ShadowKraft....the art of stitching shadows: 2017

ShadowKraft : Issue 2

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C O N T R I B U T E R S

Cassandra Swan | Mukanda Rama Rao |Ram Krishna Singh| Sergio A. Ortiz

| Rajnish Mishra | Sukla Singha | Sanmatrananda Sovon

| Santanu Chakraborty | Dr. Saumyajit Acharya | Nani Deb |

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C a s s a n d r a S w a n

Cassandra Swan is an internationally acclaimed, award-winning poet. She is represented by https://www.mbliterary.com. Her poetry is part of the South Bank Centre Poetry Library, London and has been featured on BBC Radio and regularly on the discerning: www.audiobookradio.net. She has been widely published in poetry magazines and gained outstanding reviews for her challenging, diverse works. Cassandra always seeks to bring her beguiling poetry to an audience in ways that overlook outmoded, traditional, conventional styles and forms. She collaborates with composers, DJ's and artists on-line. She is often referred to as: "The Underground Poet Laureate"! Cassandra has developed her own Literary and Poetic Style known as: “Graphorrhoealism”, which, once again, defies traditional forms. Her work has been hailed as works of “genius” by Honorary Professors. Cassandra’s poetry has been likened to - and influenced by - Sylvia Plath, Vladimir Mayakovsky, J.H. Prynne, Christopher Logue, Peter Reading. Cassandra has also worked with Turner Prize nominee artists, Jake and Dinos Chapman and Sam Taylor-Johnson in the 90’s in work subsequently featured in Saatchi exhibitions and international venues. Her couture standard hand embroidery has been exhibited in Fine Art Galleries and her controversial performance art exhibitions staged in various London locations.

Cassandra has 2 major Poetry Collections, 2 Slim Volumes, 1 Selected Poems CD, 2 Epic poem recordings, and a 300-Page Memoir to her credit. Her 300-page Memoir is in pre-production. Renowned for her epic poems: “The Panjandrum of Quondam” and “The Warring Harridan”. Her collected works will be launched 7/11/17 to mark the Centenary of The October Revolution.

You can contact Cassandra by e-mail:

You can listen to Cassandra’s poetry on her player: https://www.soundcloud.com/cassandraswan11

THE MEMORY MAP

The compass is erratic, frantic, unstable;

Withholding formulae, stopping tracks:

fate neurosis set in years ago.

To the east, there are vigorous impressions;

west, cryptic primal shadows:

north, a hypothermic hallway to lunacy.

My personal paradigm in the south,

points to an alternative route.

The compass is erratic, frantic, unstable;

Abreactions loiter in a flaming cul-de-sac!

No way out, except via their dubious fumes.

Whatever happened to “The Yellow Brick Road” ?

WILD DOG ROSE

Sprawling, drunk and over-dressed

as a blushing June bride;

frothing, uncontrollably as champagne,

over both sides of the ageing agrestic fence:

as an undecided voter, you

have a foot in each clique.

Losing your diminutive skin petals

to the parched will of the foxes’ earth;

your allure dissolving as tea-stained sugar.

So unfulfilled and futile

your fate, as a butterfly,

transient and duped by God;

you question if a thing of beauty is a joy forever?

As you wither in the never-ending dyes of the sun,

burning holes in your fleeting nectar,

dusk estranges the ruse of your prime,

trampled, as confetti in a rain-storm.

Will you end these, your glorious hours,

with only down-trodden, utopian delusions as memories?

They bond to my bare feet as dew-moist tissue.

Your sharp, leafy limbs and frilly hems

are torn in rabbit’s teeth; but still

nature pledges your virginal resurrection:

yet brides age with each anniversary.

But, rambling, wild dog rose, you are,

as I, only briefly beautiful;

like a gypsy deprived of fragrance,

you snaffle the scent of heather.

BITING THE BULLET

My tongue of carefully tended, spiky thorns,

sown and grown in the bed of life’s soiled years,

ripens as a poison mushroom; exsanguinating

with each forced vowel’s and consonant’s sculpted form.

The syzygies have withered in a Laureate massacre;

I whisk them into a rabble-rousing, Siberian liquor:

It tantalises my pale-red, cobbled, flesh roof.

Fate has fired a slug into my killer-jaw;

poised for battle, it encamps between

nicotine stained, anti-monarchic molars.

This blighted air of lip-served consciousness

is piqued in P’s and Q’s, pithy and tetchy as lemons.

Harsh as an Auschwitz survivor, I extirpate

the burning ice compacted in my pharynx.

My tainted throat cannot warble pleasing phonics;

I scoff at biting the bold bullet of philanthropy.

Ice-age, mammoth dark, unconscious schisms

have painted my eyes with truculent ichor;

syllables war, axe-like into chasms of papilla:

they hold their horses, camouflaged as tacit traitors,

and my Sibylline zunga bulges as a miser’s coffer.

FORBIDDEN SECRETS

too full

of other people’s

secrets to have

any secrets

of my

own.

CLIMBING TEARS

The bedroom tomb wraps itself around me

as a freezing meat-safe. I can smell the

rotting carnage as the cabinet defrosts.

The luminescence is forced away, as a

leper from society, to an otherworldly colony.

Only giddiness and dust reward my dead-beat,

sullen eyes. The overloaded clothes rail dominates

the room as a heaving bison on the plains in twilight.

As Picasso’s Weeping Woman, the framework

of my face is fragmented and horror-stricken;

stinging and bombinating as a swarm of bees.

Even my tears have to climb up from their ducts

to cross the swollen purple and vermilion mountains

of my bludgeoned nose and cheeks, before they gain

the right to fall. I have no human scaffolding: my anatomy

is lost and rejected as Moses in a drifting basket.

I am cracking and separating as an old, wooden,

fisherman’s hut, post flood; I have become no more

than driftwood in the debris of my war-like existence.

I wave a cloth banner covered in my blood

but still – as Crazy Horse – I refuse to surrender

Like the devastation after the tsunami,

only my denuded skeleton strives to survive,

plastinated, before death, in the rapids, as they

force me away from the tributaries of my injudicious

life: hurling me into uncharted territories, with no map

and no compass! I am, now, as a ruptured salmon,

twisted and punctured: my gills are blocked; I am

fighting to swim upstream. The berserk bear

waits for me: raging and hungry, he scores water

with his claws, for sustenance, in the wake of his hibernation:

I can already feel the warmth of his abdomen!

…Poems by Cassandra Swan

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M u k a n d a R a m a R a o

Mukunda Rama Rao, born and brought up in Bengal, has published four collections of poems. Some of his poems have been translated into Hindi, Urdu, Bengali and Kannada.

Awards:
Sri Ramana Sumanasree award for best poetry in 1995 Valasapoyina Mandahasam.
Telugu University Kirti Puraskaram for best poetry in 2008.
C.P.Brown Award for Translation works in 2016.
Accomplishments:
Poems have been translated to Hindi, Urdu, Bengali, Marathi, Kannada, Malayalam and English.
Poems published in Kavya Bharati 2008.

Poems featured in several Telugu literary websites
and in different English literary websites like, Museindia, Boloji etc.
Interviews, articles and poems broadcasted by All India Radio
Leading TV channels, like Raj TV have brought out half-an-hour interview, based on my poetry career.
Poem published in ‘India in Verse’ , ‘Contemporary Poetry from 20 Indian Languages’ .Poem published in Pride of Place an anthology of Telugu poetry ,in ‘Virtuoo’ and in the ‘San Diego Poetry Annual’ .

IN THE CURVED LINES

I am drawing my own portrait—
in it there are traces
of my ancestors.

Troubles and thoughts,
anger and rage,
shards of dreams,
endless humiliations—
all are seen in those layers.

The lines and colours in the picture
change without my knowledge,
the I you know
and the I in the portrait
are different.

I tame and ride the sea
that lashes our feet
with the waves, and drags us.

I am trying to predict
how the road should move,
after dashing against the trees
and splitting,

the picture is lifelike,
yet looks grotesque
in the curved lines I see;
it remains incomplete
though finished.

( Translated from the Telugu by Veni Sukumar and D. Kesava Rao )

THE DESERTED HOUSE

My dear son, mother
is at the end of her life,
and I am no better,
come again, if possible:
though you speak
from distant America,
this is father's anguish.

Though mother has
many complaints against father,
she has turned into a cot:
a scrawny frame, wrapped in skin,
with life flickering in it.

Father, an easy-chair at the doorway,
waited on by mother,
how changed is he now
forgetting himself,
he is anxious to save her.

Perhaps old age
is dying bit by bit,
a time to know others
deeply.
The house they leave by turns
is a tree, dropping seeds.

Though children stay behind
like walls of memories,
how deserted is the house.

(after father (91), and mother (86) passed away in the span of a week, ending 80 years of their life together)

SEEDS

Fear, pain,
sorrow, hurt:
my friend wants me to avoid
those very words: says,
for ages they have been
a part of our life,
and so are worn-out.

Love cannot be asserted,

just as pain cannot be located.
Neither can be handed down
like a heirloom,
or can be flaunted
it is not feigning, but feeling.

When I tell my children
at different times about parents,
who do they see:
me in them or them in me?

Some probing, and then
a happy chuckle of awareness.

Indecipherable letters,
Pauses at the end of lines,
Strange use of words
And language voicing emotion

All these become our language,
once we get used to them.

THE SECRET METHOD

Abruptly,

leaving my outer body,

I get into my own,

crossing the limits of gravity,

feeling the cosmic touch from above.

There

joyfully I watch again and again

with my inner-eye

the treasure I have hoarded.

I lose myself in fusing the fragments

gathered now and then

with the abandoned abstract pictures

to form a full living figure.

Though from beginning to end

everything goes on without a hitch,

a fire of dissatisfaction

lurking in some corner of mind

keeps on scorching me.

Reconciled or seized with doubts,

I observe secretly every day

From different angles,

With hope and distress

The unknown visages with known details

And sound the depths of the known ones.

I get perplexed with the strange methods

I use, as I don't know which shape my endless

Scrutiny vivifies or which deficit it fulfils.

