes
It will be filled with water,
lonely life
for you
maybe
will rise again.
You will come, so
you will come.