Sign in with Facebook
“The Light
I get a thud kick in pitch dark thick on belly and tumble
Hands tied at the back on damp floor shack to humble
Lights flash on face eyes blind in case I spin
Then lights go off a boot or two rough on chin
I feel blood drip snail down the lips in trickle
The glare blinks on and off and on and off in ripple
A hot metal rod scalds hard breast broad to snip flesh warm
The lights hem in piercing-thin a ruthless swarm
Red eyes get shut in blinding rut my vision erode
Final blackout in grisly rout in ecliptic node
I prepare my grit to encounter the hit as a fightback code.
--Malay Roychoudhury”
―
I get a thud kick in pitch dark thick on belly and tumble
Hands tied at the back on damp floor shack to humble
Lights flash on face eyes blind in case I spin
Then lights go off a boot or two rough on chin
I feel blood drip snail down the lips in trickle
The glare blinks on and off and on and off in ripple
A hot metal rod scalds hard breast broad to snip flesh warm
The lights hem in piercing-thin a ruthless swarm
Red eyes get shut in blinding rut my vision erode
Final blackout in grisly rout in ecliptic node
I prepare my grit to encounter the hit as a fightback code.
--Malay Roychoudhury”
―
“Preparation - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury
Who claims I'm ruined? Because I'm without fangs and claws?
Are they necessary? How do you forget the knife
plunged in abdomen up to the hilt? Green cardamom leaves
for the buck, art of hatred and anger
and of war, gagged and tied Santhal women, pink of lungs shattered
by a restless dagger?
Pride of sword pulled back from heart? I don't have
songs or music. Only shrieks, when mouth is opened
wordless odour of the jungle; corner of kin & sin-sanyas;
Didn't pray for a tongue to take back the groans
power to gnash and bear it. Fearless gunpowder bleats:
stupidity is the sole faith-maimed generosity-
I leap on the gambling table, knife in my teeth
Encircle me
rush in from tea and coffee plateaux
in your gumboots of pleasant wages
The way Jarasandha's genital is bisected and diamond glow
Skill of beating up is the only wisdom
in misery I play the burgler's stick like a flute
brittle affection of thev wax-skin apple
She-ants undress their wings before copulating
I thump my thighs with alternate shrieks: VACATE THE UNIVERSE
get out you omnicompetent
conchshell in scratching monkeyhand
lotus and mace and discuss-blade
Let there be salt-rebellion of your own saline sweat
along the gunpowder let the flint run towards explosion
Marketeers of words daubed in darkness
in the midnight filled with young dog's grief
in the sicknoon of a grasshopper sunk in insecticide
I reappear to exhibit the charm of the stiletto.
(Translation of Bengali poem 'Prostuti')”
―
Who claims I'm ruined? Because I'm without fangs and claws?
Are they necessary? How do you forget the knife
plunged in abdomen up to the hilt? Green cardamom leaves
for the buck, art of hatred and anger
and of war, gagged and tied Santhal women, pink of lungs shattered
by a restless dagger?
Pride of sword pulled back from heart? I don't have
songs or music. Only shrieks, when mouth is opened
wordless odour of the jungle; corner of kin & sin-sanyas;
Didn't pray for a tongue to take back the groans
power to gnash and bear it. Fearless gunpowder bleats:
stupidity is the sole faith-maimed generosity-
I leap on the gambling table, knife in my teeth
Encircle me
rush in from tea and coffee plateaux
in your gumboots of pleasant wages
The way Jarasandha's genital is bisected and diamond glow
Skill of beating up is the only wisdom
in misery I play the burgler's stick like a flute
brittle affection of thev wax-skin apple
She-ants undress their wings before copulating
I thump my thighs with alternate shrieks: VACATE THE UNIVERSE
get out you omnicompetent
conchshell in scratching monkeyhand
lotus and mace and discuss-blade
Let there be salt-rebellion of your own saline sweat
along the gunpowder let the flint run towards explosion
Marketeers of words daubed in darkness
in the midnight filled with young dog's grief
in the sicknoon of a grasshopper sunk in insecticide
I reappear to exhibit the charm of the stiletto.