While I struggle with the unknown procedure,

my outer bodies that are hooked up to me

yank me out, as if shaking me out

of the hug of quiet slumber

of dragging me out of a comatose state.

How should I tell them

that this body is not mine?

…Poems by Mukanda Rama Rao

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R a m K r i s h n a S i n g h

Ram Krishna Singh, an Indian English poet has been writing for four decades. Professionally He is an English teacher in a technical university in Ddanbad, India. He has published more than 160 research articles, 175 book reviews, 42 books and a memoir. His Haiku and Tanka have been internationally read and appreciated.

POLITICIANS

Politicians--

today's gods and goddesses

searching Ravanas

to write new narratives

of Devlok and leela

POPULIST BELLY

Memory over-rides time

for metaphors of what never happened

the exclusivity they preach

with new posters dirty the hands

I don't know how to disable

their Down Syndrome in

populist belly

SUMMER SOLSTICE

The vacation ends

with a tiring sleepless night--

summer solstice

no use telling myself again

things would change this time next year

VIRTUAL

Time wasted on the internet

watching the unreachable so much

coloured sirens now haunt the beaches

in moonlight in the mind impeach

dreams that degenerate age in spring

fall seems the norm in real world

HOW HUMAN WE ARE

What can I do

if a paper or earthen

image sees my sex

or sexact in light or dark

my senses are my gods

and drive me to my ends

day in and day out prove

how human we are

managing mind, motive

spirit and elements

in limited overs

in a dying mode

SNAKY PATH

The path to the mastoid mountain is snaky

the women you meet are not fucking material

you can't grab the sun shining in their hair

they're cool, hell-strong, know well how to take care of their wood

so save some charm within the lust-house of your heart

and enjoy the gathering clouds ready to rain

before you cross the distances

or strip naked in the sticks

or write poems on stretches of free way

or make deal with the devil at every turn

be wary of the emptiness ahead

…Poems by Ram krishna singh

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S e r g i o A. O r t i z

Sergio A. Ortiz is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in FRIGG, Loch Raven Review, Drunk Monkeys, Algebra Of Owls, Free State Review, and The Paragon Journal. He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.

The Visit

I'm not in. Don’t know him.

Don’t want to meet him.

I dislike the superficial,

the fondness for mystery,

the cult of ashes, & where

it's distributed.

I’ve never had contact

with the inert.

I reject indifference.

I don’t aspire to change.

I'm still intrigued

by the absurd & fun.

I’m not in for the immobile,

the deserted.

When he comes, say:

"he moved".

Where

Did I get lost in the fever,

behind the smiles, between the pins,

the doubts & prayers, the middle

of rust; amazed at anguish,

deception, the green?

I’m not beside the dirge,

the ruthless, above disgust,

adhered to absence, mixed

with ashes, horror & delirium.

I’m not with my shadow,

my gestures, beyond my norms,

in the depths of slumber,

my echo & vagaries.

I’m not there.

I'm lost.

Fatigue

Tired? Yes, tired of two lips,

twenty fingers, & I don't know

how many words. Of fragmented

grayish memories.

Worn-out of this old

modest skeleton so chaste

that when it undresses

I won't know if they're the same

bones used while living.

Drained of lacking feelers,

of not having one eye

on each shoulder blade

& an authentic cheerful tail.

Of this degenerate

hypocritical little ass.

But above all, weary of being

with myself when the dream ends.

Me, & the same nose and legs,

like I don't want to wait for the shoal

in my beach complexion,

offering the dew two magnolia breasts,

caressing earth with my caterpillar belly.

Musing

for Christian

Sometimes I dream I'm on the moon

I do not know how I got there

but I know I'm dreaming

Other times my speech is involuntary

as if I were talking to frogs

as if trees listen & murmur

my pale secret thoughts

Sometimes I stop thinking

stop encouraging myself, but I'm not sad

or afflicted or extinguished

I'm just pensive, desiring to dream

the lives of others, those who dream

about birds or goldfish

That's why I write my fatigue

& the color of laughter,

steal a little life from night

& not let silence sleep

Sometimes everything changes

from noon to evening

or one month to a year

& although it sounds cheesy

when three or more

of these things happen

the only thing that does not change

in that butterfly & black ant dream

the unexpected instant I find light

in the cruel red wasp of your vision is you

Taurus

after looking at a Remedios Varo painting

What delirious dream drew your yellow figure,

winged bull, feminine face, horse legs, sad look and mustache

you rise lost in self-created limbo

expelled from your house, the second in the zodiacal path

away from your earth element

you cross with visible resignation the constellations of the canvas

and there is not enough space for you in catalogs and scholarly classifications

there are no phrases that translate your drama using other phrases

because the astral loneliness that you inhabit is only yours

you come to me with an ignited arrow narrowly missing my eyes

you come from the pit of the past, a dark bird carrying charcoal wounds in its beak

you talk to me about the internal scorch that crying leaves

the tedium that engulfs us for several days making it impossible to speak to others

the links found between the departure of the man I loved (also Taurus)

and your pathetic sovereignty in the void

the memory that moves away slowly like a beggar tired of alms

somehow all this abandoned you at last

and blood nebula covers your body.

…Poems by Sergio A. Ortiz

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R a j n i s h M i s h r a

Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India. He is the editor of PPP Ezine, a poetry ezine. He has a blog on poetry, poetics and aesthetic pleasure: /poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com

Semper [evello mortem] tyrannis

‘Still waters run deep'.

Clichés are good to begin a poem with.

I love justice and hate tyranny.

I love justice more than

I love my country, its people, my people, fame or wealth.

Sometimes, truth sounds clichéd.

Quid est veritas?

At first it seems not easy,

not quite, but then, as it’s natural to kill, so natural,

in fact, that they need to write,

sometimes on stone, sometimes on paper:

‘Thou shalt not kill!’

He rose high, and masses called him God.

He’s not alone, but caput gone triumvirate kaput.

It’s unnerving to feel within - a fierce, feral,

beast, unnamed and ferocious, rise and fill

all the space up under the skin

of a citizen: civilized, harmless and tamed.

Hoi polloi

The masses, sheep, sons and daughters of apes,

imitate, submit, follow and yield liberty

to tyrants, despots, usurpers with power,

for their patch of pasture or bunch of bananas.

‘But here I am to speak what I do know’

I am an honorable man, not a butcher.

You are an honorable man, no accomplice.

We are all honorable and good men.

They are not honorable.

Ehyeh asher Ehyeh.

You are what you are,

and masses are ‘them’, not ‘us’.

Strangely though, it’s them, not you,

who lust for blood tonight, my blood.

Bloodthirsty sheep? Lion-apes? Always?

‘Fearful symmetry’

Tiger’s fire is sheep’s death.

Thy blood my brother bought death for me;

Thy blood ‘cries out’ to them ‘from the soil’

brings vengeance, seven fold,

Insane at night, sane at dawn.

No, Caesar never cried ‘Et tu Brute’,

nor I ‘Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis’.

Bowl’s Best Friend

Did you know that glass can store all acids but one?

Hydrofluoric acid eats glass up.

It’s called corrosion in chemistry.

Interesting sound: co-rro-sion,

and interestingly, it reduces weight.

What’s more, this villain of an acid

causes permanent tissue death on contact.

Hydrochloric acid is harmless, comparatively.

It’s stored in glass bottles, you see!

It’s a cousin of hydrofluoric, yes but does nothing

sinister: no glass corrosion nor permanent tissue death.

It’s so harmless that it’s produced and stored

in every body of every nation, in all civilizations

where humans have a stomach.

What does it do there?

It kills microbes there and does something to protein:

‘denature’ is the word in zoology.

Interesting sound: de-na-ture,

and interestingly, it’s natural.

It’s a good friend, this hydrochloric acid.

It’s a good servant too.

It can’t corrode glass and stomach wall

but does a good job over toilet bowls.

Corrosion gives the surface sheen,

removes the outermost layer in direct contact

with the world and filth with it.

To combine chemistry with zoology,

This mild ‘friendly’ thing denatures, corrodes,

combines with epidermal water,

releases heat, a lot of it, and severely burns

the largest organ in human body.

The standard instructions for its splash (accidental)

on skin are: ‘gently wipe it off, flush with water

and cover the area with a cloth moistened with baking soda’.

India, Pakistan, Bangladesh,

Uganda, Cambodia, Afghanistan,

Palestine, France, Israel,

Iran, Zanzibar, Indonesia,

Greece, China and UK,

man’s best friend has at least one active and direct use.

Revenge is the motive that malignity cites in confessions

and statements later, much later. So proves the self-justified rage,

of the self-righteous man, yes it’s always a man

who throws hydrochloric acid, the friendly, harmless servant of mankind,

and burns layers, fifteen to twenty, of epidermis,

generally of a woman’s face, in all the countries

where its active and direct use is reported.

Nobody thought of writing instructions

against its more direct (active, planned and common) use.

The rush

I don’t rush it through. Years, months,

days of waiting beyond the rushes

has taught me how to wait patiently,

endlessly, against hope , sometimes.

What’s the rush for? The world is exactly

where I left it yesterday and tomorrow

will not see it move a micron away.

Look at me. Don’t I look good? I’m in my prime.

I don’t rush it through. Behold me when I crouch,

then stretch and yawn, and walk silently, stalk stealthily.

I look my best today. My coat shines, my muscles ripple,

my gaze is sharp, straight and clear. I’m in my prime.

Ah, the rush of a chase,

and the high of a catch,

and the thrill of a kill!

Nature gave me fire.

Nature made them prey.

Nature made my sinews.

Nature gave me ache.

The sun is my enemy, the moon too, and

the stream that carries my scent to my prey,

or a single sound from my careless limbs,

they scare my prey and drive it away.

Tonight, there’s no light. It’s still and no wind blows.

I have waited long in the shadows of darkness for the herd

to scatter. Now is the time to spring in action.

It’ll be over in an instant: the chase, the catch and the kill.

Your eyes can’t catch my speed. I’m swift. My life depends on it.

I perform not for claps, ovation or praise. I’m beyond them.

The journey is the destination. The game is its prize.

