The formula of taking over & Other Poems
You have picked up my life from dusty roads!
You have carried evidence like mucus.
You have let it loose under the bed at the end of dawn.
Capsized fleets and that spectral page from dictionary.
Increasing strikes, exposed seeds and such mannerisms.
The future has crept into my toes,
And I too have marched towards recognition.
I too have searched for them in the quicksand at the end of processions
A pale patch of the nation-state and a private history of sun and mirth.
Having crossed these used up camps
And idiolects of living together,
You encounter the promised moonshine.
I think about darkening circles around the eyes,
And blood that quickly circulates into a past.
I think about the becoming breaths,
The bubbles of unprotected nights and all that geometry.
I look back at an outstretched palm.
Black-hole of signs, blank network,
Friendship, a certain amount of skin,
Those minimal material traces.
A light from the depths punctuated that flapping lacework. The cosmos ran in, overstepping breakfast: insurmountable heat of spices. Your body was full of depths. Flame of a question, seashores and a long upsurge under my feet. A proposal to drown, breasts swelling: one smell under another smell. I began counting the lines of water. Doubtless clouds like eclipse, as if a solar electron, this planet. A factory of fungi on the idol’s trunk, turned away from me.
The formula of taking over
Today in the middle of great indolence
My infected bones floated in.
I changed directions and described how
The sunshine re-claimed its reigns.
Giant shadows of exiles
Balloons that accomplished themselves
A long under path of desires and havens,
The swollen birthmark and the straight line
that we unnecessarily etched on the page.
The rights to be infected,
Convergence of chance and flight of comets.
Those half-eaten bodies beneath the sweating point,
Like assorted cards lying under a pale plastic bag
Signs of a passive season of rains.
New scenes gradually mute your stagnation.
Seeds of error on the last chapter of a stupid thriller.
Just before the eclipse, these scenic mudras and easy contagion.
During a long expedition over the sand dunes in the name of blindness
I can locate one or two points of conflict on my lifeline
Starfish, quotes of true love, dense salt and bleedings.
A semblance of a spar crystallizes on the simple plane of reflection.
Straight lines hover underneath a dress rehearsal of tactility.
It’s an impossible sign, this calibrated descent, and an ill-spent spring.
Toward the episode of participation; toward an end without beginning
Runs the erroneous seed.
Bleaks of darkness come closer in a sad attempt to speak.
Pollens drop from winds and your friendly body writes itself like sharp veins on wings.
Very near, those paddy fields of afternoon and the mother of the cattle.
How strange this serendipity!
Distant veins and cloudy evenings.
Sidestepping them runs the liberating pollen.
Thickening of payable debt.
Another scene of nailsburning.
My restlessness, my project of bathing,
Depthlessness and the faithful buffer of immersion.
Let me stand again on those dark stairs.
I see your untarnished face: those syllabic points and bone brackets.
War-clad trees and that calm straight line.
Do birds burn only on trees?
Even the killer depended on
A moment of sex and indirect rescue operations.
Screws of the stage and a rod,churning hate.
Crossing long flags and used upwhistles,
Handbills of arena and skins of emergency.
Come on; get more and more claustrophobic, you deserted worm-world!
A simple word, the mark of petrol that inches towards the receptor of words.
These are privileges of lamentation.
An unusual language of comebacks,
The language of the oppressed: a language of visuality.
The language of excavation is unusual too: that transgressive zigzag.
At the end of a day’s hunting, I am inside the tent.
A structure of craving conjugality emerges
like the signal of a kindred sarcophagus.
A manic limit with newer patterns of contingent waves,
A relief camp in the making.
Simple rains have come too quick.
Some humans without trunk or skull
are still waiting to dissolve.
A shirt is a true proposal.
After a long Holi, I sit on folded knees.
In the sound of chariot’s wheel and awakening,
I can hear winds’ pollens and frozen dynamites.
I have heard of true visions; I know of anger’s enormous wings.
I also know the occluded moonlight behind constructible clouds.
I hold out my white palm and say, I am the traitor.
A shirt is actually a tiny island.
Inanimate patterns of loneliness.
Aesthetics of fossils.
Poems translated from Bengali by Arka Chattopadhyay. Arka is a Bengali story writer and essayist currently finished his PHD from the University of Western Sydney on Samuel Beckett and Lacanian Psychoanalysis. He co-edits ‘Ashtray’, an online and print literary magazine and a section at ‘Baak’, one of the oldest webzines in Bengali. He has been translating contemporary poets and prose writers from Bengali to English and vice versa for ‘Sanglap’, ‘Ashtray Online’, ‘Journey 90s’, ‘Baak’, ‘Indiaree’, ‘Café Dissensus’,’The Dhauli Review’ etc.