Anathpindat & other Poems
Rotten sea shell gashes your opium dream
Before the morning prayer dance floor dishevels.
While taking coffee in this bordello city
Sleep evaporates from checkered table cloth.
With cloud on your shoulder like lithe santhal1 lass
Oh mendicant sraman2, mackintosh clad,
You traverse Sudder3 Street alone, without Buddha.
Neither a merchant nor a slave comes to you,
Mirthless harlot yawns after sleepless night.
Rain of gold is not for you, flouter of the order
Leaving sanguine banner or path of Ahimsa
You enchant beauties to the darkness of taxicab
A dandy, celebrating with a venal sick rose
Indulge in wonder lust, as life is just pathos.
* Disciple of Buddha, was a rich merchant, who left all his wealth to join the order, Tagore wrote a poem on him.
- A tribe situated in the plateau of Chhotanagpur in India.
- Buddhist monk
- A street in Kolkata, popular for cheap restaurants, hotels etc.
Pan and Kolkata
Psychedelic memory returns at last
Mystery of neon night, endangering seventies,
Love for Krishna floating to Hendrix,
Oh Gopvala1, wars quenched your thirst.
With Bugle-flirted red and blue banner,
Earth striptease to dollar divine,
Your adulterous natures pine
For the ’marican brigands’ pelvic shrine.
The creek deepens as you forget Raag Mallhar2,
Serene secluded land gets Petro-Lust ravaged
Foreign Deodorant’s odor is a just waste,
Even As spring god in your body holler.
All that pleases will get murdered at the last requiem
Guitar in his hand Feresta3 will come to condemn.
- Women of a clan of dairy farmers
- A Raga related to rain
It is better to fall like a leaf than burst out,
it is better
in this cloudy morning to walk away steadily.
I will get inside Mangal-Kavya2,
a silent car’s somber velocity is calling,
like glittering water
mixing with blood I will lie upon the road –
as if in a fondness to lie.
Days of my imprudence careened
on the bonnet of a cab.
We haven’t seen mirage on water much,
but seen other mirages a lot on the nocturnal body
longer than Arabian Nights.
Open window’s carelessness makes us wet,
bringing the sea to our bed.
If we keep it inside our eyes
can we taste little bit of salt,
like this, unblinking?
- a coastal city situated in Orissa, famous for its beach and Jagannath Temple
- book of poetry consisting tales from middle age
Now I know days of my hassle have begun
A death, which was ascribed to us,
under the foggy gas lamp by broughams wheel,
and resurrecting like pious murderer Raskolikov
– it was denied to him.
He wanted to keep on your bosom’s cleft
spine of the poems and turn pages.
On your skin, like spotted clothe,
will shiver the warmth of the words.
but winter evening doesn’t have any hue,
while the old garret waits
for the darkness to pounce.
See, the inert body of poetry
sleeping on my table
killed by calculated math.
like your unmindful scarf, which you left here.
Now it lies upturned like a
to cease under my gloves
and he hasn’t learned the trick of begetting.
I still remember the silk scarf,
flakes from cigarette wrecked it
ink from my pen wrecked it
absence of your neck, shoulders, breasts, wrecked it
Now I know days of my hassle have begun.
It rained much in this winter.
This winter in Kolkata
we talked about pollution, global warming,
arranged many Seminar and meetings.
But while I walked through the fog,
you haven’t even noticed me,
forget about recognizing.
I walked through the grey road of rapture,
the light from traffic signal kept me warm,
it was warmth of a sparrow’s breast.
And my shadow got lost
in the mist covered Gariahat.
Your shadow got lost too.
Did our shadows walked together
in this city, did they had tea
from a roadside shack?
Before trying to know their whereabouts
I had traversed quite a distance
and my blue muffler
got wet, wet and wet.
N.B: Translated by poet himself
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