Game over. I drag the kill to my haven, to savor in leisure.

…Poems by Rajnish Mishra

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S u k l a S i n g h a

SAKUNTALA ROAD

Heaps of roses, marigolds and rajnigandhas

stare at the untimely monsoon and

curse the municipality officers,

contractors, engineers, ministers, dogs

for all the dirt on the hydrophobic congested alley.

Heaps of roses, marigolds and rajnigandhas

wait for the lover, the priest and the bereaved

who’d come wading through the stagnant waters,

for a pending nuptial, ritual or a funeral

on a rainy day like this.

AFFIDAVIT

“Do not touch the water in the earthen pot.

Do not offer prayers with your stained body.

Do not enter the chaakhum.

Do not play with boys.

Do not go out after sunset.

Do not keep your hair open.

Do not bathe at night.

Do not leave stains on your clothes.

Do not sleep with your husband”

It’s all written in the scriptures.

The khul-mapu reads out these instructions in all society meetings-

where vaginas and breasts and tongues are trespassers.

So the other day I tell my family that

I want to change my thirty-year old name.

They frown, growl and faint.

They think now I’ll go shopping a hijab

or get a holy cross across my chest.

But I assure them in the name of everything

that I won’t be hurting their gods.

Instead, I will become one of those

and rename myself as

Kamaakhya!

SENESCENCE

Ten

It rains in my courtyard and

I hurriedly make paper boats,

asymmetrical and harmless.

But I keep them still and dry on the veranda

And watch the raindrops settle

on the white kundo in brown pots.

Twenty

It rains in my courtyard and

I crane my neck out

from the edge of the L shaped veranda

exactly to the point below the tin-roof

where they would slowly fall on my cheeks, and

sometimes touch my lips.

Thirty

It rains in my courtyard and

I adore the colour of my new curtains,

the finesse of porcelain vases,

and the skin of my mahogany desk

where I write these parched lines.

These cowards have no courage

to meet the rains.

…Poems by Sukla Singha

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S a n m a t r a n a n d a S o v o n

The song that men never heard

Once upon a time a foreigner went to a distant land. As he was a stranger to the land, everything was new to him. He loved the place, particularly its forests. He liked the twittering of the birds, distant echo of the spring, dancing butterflies and the golden rays of the Sun. One day he was sitting on the bank of a well and was enjoying the sunset. Suddenly someone struck him from the back and it was so heavy that he fell down in the well. As he was falling down through the high stone circular wall of the well, he heard a roar of ghastly laughter.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself at the bottom of the well. There was no water, but the soil beneath him was wet. He looked up and saw the circular wall has gone high up several miles like the throat of a gigantic python that had swallowed him up. He also saw high above, he didn't know how high, the circular mouth of that 'python' through which faint sky looked like the ghost of emptiness.

He lived in this well for 28 years and every third day someone used to drop off a quarter pound bread and half a bottle water for him.He was terribly hungry and thirsty, so he used to squeeze the wild plants which grew at the bottom of the well and used to appease his hunger and he used to look up towards the faint sky overhead and used to meditate on it.

Oh, how much he lamented for freedom! How much he aspired for open air, gentle rain, open face of sky and for love of men and women! Sometimes he used to write poems or letters over the leaves of those wild plants and used to throw them with stone slabs but his scribbles never reached the outer world.

One day a bird with golden plumage descended down through the well and saw the decrepit man in tattered robe. The bird felt pity for him. It sat on his back and started caressing his hair. Both the prisoner and the bird fell in love or rose in love and for the first time in his life the man felt the rush of blood through his head. He loved the bird and gave his everything to her.

Everyday the bird used to come down to the man and used to carry this or that.. a piece of charcoal, a match box, little fire, a few pieces of paper, a bread, a little fruit. The bird used to carry back to the outer world the prisoners' scribbles. People loved his writings, discussed among themselves but finally forgot the man and his poems. After all, the diction of a prisoner is not the diction of those who live under the open sky.

One day after 28 years a dictate came from above, from those who imprisoned the man. It ran like this. " Prisoner in the cell is being directed to press his right side, a stone slab will open into a tunnel that will lead him to a blast furnace. There he had to live rest of his life. He must leave the well as soon as possible and press the right side slab".

The prisoner lived here for 28 years and had developed an identification with the well. He felt the stony wall as his another body. To leave it is to leave his own life.

Next morning the bird with golden plumage descended down the well and discovered the prisoner lying prostrate on the soil of the bottom. The man was sleeping and his slumber would never break.

The bird sat on the lifeless body of her beloved. She couldn't twit. Tears trickled down her chicks. As she tried to open her mouth to scream, her heart broke into a tune that reverberated against the wall but didn't reach the outer world.

The bird too fell asleep after a while. Her last song that never reached Mankind became the sole inspiration to the poets of the world from time immemorial.

…A prose-piece by Sanmatrananda Sovan

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S a n t a n u C h a k r a b o r t y

Voice of the Voiceless :
A retrospective introspection of Subhrasankar Das’ Poetry.

“ Velocity of your refraction

Perhaps faster than the light

That’s why to see that I’ve been torched.”

-‘Magnifying’.

There is a very famous poem in the name of ‘Brahmahrakhsas’ by veteran hindi poet Gajanan Madhab Muktibodh. The USP of that poem lies in the eponymous character itself who possesses a vast sphere of knowledge in himself but his knowledge does not come to any use just because he used to lack emotion and sensitivity, which always deserted himself from the ‘other’. We the modernized human beings also carry with us a vast pool of information without emotions. It is urgent for us to fill up ourselves with sense and sensibility once again. Somehow in the poems of ‘Tantukit’ and ‘Baul Molecules’ the said lacuna can be found. And now a detective mind can sleuth that how these two things can be associated. My answer can be found in the following assimilation of words.

With the rapid growth of humanity, we have arrived at a very complex time which is taking us away from our traditional sense. The concept of modernity which has landed into the western shore century ago is becoming evident in the third world apparently today. The myth of Plebes the Phoenician is turning into the reality. Standing in such a situation how far we will be able to recuperate our lost velocity that is an evident question. The realization of the loss and anxiety is gripping us silently. And the poem ‘Thirst’ says that eloquently,

“ Stretching out hand

Thirst

Flowing water Cycle.”

The speaker here is unable to grab that thing which can quench his symbolic thirst. Or else the very first poem mentioned in the essay, ‘Magnifying’ detracts the speaker time and again. Eventually he is being destroyed due to his hope to grasp the unattainable refraction. Even the poem ‘Circle’ exhibits the typical depressive modernity. Out of the circle the protagonist finds himself helpless and broken which he could not assess while being inside the circle. Somewhere we are again reminded of the famous line of T.S.Eliot from the poem ‘The Waste Land’,

“ O you who turn the wheel and look to windward…”

The narrator (read protagonist) of these poems have been suffering from being separated. Eventually we can tag him as the ‘outsider’. He does not fit in in the concurrent scheme of thing and events. The Prufrock like psyche leads him to utter the words of unhappiness which has not curved out of his fault rather the time in which he is living. And this feature can be witnessed in the poem ‘Truth’ where the truth is shrinking gradually. From a wider arena the character is now driven into the secret corridor of mind. Perhaps he is led to recite his own dramatic monologue where he himself is the listener no one else. He finds himself as his own metaphor of degeneration.

“ God knows

While wearing shoes I bow down to myself again and

again.”

-‘Difference.’

The concept of ending for the protagonist is also very remorseful. He finds the circle of life is very close and suffocating. Two particular poem ‘Comfort’ and ‘Confession’ showcases the abrupt end of the meaningless life. In the poem ‘Post office’, a particular Tagorean symbol has been used to tell a tale of neo-generation. The curd seller has died but the price of curd is increasing rapidly. Just the earlier poem to this is an event of buying and selling of old scrap and there also the poet has installed the image of a broken man. As a matter of fact, if I am allowed to be diverted then I can refer to a Hollywood movie called ‘Unbroken’. There is a famous scene where a captive has been punished with a steel plank to be raised above his head and the tyrant ordered the army that, “If he drops, shoot him.” Somehow I feel in the poem also the protagonist has already dropped that metaphorical steel plank and now it is the time to be punished.

From ‘Tantukit’ to ‘Baul Molecules’, Subhrasankar has metaorphsed himself into local imagery, popular clichés, day to day experiences in order to exhibit his poetic craftsmanship and emotion. Terms like ‘Jago grahak jago’, ‘I.P.L’, ‘Vodafoni Zuzu’, ‘T.R.P’ are used by a common man on a regular basis. By doing so the poet is perhaps trying to bring himself as well his emotion closer to the intended. In this connection the apt example can be placed by mentioning the poem ‘Zebra Crossing’. Here in this poem the heresy of the speaker is evident with an utter helplessness of fate. The superstition of the crossing of a cat is a culture specific thing in the land of Tripura. Here the speaker has dared to defy that along with the ‘other’(who might be a special one, whose separation is unbearable to the protagonist) but the zebra crossing and the superstition is till there only the ‘other’ is missing. To summarize the entire paragraph on the point of the figure of the character who has taken the charge of bearing the pain and pang on behalf of us, is there in a line in the poem ‘Broken pieces of Sleep’,

“ Who Know! After whom I am running…….

Out of his fear I’ll run someday.”

What we find in Shubhrasankar’s poem is that a man though he is materialistically empowered but there is a gap somewhere in him/her. He is in search of that but till now he is in the voyage incomplete. A metaporical Agent Orange has been sprayed upon him from which he is trying to recuparate. The uncertain accomplishment might complete or provide the meaning of the existence of the Tantukit and Baul Molecules in the protagonist who is none other than representative of ourselves.

…Book-review by Santanu Chakrabarty

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D r. S a u m y a j i t A c h a r y a

The Dynamics of Peace In The Modern Bengali Poetry : An Overview

Violence and wars are the burning issues of present turbulent world. There is a remarkable increase of violence within and among nations. This is a reason for anxiety of the whole civilization. Peace is holistic and has positive aspects. So we need to establish peace through Peace Education. The present study aims at focusing the pattern and importance of the poetry of some modern, contemporary, renowned Bengali poets of India, like Sunil Gongopadhyay, Shankho Ghose and Subodh Sarkar, to establish peace. In higher educational sector, the poetry of Sunil Gongopadhyay, Shankho Ghose and Subodh Sarkar can make awareness about the necessity of peace.

