Fragile, floating, enduring: Reading ‘Fenaphul’

I read poems often, and recently I came across a book titled Fenaphul. The cover—painted with soft blue and white watercolour splotches—immediately caught my attention. I decided to read it when I learned that it had received the Oitijjhya-Shantanu Kaiser Literary Award 2025 and was written by a young poet.

The title itself is intriguing. Fenaphul is a small flower that grows on the surface of muddy village ponds, often near homes in rural areas. The tiny plants float on water, sometimes resembling the delicate spread of a peacock’s wing. They are light and fragile, yet they never sink. Instead, they slowly multiply, and sometimes overnight, they cover the whole pond.

But why would a poet name his book after this flower? Is it linked to memories from the poet’s childhood? Does it carry the nostalgia of a lost love? Or is it simply a metaphor for nature—quiet yet persistent, fragile yet enduring?

As one reads the poems, it gradually becomes clear that ‘fenaphul’ is more than a flower. It seems to serve as a metaphor for the poet’s mind itself. Just as the small plants spread silently across a pond, memories from childhood spread across the pages of this book. Almost weightless images—fields, rivers, prayers, family, animals, village rituals—appear in the poems. Yet they never drown under the heaviness of words. Instead, they float. Reading this book felt less like reading isolated poems and more like watching a long, continuous cinematic frame of childhood and existence. Hamayat Ullah Emon does not seem interested in following strict poetics. His poetry rarely aims to impress with complicated vocabulary, yet it maintains a refined poetic rhythm.

There are 64 poems in this book. Many lines and thoughts linger in the mind, carrying a deep sense of belonging. Some poems seem to connect the poet with movement, labour, and ancestry simultaneously, as if the past itself propels him forward. Several lines awaken the reader’s consciousness. For instance, in poem number five, the poet writes: “Dakho shomudrer dike, machher nirobota.” (Look toward the sea—the silence of the fish). This line is haunting. It invites the reader into a quiet, meditative space. The effect reminded me of the eerie psychological atmosphere in The Lighthouse (2019) by Robert Eggers. Much like that film, these poems sometimes place the reader in a solitary inner landscape, where silence becomes louder than sound.

One of the most interesting stylistic features of Emon’s poetry is the sudden appearance of the word “Tumi” (You) in many poems. This “you” constantly shifts its identity. At times, it feels intimate, almost romantic:

“Ami nogno, mathay dhorechhi alo, dingulote tomay”: “I stand naked, holding light upon my head, carrying you through the days.” Here, “you” seems like a beloved presence.

In another poem, it represents something surprisingly mundane:

“Maash furale tumi eshe darabe jani, khule dibe boshobasher tension”, which translates to “I know you will arrive when the month ends, easing the tension of survival.” Here, “you” is salary—a deeply relatable reality of adult life.

In yet another poem, “you” becomes the poet’s mother: “Khopa tule bhangchho keno tumio” (Why are you loosening your hair and breaking apart as well?)

Finally, in a striking moment, the poet writes: “Tumi fenaphul”. The metaphor comes full circle. The flower becomes a person, a memory, or perhaps existence itself.

One of the strengths of this book is the poet’s use of small cultural details: prayer, village life, harvest fields, Sufi devotion, family meals, childhood memories. These narrative fragments appear throughout the poems, but none dominates. They function as emotional anchors, evoking a profound sense of belonging.

Through these scattered images, a quiet existential emptiness slowly emerges—the emptiness many from rural Bangladesh feel when moving into modern urban life. Emon does not state this directly, but the sentiment grows visible between the lines. At times, the poet seems quietly dissatisfied with his present life, questioning adulthood, responsibility, and urban pressures. The poems occasionally feel like intimate practices of personal sorrow.

Despite these existential reflections, women rarely appear as objects of desire in Emon’s poetry. Instead, they symbolise tenderness, calmness, and emotional shelter. The father figure is culturally familiar and subtly portrayed, often through small domestic images like a shirt or a piece of fish on a plate.

A small challenge for readers is that none of the poems have individual titles; they are only numbered. Titles often help readers connect with a poem’s core idea and recall it later. This raises an interesting question: is Fenaphul one long poem in fragments, or a collection of separate poems?

Ultimately, the book is a collection built on small images and quiet reflections. Like the floating plants on a village pond, the poems appear fragile at first glance. But gradually, they spread, covering the reader’s mind with memories, questions, and a subtle sense of human emptiness.

Sakib Ahmed is Correspondent at Jahangirnagar University.