(Translation of Bengali poem 'Prostuti')”
―
“From uncoiled wings of the burning swan
after sea of blood was born out of green caterpillar
that skin sheared moon from cloud’s underbelly
ordered waves to abolish horoscopes on crabs’ breasts
.
On the evergreen epiglotis of lotus full to the brim
the pollen fiddling honey bee waved her double scarf
searched for drunk village of pride red beating crowd
humming songs sleeping side by side of worried distance ( From 'Selected Poems' 1961 - 2004”
―
after sea of blood was born out of green caterpillar
that skin sheared moon from cloud’s underbelly
ordered waves to abolish horoscopes on crabs’ breasts
.
On the evergreen epiglotis of lotus full to the brim
the pollen fiddling honey bee waved her double scarf
searched for drunk village of pride red beating crowd
humming songs sleeping side by side of worried distance ( From 'Selected Poems' 1961 - 2004”
―
“Counterman - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury
Circumcision made me apostate
I thumped thighs and turned Tartar
The king will go and evil eves get raped
Just as tutored Nadir Shah
I'd kiss the sword and leap in air
On galloping mare a burning torch
I proceed towards falling outposts
The metropolis burns
A naked priest elopes with Shiva's phallus.”
―
Circumcision made me apostate
I thumped thighs and turned Tartar
The king will go and evil eves get raped
Just as tutored Nadir Shah
I'd kiss the sword and leap in air
On galloping mare a burning torch
I proceed towards falling outposts
The metropolis burns
A naked priest elopes with Shiva's phallus.”
―
“MANIFESTO OF THE HUNGRY GENERATION
Poetry is no more a civilizing maneuver, a replanting of the bamboozled gardens; it is a holocaust, a violent and somnambulistic jazzing of the hymning five, a sowing of the tempestual Hunger.
Poetry is an activity of the narcissistic spirit. Naturally, we have discarded the blankety-blank school of modern poetry, the darling of the press, where poetry does not resurrect itself in an orgasmic flow, but words come out bubbling in an artificial muddle. In the prosed- rhyme of those born-old half-literates, you must fail to find that scream of desperation of a thing wanting to be man, the man wanting to be spirit.
Poetry of the younger generation too has died in the dressing room, as most of the younger prosed -rhyme writers, afraid of the Satanism, the vomitous horror, the self-elected crucifixion of the artist that makes a man a poet, fled away to hide in the hairs.
Poetry from Achintya to Ananda and from Alokeranjan to Indraneel, has been cryptic, short-hand, cautiously glamorous, flattered by own sensitivity like a public school prodigy. Saturated with self-consciousness, poems have begun to appear from the tomb of logic or the bier of unsexed rhetoric.
Published by Haradhon Dhara from 269 Netaji Subhas Road, Howrah, West Beng”
―
Poetry is no more a civilizing maneuver, a replanting of the bamboozled gardens; it is a holocaust, a violent and somnambulistic jazzing of the hymning five, a sowing of the tempestual Hunger.
Poetry is an activity of the narcissistic spirit. Naturally, we have discarded the blankety-blank school of modern poetry, the darling of the press, where poetry does not resurrect itself in an orgasmic flow, but words come out bubbling in an artificial muddle. In the prosed- rhyme of those born-old half-literates, you must fail to find that scream of desperation of a thing wanting to be man, the man wanting to be spirit.
Poetry of the younger generation too has died in the dressing room, as most of the younger prosed -rhyme writers, afraid of the Satanism, the vomitous horror, the self-elected crucifixion of the artist that makes a man a poet, fled away to hide in the hairs.
Poetry from Achintya to Ananda and from Alokeranjan to Indraneel, has been cryptic, short-hand, cautiously glamorous, flattered by own sensitivity like a public school prodigy. Saturated with self-consciousness, poems have begun to appear from the tomb of logic or the bier of unsexed rhetoric.
Published by Haradhon Dhara from 269 Netaji Subhas Road, Howrah, West Beng”
―
Bengali (বাংলা) Literature Readers Club
— 224 members
— last activity Dec 21, 2020 12:31AM
If you read Bengali (বাংলা) literature, you can join the club :)
Abhijit’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Abhijit’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
Favorite Genres
Polls voted on by Abhijit
Lists liked by Abhijit