Introduction:

Ad Pacem Per Sapientiam

(‘To Peace through Wisdom’)

In the world of xenophobia, structural and psychological violence are increasing day by

day. The rise of conflicts, violence and wars are the burning issues and there is a remarkable

increase of violence within and among nations. In the language of UNESCO, ‘War begins in

the mind of men‟; therefore, there is a need to reform the human mind

Once Swami Vivekananda said, “Lovers see this world as full of love and haters as full of hatred; fighters see nothing but strife, and the peaceful nothing but peace.”(Vivekananda, 1994). So, for better world, we should encourage every individual to be thirsty for peace.

In this turbulent time, peace is far from the actual daily reality. Today most of the people are very much impatient. It is because of present political, economical, military global frameworks and situations. So peace is quest for life at all stages. Peace is up to the individual to choose his destiny or to suffer from the horrors of violence and war. It’s time to encourage human to walk towards peace.

What is Peace? :

The term 'peace' originates from the Anglo-French ‘pes‟, and the Old French ‘pais‟, meaning "peace, reconciliation, silence, agreement”. The English word came into use as a translation of the Hebrew word which, means 'to restore'.

Peace is a period of harmony between different social groups that is characterized by lack of violence or conflict behaviours, and the freedom from fear of violence. Peace is a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, especially in personal relations. Peace is a state of mind.

Peace is holistic and has positive aspects. Peace embraces ideas of justice, global sustainability and eradication of structures that promote injustice, insecurity, poverty, hunger and lack of access to resources. To establish peace, Peace Education plays a vital role.

Peace Education: The way to go:

Peace education is the pedagogical efforts to establish a world with the environment of peace. Peace education focus on to

a) learn about peace

b) learn for peace

Peace Education promotes philosophical principles as well as process. Peace education develops the level of consciousness that will enable us to function as a global citizen by

changing the social structures and patterns of thought. James Page suggests peace education to be thought of as "encouraging a commitment to peace as a settled disposition and enhancing the confidence of the individual as an individual agent of peace; as informing the student on the consequences of war and social injustice; as informing the student on the value of peaceful and just social structures and working to uphold or develop such social structures; as encouraging the student to love the world and to imagine a peaceful future; and as caring for the student and encouraging the student to care for others"( Page,2008).

Peace is not a matter of teaching; it’s a matter of feeling. An educator can encourage the feeling of peace through various ways, such as, formal or informal. An educator can develop a classroom climate or make the society into a classroom.

In this context, poetry is one of the important variables to bring peace. Soul touching poems can develop attitude, values, and behavioural skills. Poetry serves the purpose of oppressors while learning makes them aware and liberates both the oppressors and the oppressed. In this context, we want to focus on the poetry of modern and contemporary renowned Bengali poets of India like Sunil Gongopadhyay, Sankho Ghose and Subodh Sarkar.

Quest for Peace in Modern Bengali poetry-

Sunil Gongopadhyay author of well over 200 books was born into a Bengali family At an early age, he came to Kolkata from his ancestral town. Sunil Gongopadhyay was a renouned writer who excelled in different genres but declares poetry to be his "first love". His Nikhilesh and Neera series of poems have been extremely popular. Sunil Gangopadhyay had enriched Bengali literature through his unique style. Gangopadhyay was the founder editor of Krittibas, a seminal poetry magazine that became a platform for a new generation of poets experimenting with many new forms in poetic themes and words. He received many awards and honour including the Indian Sahitya Akademi award in 1985. He became the President of Sahitya Akademi. His poetries aimed at everlasting quest for peace. In one of his poetries he wrote,

We have no right to protest against the white colonial rulers of South Africa Because in this country Harijans are burnt by us in random

Colour prejudices in the America is a trifle

Here the black girls are given money of their own weight as dowry During marriage

Or they remain spinsters…

Even today their rises peculiar voices inside the temple, mosque, church and gurudwara

There floods blood in the name of religion… (- What India is this)

In this way, poet Sunil Gongopadhyay had searched for love and peace in his poetries.

Shankha Ghose is another renowned poet in contemporary Bengali literature. His poems are lyrical, reflective and reflect a sense of anguish towards the superficiality of this society. Shankha Ghose has received various awards including Narasimh Das Puraskar, Rabindra puraskar, Sahitya Academi Award, Desikottam by Visva-Bharati Padma Bhushan by the Government of India. Besides English, his works have been translated into Hindi, Marathi, Punjabi, Asamiya and Malayalam. Among his poetries the following one is an example of his urge of anti- wars. He wrote-

Here I kneel towards the west now

Spring has arrived empty-handed today

Destroy me if your will so desires

Let my descendants remain in my dreams.

Where has his transparent youth vanished

Where does decay gnaw away furtively

Abject defeat in the corner of my eye

Pours poison in my arteries, lungs and veins.

Let the azaan from a grey emptiness

Awaken the extremities of the city

Turn me to stone, make me quiet, still

Let my descendants remain in my dreams.

Or is there no relief for the future

In the germs of sin that my body bears?

In celebrating my own barbaric win

I summon death to my own house.

Or do the flashing lights in the palace

Burn all my bones, even my heart,

And allow a million foolish moths

To find a home deep within my frame?

You have endowed me with many things

Where will you put me when I‟m in ruins

It‟s better that you destroy me, oh god

Let my descendants remain in my dreams.

(-Babar’s Prayer)

The poems of Shankho Ghose want to touch the silence of peaceful mind. He wrote-

Heartily I live, you'll find,

In a world of impostors, blind.

I touch him or her and say, 'Why turn this way, that way?

Throw off once your shroud,

Laugh out reckless, loud.'

(-Fool)

Shankho Ghose is a poet of life, love and humanity. Another example is as follows-

All the rest are poems of death, just this one is of life All the rest are poems of my own, just this one is yours

All the rest are poems that are stopped, hesitant – remnants of ambition frozen on the lips…

(-Just this one)

From among the contemporary Bengali poets, Subodh Sarkar is a most internationally acknowledged poet in India. Subodh Sarkar is carrying on his writing since the last Thirty five years. He has written twenty five books in Bengali. The poetry of Subodh Sarkar highlights the issues of social disturbances and anxiety, poverty, injustice, oppression, depression and other world violence. Poet Subodh Sarkar, a contemporary renowned Bengali poet of India who won the Sahitya Academy Award, India`s highest literary award, recently. Subodh Sarkar, recipient of various recognitions at state level and international level, was born in 1958. He has published 27 books. He has participated in many International Literacy Festivals including IFOA in Toronto and the New Symposium in Greece, which had been organized by IWP, University of Iowa.

Poet Subodh Sarkar is now the editor of Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi’s journal. The poet is now the guest editor of Indian Literature, journal of Sahitya Academy. He is the editor of Bhasanagar. His extraordinarily sensible poems are for the sake of bruised mankind, delayed justice and anti-wars. His poems are simple, profound as well as magical. His writing clearly states his quest for peace and harmony. Among his poetries the following one is an example of his urge to mankind to stop wars. He wrote,

“In war

Either you kill

Or you die.

There has been no second twilight zone

In which

You neither kill

Not die

But in love

You have a million of options

And twilight zones.

You can be hero

You can be a villain

You can be a sanyasi

You can be a murderer

You can be a beggar

You can be a prince

Sorry I don‟t want to make my list boring.

So my dear friends

Ladies and gentlemen

Make no war…

In his poem he attacks the war strategy without any hesitation. Through his poetry he wants to point out a land deserted of love. Poet tries to express his rebellion against the system even when he is writing on relationship or love. In the poem of “Dancing in Doom” he wrote,

“Where no one takes you home

No one gives you phone number

No one reads you a poem

No one offers you tea

Where have you been?

Where a smile is a cry

Where a kiss a rue

And a killer is a local hero.

I never knew

Water could be so sad

There was a valley of lilies

Now a basin of atomic ash.”

His anxiety to text his poems as peace talks has always been expressed in his poetry. His anxiety is an anxiety of the civilization and of the mind and soul. He thinks that if these disturbances continue in the minds then one day we will come to an end. He even hates masked individuals who in the mask of peace are devastating the society. So he wants to bring a wave of change by removing all masks and wants his fellow men to realize that nudity is the purest and ultimate truth. He wants to start a new civilization where people will start again from nakedness – without computers, without telephones, without casino and without violence. So he writes, „Not a dream really‟, „We are the last man and woman on earth/ Who have no heirs to own the rivers and butterflies?‟

In ‘Fragments from an Indian Diary’ wrote Sarkar, ‘I had a bad dream and I woke up. I saw in my dream that I was participating in the Persian war in which Persia was defeated…Next night I dreamt of a Guerrilla war in a Latin American jungle’. He woke up early in the morning and after taking a glass of water he fell asleep again to dream again a war. This time it was a dream of African wars. He realized that, his dream sequences have war syndromes. He wanted to get rid of these. As a result he wrote a poem named, „After the holocaust‟. It became not a war poem but a poem of love-

“After the Peloponnesian wars

I rose from the mudded blood

I saw you in the twilight

I said I want to make a home with you.

After a desert Guerrilla war

I was a cactus, covered with sand

I wiped my eyes to see you

My eyes became two deserts.

After the wars of the Horn of Africa

I said; take me to a river of amnesia

They dragged me down the way for three nights

And left me dead before you.

After the holocaust

I signed a lot of papers, lot of treaties

I also wrote some love letters

Did you get any of them?

After the No-Fly Zone war

I was an ash-man with boils all over my body

I was not dying, I sms-ed a line

I love you, do you still love me?”

He wrote, “In my childhood in the late 60‟s, handmade grenade was a great word- a sleep-taker….Now landmine has taken the place to terrorize with life tantalizing away from peace in the number of states in India.” So he wrote in his poem that, “Be careful when you walk on your front yard/ There is a landmine under the rose tree.”

The aim of peace education is to make everyone a friend, correcting genuine injustice or conflicts of interest between them. According to Betty Reardon purpose of peace education is to provide knowledge to be applied to the problem of reforming and reconstructing present human society to make more just and less violent. Here are some lines from another poem of Subodh Sarkar, where the search of peace is continued,

“…We killed kings we killed queens

And assassinated presidents

We killed rebels and rebels‟ whore…

We changed tomorrows we changed governments

We exchanged wise men with madmen

We signed so many deals, so many ceasefires.

But tell me; is there any tomorrow to come?

Is there any peace in my city?”

Subodh Sarkar’s father who ran away with his pregnant wife from his home in East Pakistan (now in Bangladesh) to arrive anywhere in India to escape the riot between Hindus and Muslims was basically peace loving person. Subodh Sarkar was born in free India. After his father’s death, his family was reduced to the level of beggars. He said, „There was no poetry around me‟. They were seven members in the family who struggled with the destiny to cope with xenophobic world. He wrote several poems where quest of peace is crucially obvious :

“…My father ran away From the village he loved

My father ran away from the river

He lived by

My father ran away from the school

Where he taught.

…He died of cancer at 55 in Krishnanagar, Dst. Nodia, West Bengal,

India.

But he believed he died long before

When he was running, running and running

His young wife running with me in her womb

I wonder I ran so much before I was born.

Bengal to Bengal

India to India

And finally from India to Commonwealth.

It never gave him, my father a single coin

Is Commonwealth a name of a hospital?

Or a military check post?...”

Poet Subodh Sarkar tries to express his rebellion against the dynamics of power controlled by the power-mongers. In one of his celebrated poems, he situates a mother; an archetypal mother against the tragedy born out of the civilizational crisis across the world.

“The Mother asking the police, the police asking Naldamayanty

Damayanti asking the Home ministry

The Home speaking to Sovereignty

The sovereignty asking the jungle

The jungle speaking to Totem

The totem asking the God

GIVE ME MY SON BACK.

But now God doesn‟t speak any longer

It is A.K. 47 speaks.

…Here is his shirt. The State can not return more

Than this of a son.

Tens of thousands of mothers are sitting all over

In Cuba‟s jungles

In the caves of Tibet

In China‟s monasteries

In Russia‟s metro coaches

In America‟s restaurants…

Before it is light

Before the cocks call

Mom is saying

Give me my son back…”

He emphatically wrote of the crisis to make us aware of the necessity of peace on earth --

„Between tortures and chocolates/We have a quarrel between a madman and a Saint…Before we tear the insides out of each other/Let us know the reason why are we not able to love.‟ According to him war has never ever brought peace or solution to a problem. Wars can only bring tears and shame. Rabindranath Tagore focused on internationalism, brotherhood and expansion of soul. Similarly, Subodh Sarkar, the contemporary Indian poet pointed out on International crisis and anxiety.

Conclusion-

According to Christopher Wulf, the aim of peace education is to eradicate the dangers posed to human civilization by war, violence, poverty and oppression from the educational process. The poetry of Sunil Gongopadhyay, Shankho Ghose and Subodh Sarkar always focused on these issues. In their poetry, Sunil Gongopadhyay, Shankho Ghose and Subodh Sarkar always want to find out the way of light. Personal liberation is the final aim of peace education. Voice in poetry is always for personal liberation. If we want to implement them for the benefit of pupil, we may focus it properly. There poetry may be enriching in our present educational system. The poems of Sunil Gongopadhyay, Shankho Ghose and Subodh Sarkar are to help us achieve a certain poise of equanimity, to look at all aspects of life with acceptance and serenity.In higher educational sector, there poetry can make awareness about the necessity of peace.

References:

1. Benner, Jeff: Ancient Hebrew Research centre:

2. Benner, Jeff: Ancient Hebrew Research Centre.

3. Kaur Balvinder.(2006), Peace Education, New Trends and Innovations,Deep and Deep Publications Pvt. Ltd.,New Delhi.

4. Online Etymology Dictionary

5. Page, James S. (2008) Peace Education: Exploring Ethical and Philosophical Foundations. Charlotte: Information Age Publishing. p. 189.

6. Sarkar Subodh. (2015), Fragments from an Indian Diary, Kolikata Letterpress, Kolkata.

7. Vivekananda, Swami. (1994), The complete Works of Swami Vivekananda, Vol. -2, Advaita Ashrama, Calcutta.

8. www.wikipedia.com

…Article by Somyajit Acharya

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N a n i D e b

Nani Deb is one of the most significant figures of Tripura theatre.

..Started career at the age of 20.. Founder of ‘ Bhabya Socio Cultural Organization ’... First drama ‘Mastan d great’… Drama written : 50… Staged : 114… Awarded 7 times as ‘Best Director’ and 10 times as ‘ Best script writer ’ in inter-office drama competition… Awarded as the best director in All India level drama competition …Felicitated by several reputed organizations..

Coffee with Nani Deb

1. How did U begin Your journey as a Dramatist ?

Ans- It’s strange for me how I began my journey.There was no preparation , no theoritical knowledge about this .It was sudden and is still going on consistently..

2.What are the hurdles U have encountered till now ?

Ans- Every aspect of walking on this path was a hurdle but I didn't think like that. I have never lost my confidence. Today after long 44 yrs still there is no crystal clear path to walk at ease . Practice n hardwork are the two things by which I have overcome all the hurdles ...sometimes walking alone.

3.What is the future of Theatre of Tripura ?

Ans- FUTURE! The question should be about the future of theatre actors .Whatever..first of all we have to understand … Is theatre for artists or artists for theatre or for the audience ?.Where the future of theatre artists is blur then why to concern about the future of theatre !But I am still hopeful that theatre is there and will be there always .But if the love for the drama constantly deterioriate .. how long can it survive ?!

5.What .. according to U..have U gained as a playwright and theatre -director ? Have U lost anything in the process ?

Ans- Let me tell you ,if there is gaining and losing,I don't think anybody will practice theatre ,but I have gained lots of love, I have worked with hundreds or thousands of artists ..moreover audience- these can't be measured .These are my achievements . I never thought of gaining or losing .

6.What is your definition of success and failure?

Ans- Failure is the pillar of success .Try and try ...again n again..keep on going n doing .The worth is not in sum of money rather how the society accepts or reacts. Self-satisfaction is the greatest success . At a stretch anything is stress. Take a break , refresh n restart ..

7.What are the basic qualities of a good drama ?

Ans- Imagination, content ,script ,presentation, compatibility of machines n men , time management , timing, proper use of gestures and body-language..and acceptance of audience .

8.Who are the prominent and emerging theatre actors and play-wrights of Tripura ?

Ans- It won't be good to mention some names .Bcoz many are there who are prominent . but I think those who are not famous still have done their works with so much of care and affection . so let me stop here . One name I must mention here is honourable Sri Ajit Majumder. Now he is sick.

9.Tell us something about your next projects ?

Ans- My next drama-Padmakali. Still under preparation .The story is based on the life of a girl .

10.Why should people go to the halls to see a drama in this age where movies are so popular and audio-visually more entertaining ?

Ans- Whenever people listen and see the positive and negative characters in their surroundings as well as watches these on stage live , they feel reality .The same thing when people watch through camera along with other machines , for sometimes it is good to see but watching live characters is an amazing and irreplaceable experience.

11.What is your message for the young artists ?

Ans- All the world's a stage . To oppose this is violating the truth .Some people say "I am not an actor..not interested to be". They don’t notice that there is also a drama hidden .Light , sound,stage don't only present a drama. Everywhere there is drama. Real life drama should be brought into notice n that is my advice .Here is satisfaction and delight .There is and will be drama on the stage and off the stage ...

…An interview

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স ন্তো ষ রা য়

অপেক্ষা

কী মূর্খ যে আমি !

ভাবি ছুটতে ছুটতে ধুঁয়ো হয়ে যাবো টেবিলের কালো মেঘ,

ঝড়বৃষ্টিজল পংক্তিতে ঢেকে যাবে জমির ফাটল

কী মূর্খ যে আমি !

শুধু অপেক্ষায় থাকি

তাড়া নেই

চিন্তা নেই

গুমোট প্রহর

রুদ্ধশ্বাস

বমি

প্রিয়ভূমি

তুমি শোনো --- ' বউ কথা কও '
আমি শুনি ---- ' কাট্টল পাকুক, '
উড়ে যাই নিজের থেকে দূরে
হয়তো বুড়ো চামল গাছটি আর নেই
দেও নদ গেছে আরো সরে ।
কোথায় বসি তবে !
নেই অনন্ত-মোহিনী-ধনীরাম
পাতাভরা অনেক লেখা হারায় এভাবে।
বুদ্ধ থাকেন বিহারে
তাঁর কাছে বসি তবে
উপশম আছে
আগুনের ভেতর থেকে পাগুলি এদিকে আসে ----

আমার অতীত গেছে
বর্তমানও
বাকী থাকে জুম ---
শস্যমুখে ঝুঁকে আছে মরণশীল ঘরের দিকে ।

Poems by Santosh Roy

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শ ঙ্খ সে ন গু প্ত

ঘুমের মাঝেও হানা দিচ্ছে সংবাদ

জলস্তর বেড়ে যাওয়া জম্পেশ একটি নতুন খবর।
কিন্তু, কোথাও একটি নতুন নদ বা নদীর সন্ধান
পাওয়া গেছে বলে, জানা যায় নি। বায়ুস্তরের
ফুটো দিয়ে ক্রমাগত পড়ে যাচ্ছি, ব্রেকিং নিউজ।

এইমাত্র প্রাপ্ত খবর, কলম্বাসের নৌকো পুনরায়

যাত্রা শুরু করেছে। অকূল দরিয়ার দিকে তাকে
পথ দেখিয়ে নিয়ে যাচ্ছে, মিষ্টি জল থেকে প্রাণে
বেঁচে ফেরা কিছু ইলিশ ও গোটা কয়েক নীল তিমি
আবহাওয়া অ-স্বাভাবিক না হলেও বিশেষজ্ঞের
অক্ষমতা, সাদা-নীলের মাঝে, চিরকালীন কালো মেঘ
হয়ে ঝুলে রয়েছে বলে, জানা যায়। কিছু বালক-বালিকা
কুটা দিয়ে তা সরাতে গেলে, ভয়ানক সব মাকড়সা
ধেয়ে আসে। পরিস্থিতি উদ্বেগজনক। ঘটনা পরবর্তী
সবেতে নজরদারি জারি রেখেছে, প্রশাসন।

বাকি খবরে আসছি, বিজ্ঞাপন বিরতির পর। আপাতত
স্বচ্ছ টয়লেট ব্যবহার করার স্বপ্ন দেখুন। এটি সম্প্রচারে
সেন্সরের অক্লান্ত শ্রম ও অসীম অনুমোদন রয়েছে ।

কমেন্ট বক্স যা প্রত্যাশা করে নি

কিছু কিছু বিষয় খোলা চোখে যা বন্ধ করা চোখেও ঠিক তাই
অনেকে আবার একই ক্ষেত্রে তার উল্টোটাও দেখতে পান
তখন আঁতকে উঠলেও
এখন সয়ে যায় সবার।
চারপাশে মিত্র সংখ্যা বেড়ে গেলে মানুষ আপনাতেই সংযত হয়ে যায়।
মোটা হরফে নেম-প্লেট ফটকে ঝোলাতে ব্যস্ত হয়ে পরে
নাম বিভ্রাটে পাছে পুলিশ কখন কাকে তুলে নিয়ে যায়।
যমালয়ে জীবন্ত মানুষ তারাই পারে পাঠাতে, একথা-
আদালতের বাইরে ফিসফিস শোনা গেলেও
কোনও বিশেষজ্ঞ, মিডিয়ার বিতর্ক সভায় একবারও তা ভুল করে
উচ্চারণ করেন না। তারা জানেন, থানা-পুলিশে নিয়মিত গোপন লেনদেনে
অবৈধ সব ঠেক, বে-আইনি কারবার চলে। তারা শুধু বলাবলি করেন,
খেটে খাওয়া মানুষের হাজার দোষ দারিদ্রসীমা অতিক্রম করেনি কেন,
যা নিয়ে আরেকটি বিতর্ক সভা হবার দারুণ সম্ভাবনা রয়েছে।

একটি সেন্ড না হতে চাওয়া ড্রাফট

বিবাদে জড়াতে চায় কোন্ আহাম্মক ? তাই
সবেতে লাইক দিয়ে দিয়ে হাজারো কাঁটা
বিছিয়ে গিয়েছে যারা চিরকাল ফিরিবার পথ জুড়ে
তাহাদের পিঠ দেয়ালে ঠেকে আছে জন্মকাল থেকে
তাহারা জানিয়াও জানিল না স্বাধীনতার গায়ে
এত এত রক্ত দাগ কেন লেগে আছে বিনা সম্প্রচারে
যতি চিহ্নের মতো অথচ যতি চিহ্ন নয়
কপালে তিলক, বিন্দিয়া, বোরখায় ঢেকে রাখা মুখ
লিপস্টিকের মতো রয়েছে বিপদসংকুল অবস্থানে
এসব কথা ইন বক্স যারা চোরাচালান করে তারাও
ধর্মের ফতোয়া শেয়ারে অনুরোধ বিলি করে যায়;

গভীর খাদে আর্তের হাহাকার দীর্ঘ-শ্বাস হয়ে জড়িয়ে
রইলো অলিখিত সাদা পাতায়
অকালে বুড়িয়ে যাওয়া কৈশোরে যা ছিল প্রথম
শ্বেত প্রেমপত্র
নিষেধের কালো দেয়ালে।

আমি জানতামই না তোমার কোনও একান্ত প্রিয়জন আছে
শুধু তোমাকে দেখবো বলে, কোনদিন তোমার ক্লাসে
কামাই দিই নি।
আবহমান বাংলা কবিতা যার একমাত্র সাক্ষী,
যা কোনদিন তুমি জানতেই পারবে না।
প্রতিদিনকার ড্রাফটে আমি এমন অনেক কিছু লিখে রাখি,
নিষেধের কালো দেয়ালে। যা কোনদিন খুঁজেও পাবেনা
আবেগহীন কোনও ধূর্ত গবেষক।

বানে ভেসে আসা ভায়োলীন

ভালবাসা বেজে চলে বেদনার সুরে
সর্বনাশ মাঝে কারা পৌষেরে খোঁজে!

সব কিছু ভুলে যাই গুলে গিয়ে সময়ে
পাসওয়ার্ড সেভ ছিল আনসেভ লকারে।

খবর পড়ছি, শুভ্রা ধর

অপেক্ষায়ও সুখ আছে। সামনা সামনি
হতে চাইলে কে জেনো দূরে ঠেলে দেয়!
তাকে প্ররোচনা বলে ডাকতেই-
ভেতরে খিল খিল হাসি শোনা যায়;
বড় অদ্ভুত!
চোখে ভুল হতে পারে। কানে নয়।
শব্দ আগে আসে। একথা জেনেও খালি
ভুল হয়ে যায়।

কতকাল আকাশবাণী শোনা হয় না!
কত কিলোহার্টজ পেরিয়ে একজন
শুভ্রা ধর আসেন!
মরমে বাসা গড়ে ফেলেন অনায়াসে। তার
সাথে শ্রোতারাও কত সময় খবর পড়া শুরু
করে দিয়েছি, 'আকাশবাণী আগরতলা, স্থানীয়
সংবাদ পড়ছি, শুভ্রা ধর।'

শুধু ওইটুকু শুনতে রোজ মুছে রাখা, নিয়ম করে
ব্যাটারি নিয়ে আসা। সেই কবেকার
বাবার কিনে আনা ফিলিপস্ রেডিও। বাবা মাঝে
মাঝে নব ঘুরিয়ে এখন কি যেনো খুঁজে ফেরেন
আকাশবাণী দূর হতে আর নেমে আসে না।
বাবা, প্রায়ই বলেন, 'শব্দ ব্রহ্ম। কান পেতে
নিবি। কানে নিতে না পারলে, ভুল থেকে যাবে।'

এখন চলমান চিত্র দেখি। কত কত চ্যানেল। একজন
শুভ্রা ধর-কে শুনতে পাই না। যার সাথে মনে মনে
উচ্চারণ করে ফেলবো, 'খবর পড়ছি, শুভ্রা ধর'।

এ পাপ লুকাবে কোথায়

বৃষ্টি জলে বেদনা কি ভীষণ নীল নৌকো হয়ে ভেসে যাচ্ছে
দূরে কাছে কোথাও এক ফালি রোদও ঠেকে না চোখে ;
প্রবল তৃষ্ণায় শুকিয়ে যাওয়া কণ্ঠ বেয়ে নেমে আসে থুথু
অতলে
কালো অন্ধকার
গভীর খাদে, অভিসম্পাত, হারমোনিয়াম ভেঙে বেজে চলেছে
করুণা ধারায়, অসময়ে ঘুমিয়ে পরেছে চিরতরে একদল অবোধ
মানব শিশু।
ছোট ছোট ফুসফুসে কতটা আর অক্সিজেন লাগতো বল,
হে স্বদেশ, হে স্বাধীন ৭১ ?

যে শহর মৃত্যুর মত সত্য হয়ে আছে

একেক সময় চেনা শহরটা বড় ভয়ানক বন্ধুহীন মনে হয়।
খা খা করে কোথাও। একলা দুপুর।
খুব জল তেষ্টা পায়।
তখন
বিজ্ঞাপনের হোর্ডিং-গুলো রাস্তার ধারে তেলাপোকার
মতো উড়ে স্থির হয়ে থেকে
আবার দুলে উঠেই তীব্র হাহাকার নিয়ে, কাছে দূরে
কোথাও তাকিয়ে থাকে।

এমনই এক শূন্যতার ভেতর এইমাত্র গভীর সন্দেহ
নিয়ে একটি পুলিশী ভ্যানগাড়ি রাস্তা পেড়িয়ে গেলে
কোথাও কোনও বিপনীবিতান থেকে উড়ে আসা গুপ্ত শিস
মুহূর্তে খান খান করে দিল বাতাসের শরীর।

জেব্রা ক্রসিং শূন্য রাস্তা একা একা পার হতে হতে
বিকট এক আতঙ্কে, কেউ তখন ভেবে চলছে
লোকজন গেল কোথায়, সব কেমন অপরিচিত ঠেকছে।

মায়োপিয়া

ঘরের কোথায় কি আছে আমি সত্যি জানি না।
আমার কখনো প্রয়োজনই পড়েনি সে খোঁজের।
আমার যাই প্রয়োজন তা হাতের কাছেই থাকে।
কেবল তার যা পচ্ছন্দ নয় সে সকল বস্তু আমি
তন্নতন্ন করে ফেলেও হদিশই পাই না বাড়িতে।

চুপ থাকা ছাড়া কোনও উপায় নেই। ধূমপান
ক্ষতিকারক একথা রাষ্ট্রও জানে। কিন্তু কোন
আইনে শুধু আমাকে তার জরিমানা দিতে হয়
একথা শোনার কোনও আদালত নেই। যেনো
চিরকালের সাজা পোহাতেই আমার আগমন।

আজ বইয়ের রেকের পেছনের সারিতে, প্রচুর
হারানো সামগ্রী দেখে, আমি বিস্মিত। আমার
এত কাছে ছিল, অথচ আমি দেখতেই পাইনি।
চশমা মুছতে ভাবছি, দূর ও কাছের স্বচ্ছতায়
আমার গোলমাল, সেই সঠিক বুঝতে পেরেছে।

…Poems by Sankha Sengupta

_____________________________________________________________________

চি র শ্রী দে ব না থ

অহংকার

ছোট শহরের ছোটখাটো কবিতা পাঠের আসর শেষ হয়,
মনে হল আমার জন্যেই দাঁড়িয়ে তারা
দুইটি তরুণ... "যুবক" হবে বলে অপেক্ষা যেন রেখেছে তাদের রোমশ সন্ধিতে,
আমি দাঁড়ালাম,
রুক্ষ পাহাড়ের প্রতিধ্বনি তরুণের গলায়
"আপনাকে শুনবো বলে শেষ পর্যন্ত বসেছিলাম "
ফিরছি, পথের ধুলোর কাছে খুব কষ্টে অহংকারটুকু দিয়ে দিলাম
ডেনিমের শার্ট আর ছেঁড়া জিনসের ফাঁক দিয়ে বেড়িয়ে আছে শহরময় সাদা সাদা প্রজাপতির পাখা
পেট্রোলের দাম শুধু বাড়ছে জেনেও
এই সব দেবদূতেরা গন্তব্যহীন ভেজা রাস্তায় বাইক নিয়ে হারিয়ে যায় যখন তখন ..

দ্বাদশশ্রেণী

জয়েন্টর রেজাল্ট বেরুলে
কিছু তরুণের মাথা ঝুঁকে যায়
ঘর অন্ধকার করে তাদের বাবারা বসে থাকে
বিপর্যস্ত মার্কশীট অজস্র রিংকলস্ এঁকে দেয় মার চোখে একরাতেই
ছেলেটি কিন্তু জানতো কেমিস্ট্রি তার নয়, সে তো অন্য ফুলের মালী
কিংবা ফিজিক্স, তার কাছে রেখে গেছে মৃত ফিনিস্ক পাখির শব
ম্যাথ ডুবিয়েছে তাকে, আসলে বাজতে চেয়েছিলো অন্য সেতার হৃদয় কেটে
এই তরুণেরা অসময়ে নির্ভুল ভালোবেসেছিল কাউকে
হারিয়েছে সময় বাই সাইকেলে আর খাতার পেছনে,
দ্বাদশশ্রেণী বড়ো ভুল করে,
প্র্যাকটিক্যাল ক্লাসে আনমনে শুধু অ্যাসিড ঢালে ...
কেয়া দিদিমণি তুমি সবুজ শাড়ি আর পরে এসো না।

হিসেব

আমাদের হাত কখনো কাউকে ছোঁয় না
একটি স্বর্গ মাঝখানে অনতিক্রম্য
আমরা আলো জ্বালি, হাতগুলো আলোতে আলাদা হয়ে যায়
এসব প্রাপ্তি অপার্থিব, ভেসে আসে জরাহীন মূহুু্ু্র্তে
নির্বাক ঔষধ গিলে যাওয়া সময়ে
তারা বালকবালিকার মতো কোলাহল করবে।

নির্জনে

এখানে নির্জন নয়, তাই কথা হবে না
চলো আরো ঘর, আরো বারান্দা পেরোই এবং উঠোন
একসময় বসবো পাশাপাশি, রামধনু পড়ে থাকা মাঠে,
আশ্চর্য! কি অশান্ত নির্জন হয়ে গেছি আমরা ...
একটি কথাও ভেসে আসছে না,
দখিন দুয়ার বন্ধ হয়ে গেছে কবে কোন বেলায়।

…Poems by Chirasree Debnath

_____________________________________________________________________

অ র্থি তা ম ণ্ড ল

মহাজাগতিক খোলস

এক

শামুকের ভেতর ঢুকে যাওয়ারও একটা মজা থাকে,বেশ অন্যরকম মজা
নদীর ঢেউ ,উপাসনা গৃহ
একটাই রেখা হতে হতে
সেই মজার মধ্যে রেখে দিচ্ছে ওঁ চিন্হ

দুই

প্রত্যেকটা জন্মের মধ্যে লেগে আছে
মৃত্যুর গন্ধ,
এসব আপাত বিরোধ বিলাপের মধ্যে
জেগে ওঠে মায়াবী সংসার

তিন

সুগন্ধবতীর ঘ্রাণ নিতে নিতে
পুরুষটি ভুলে যেতে চান অনিকেত যাত্রা।
অথচ কে যেন বন্ধ করে দিয়েছেন
যাবতীয় ঘরের দরজা
শুধু ইতস্তত বাড়ি জেগে থাকে
আর থকথক করছে শূন্য...

চার

শামুকটি কিছুই নির্ধারণ করে না
খোলসের ভেতর তীব্র হচ্ছে
কালো কফির ধোঁয়া
একটার পর একটা সিগারেট পুড়ছে
তিনি মহাজাগতিক কথোপকথন
সেরে নিচ্ছেন,কিছুটা সন্তর্পণে

…Poems by Arthita Mandal

_____________________________________________________________________

রা জী ব ম জু ম দা র

কিসে আছি

পাখি
ফুল
গতজন্ম
এরা প্রত্যেকেই একেকটি বিশেষ ধর্ম |
আমার নিজস্ব কোনো ধর্ম নেই,অথবা
এ জন্মে ঐ তিনকে স্বীকার করি না |

শিস
মূর্ছা
কুয়াশা
এদের ঘরে আমি রোজ নামতা শিখি,
পাগলের মতো তিনের কণ্ঠে গান শুনি |

কেউ কোনদিন বলেনি, আসলে ওরা ধর্ম-ব্যাপারী |

সভ্যতা

এই উত্তাপে কোনও শোকতাপ নেই,
জ্বরের আলপথে পারদ না ঢেলে
নতুন সভ্যতা রচনা করা যায়
এটি যারা দেখিয়েছে - তারা
ভূপৃষ্ঠের এক - তৃতীয়াংশে শুধু
তেলের ঘনত্ব পরিমাপ করে |
আমরা পুঁজি বপন করি, আর
আপদকালে সুরভিত বগল খুঁজি |
শ্বাসকষ্ট হচ্ছে - হোক,
মঞ্চে দাঁড়িয়ে ওদের প্রতীকি দেহ
চেটে শোধন করি ;
এরপর যে আলো বের হয় -
তাইতো নতুন সভ্যতা, যুগান্তকারী !

ছায়াছবি

এখানে কিছু ছায়া জমা করা আছে,
পাশ দিয়ে বয়ে যাচ্ছে সুগন্ধি হাওয়া |
কেউ একজন দৌড়ে এসে বলল,
এই হাওয়ায় যে ফিতেগুলো উড়ছে
তাতে অনেক গুজব লুকিয়ে আছে ;
পথে বসে খামোখা বিজ্ঞাপন বিকোচ্ছি
পেশাদার এখানে কেউ নেই,
যা কিছু ভেজা - বৈশাখে অনাবৃষ্টি |
ঐ ছায়াদের তো শরীর আছে - চাঁদ নেই
চলো, বরং হাতে গায়ে ব্যাপারীর জ্যোৎস্না আঁকি |

বোধ

একেকটা বোধ থেকে একেকটা কথার জন্ম,
ধাপের পর ধাপ বেয়ে ঊর্ধ্বগমনে মাথা তোলা
আসলে সীমারেখা নির্বাসিত, মুক্ত গগনে -
সরল আলিঙ্গন যদি চক্রান্তের শিকার ভাবো
তবে ভালবাসার স্পর্ধা দেখিও না;
মূল থেকে উপড়ে ফেলে দিলে বৃক্ষ বাঁচে না -
সহজ কথাটি অরণ্য বোঝে, অথচ তুমি বোঝো না |

অস্বীকার

পথে নেমে পেয়ে গেছি রথ,
চাকার গতি
এক এক করে মাইলস্টোন-
তার পরিচিত সাংখ্যমুখ।
নির্জনের সমুদ্র পেরিয়ে চেরাপুঞ্জি হয়ে
একটা গহ্বর পেলাম, কৃষ্ণ নয়-
ওর ভিতর যত গুলিয়ে যাচ্ছি
স্বয়ংসম্পূর্ণ হয়ে ফিরিয়ে দিচ্ছি রথ,
গুড়িয়ে দিচ্ছি মাইলস্টোন।
এতদিন সবটা পৃথিবীই প্রয়োজন ছিল,
এখন আলাদা করে চাওয়ার কিছু নেই।
জন্মবৃত্তান্ত -ঋণসমগ্র এক মহাজাগতিক
বিচ্ছুরণের শিকার।

এখন আলাদা করে দেওয়ার কিছু নেই !

…Poems by Rajib Majumder

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পি য়া স ম জি দ

গর্ভসুর

বেজে চলে খোল। জল-করতাল। তারাস্নাত অভিশাপে ভুরভুর
কুসুমের কোষ।
হায় মালঞ্চ!
ক্ষুধিত জোয়ারে ভেসে যাই
আমি চিত্রল পাষাণ।
কবরের অনন্ত কাকলিতে
শোষিত মেঘমল্লার।
তালে তালে, নৃত্যনিষ্ঠুরে
তুমি ফুটিফুটি; মরণ-শতদল।
কালো গোলাপের
তরঙ্গ-ঝাঁপটায়
ক্রমশ তলিয়ে যাই
অপুষ্পক উদ্ভিদের ছায়ায়।

রক্তসোনালি জাগায়
চিরসুপ্তির জরায়ু।

মায়াপাখি

ওই খোলাবাজার।
ছেঁউড়িয়ার সাধুসঙ্গেরও
চকমকি বিকিকিনি।
দূর সমুদ্র।
মীননিকেতন
থেকে
মেঘমহলে
এ কেমন নৃত্যবিস্তার!
গহন মুদ্রার ভারে
ভূ গর্ভবতী
আর গানে গানে
দিগন্ত আঁধার।
রাক্ষসনিদ্রার মঞ্জরি ছাওয়া
যত পাগল জল, লোনা হাওয়া।
নরখাদকের পরগনা পেরুলে সূর্যাস্তবন।
আমি ধরতে গেলেই তুমি
এতসব দৃশ্যের খাঁচা ভেদ করে
দ্রুত মিলিয়ে যাও
সাতসন্ধ্যার
কমলা
ঝোপঝাড়ে।

ক্রুশকুসুম

এই ফুল কুয়াশাক্রান্তি মাঠের প্রসূন।
যখন বেদনার ডোলগুলো ভরে ওঠে
রাগ-আনন্দীর বিচ্ছুরণে।
ভাঙাচোরা গান-অশেষে
ভেসে চলি আমি
ঝিরিঝিরি জলের প্রপাত।
সোনার শকুন ডালে বসে চূর্ণ করে
মালিনীর রূপচক্র!
অরণ্যসবুজ অভিশাপের রেখা
ছলকে ছলকে উপচায়
তোমার গাঢ়-ঘন নিদ্রায়।
সব বিভাবরী শুষে
তারপর স্ফুটমান আমি
দিগন্তেরও ঊর্ধ্বমুখী
তরঙ্গচ্ছায়।

মঞ্জরি

তারাতলে তন্দ্রাশীল
সব অন্ধকার ফুলগাছ।
সন্ধ্যায় কুরুক্ষেত্র অস্ত গেছে
তবু বাগানে বধ্যভূমির ঘ্রাণ।
রাত্রির ধারে
সমুদ্র নাকি বিস্তীর্ণ জলীয় ব্যথা
ওত পেতে থাকে!
শিকারে চলে রাজমৃগয়া; --নীলিমা
যখন কুঠারে গুপ্ত সমস্ত সংবেদ।
ধীরে ফোটে ক্ষত আত্মার মঞ্জরি।
দেবীবিগ্রহ যুগল শুষে
আমার আরতি ও পাপ।
ফিরে ফিরে আমি তো
ঝরাপাতা
মরা রক্ত
আর তোমার
গান শেষের
ভাঙা স্বরগ্রাম।

রাগিণী

আমার কবর
আনন্দভৈরবী।

যখন
মাতৃজঠরে পড়ে
ঘন
গরাদের
ছায়া।

বিধুর

আষাঢ়, আষাঢ়
সব কলস ভরা।
আর তুমি
জলনূপুরে,
উজ্জয়িনীর দিকে।

তোমার
পায়ের পথে
একজন;
রোদে পুড়ে
খাক হওয়া

করুণ মল্লার।

…Poems by Pias Majid

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মৌ লি ক ম জু ম দা র

রূপকথা চুপ করে শোনো ১

এপাশে জমে আছে এক শতাব্দী কথা,
ওপাশে নির্জন অভিমান।
এপাশে একটা দু’টো শুকতারা যদি বা জ্বলে
ওপাশে ফোলানো ঠোঁট কতকাল থেকে,
এপাশের কিছুটা অফিসের ক্লান্তি, ওপাশের- জীবনযুদ্ধের।
একজন নির্নিমেষ চেয়ে থাকে, চোখে বালি চিক চিক
করে আরেকজনের।
কবে সেতু হবে? কবে হবে জনপদ?

রাজকন্যা হাত বাড়িয়ে দেয়, অভিমানিনী,
কোটালপুত্র চেপে বসে ঘোড়ায়
রাত্রিসফর, জোনাকি জ্বলে,
কত মরা নদী, উপত্যকা ওরা পেরিয়ে যায়।
সাত সমুদ্র তীরে বাতাস উঠেছে জোর,
এক দ্বীপে নামে, রাজকন্যা ওড়না খোঁটে
কোটালপুত্র ঘোড়াকে ঘাস খাওয়াচ্ছে,
এত মৃদু গন্ধ, এত বর্ষার ছাঁট
আসে কোথা থেকে?
এসবই ওদের অশ্রুসঞ্জাত,
কোটালপুত্র মা ভেবে বুকে মাথা রাখে

রাজকন্যার তখন অকালবসন্ত

রূপকথা চুপ করে শোনো ২

আমার এই হাতে
শিরদাঁড়া নেই,
মাংস, অস্থি, মজ্জা
কিছু নেই,
তবু ধরেছি তোমার হাত,
উঠে দাঁড়াবে না তিলোত্তমা!
শশকের মতো, বুনোহাঁস হয়ে!

পা জোড়াতে লতাগুল্ম
জড়িয়ে যায় শুধু,
এত তীব্র বনপথ;
তবু তোমাতে রেখেছি
বিশ্বাস,
স্বপ্নের হোক এ উড়ান,

ফিনিক্স পাখির মত।

রূপকথা চুপ করে শোনো ৩

“চেয়ে থাকা কেন?
ওইভাবে চেয়ে থাকা কেন?”

আগুয়ান দাবানল আঁচে,
বনস্পতি, চেয়েই তো থাকে,
রূদ্ধশ্বাস উত্তেজনায়!

হড়কা বানভাসি হতে হতে,
পাহাড়ি দেউল, চেয়েই থাকে
সংবেদনায়!

চেয়ে থাকে পরম আবর্তনে
চুল্লীর পরমাণু মেঘ
প্রলয়ের আগে!

সুনামির চোখে চোখ
রেখে বাতিঘর
চেয়ে থাকে
চোখে জল নিয়ে।
সক্কলে চেয়েই তো থাকে!

তবে এ চাওয়া সেই চাওয়া নয়,

গায়ে না মাখলেই পারো।

রূপকথা চুপ করে শোনো ৪

“ আমার আয়ূরেখা কত ছোট,
মরছি না কেন তবু!”

কেননা আমার আয়ূরেখা পেরিয়ে গেছে বিষুবপাহাড়,
তার থেকে কয়েক ছটাক
আমি তোমাকে ধার দিয়েছি,
কমিয়ে নিয়েছি মহানিষ্ক্রমণকাল,
ইচ্ছেমরণ, শরশয্যা- যা বলো।

“এই কত গাড়ী গেল,
ধর যদি পিষে দিয়ে যায়!”

এমন সুইসাইডাল
আমিও ছিলাম,
কত ফিসফাস, কত মরণের ফাঁস,
কত বিষদাঁত এড়িয়ে
এই দেখ দাঁড়িয়ে আছি বেমালুম,
পর্দা টেনে দিলে এখনো
হাওয়া আসেনা কোনো,
বড্ড গুমোট হয়ে যাই,
ভাগ্যিস তুমি এলে।

“কোনো পাহাড়ই কি
তেমন উঁচু নয় আর,
যেখানে আমরা হনিমুনে যেতে পারি,
ছোট্ট একটা ধাক্কা-ব্যাস!”

পাহাড়ে পাহাড়ে কানাকানি
শুনেছো কোনোদিন?
ওরা কথা বলে,
তোমাকে নিয়ে যাবো
অখ্যাত কোনো শৈলশহর,
পাহাড়কে পাহাড়ের
কত কথা আছে বলার,
দেখবে শুনবে সব।

“তার’চে চল,
এখনই পালাই,
এইসব বাঁচাবাঁচি,
খেলাধুলো,
ঘেন্না ধরে গেলো, মাগো!”

সমুদ্রে চল তবে,
নোনাজল উপকথা শুনি,
বালিয়াড়ি খেলি নুলিয়ার সাথে,
যেখানে আকাশ পৃথিবীকে ছোঁয়
বৃহত্তর সম্ভাবনায়-

খুব ছোট করে শুরু করি

…Poems by Moulik Majumder

_____________________________________________________________________

অ ভী ক কু মা র দে

কাঁচাদৃষ্টি

একটা পৃথিবী ইতিহাসের পাতায় ঘুমিয়ে অথবা
মাটি ঘেঁটে ঘুমপাড়াতে আসে কোন গবেষক,
সেই পৃথিবীর মুখোমুখি হলেই
কেমন বোকা বোকা আদিম চোখে
আমাকেই খোঁজে ইতিহাসের ভেতর !

আরেক পৃথিবী রেখে গেছে ওরা বাতাসের কাছে,
যদিও এই চোখ দেখেনি বাতাসের জ্বলন্ত মুখ;
তবু কাঁচাদৃষ্টি বুঝে নিতে পারে--
কতটা ঝলসে রোগাক্রান্ত সময়...
ভাঙাবুক বিকলাঙ্গ ভ্রূণের কান্না লুকায় যখন
রক্তপাতের ধারা থেকে অসংখ্য প্রশ্নচিহ্ন জন্ম হতে দেখি।

অবশেষে আমি আমরা সবাই
যখন জ্বলন্ত আকাশের নিচে রঙিন স্বপ্ন আঁকি,
বৃদ্ধা পৃথিবী অবাক চোখে চেয়ে...

আবহ- বিকার

ডুব থেকে ওঠার পরমুহূর্তেই ডুবে যাবার পরম্পরা।
অজানা উষ্ণতায় ডুবে যাই তুমি- আমি এবং
অদৃশ্য কক্ষপথ...

শীতল আবহে ফিরে আসি আমি,
অথচ উষ্ণতা লুকিয়ে কষ্টেও হাসতে পারো খুব এবং
বলতে পারো অববাহিকা তোমার...

উভয়ের কষ্টই সমান,
কারো পেটের কারো পিঠের।

তোমার- আমার ডুবে যাওয়ায় যেটুকু সুখ
তারচেয়ে স্বপ্ন অনেক বেশি। চরম কষ্টের শেষ মুহূর্তে সুখ অথবা মৃত্যু।

রাত ও জীবন

সব রাতে জীবনের নোঙর হয় না ঠিকঠাক,
অন্ধকার কামরায় টুকরো কাগজের গায়ে
কলমের অকারণ পায়চারির পর
ধুলো জমা গন্ধ,
যাযাবর পাকে অজানা সুড়ঙ্গ,
কল্পনার ভুতুড়ে ছায়া বড় হয়,
টেনে নিয়ে যায় অবচেতনায়...

এখানে বন্ধ ঘর,
অন্ধকারে ঢেকে যায় শব্দ,
স্তব্ধ রাত বিচ্ছেদ রাগ শোনালে
মন ও মানস উল্টো হাঁটে নিঃশব্দে।
নিঃসঙ্গ শরীর পুরনো তানপুরার মতোই
ছেঁড়া তারের কষ্ট জমায়,
যখন আর আওয়াজ ওঠে না
রাত ও শরীর মুখোমুখি সমবেদনায়...

তারপরও রাতের প্রহর বাকি,
ক্লান্ত যাযাবর জীবন শান্তি খোঁজে ঘুমের ঠিকানায়..

…Poems by Avik kumar Dey

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Wednesday, 27 September 2017

Shadowkraft : Issue 2

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