Saturday, October 23, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Bus
After long deliberation and argument when the Parijat
and placenta had gone out of our consciousness
then a mysterious lily cropped up in Subhankar’s glass.
In awe or anticipation cried out the two golden retrievers.
Throwing a stone bowl full of Belli flowers at the plasma TV,
Somnath shouted at me: Bastard! Are you
a jester or a magician black, who relish owl’s heart
with virgin’s blood.
Failing to pass the exams thrice at Taxila the boy
moved to Nalanda.
He, who meditated upon the Upanishadic philosophy of
Brahma – the creator and the created, spanked on the
buttocks of a loose Krishna worshipper, lifting her
saffron robes and thrashing her out.
In the vicinity of nineteenth century Calcutta indigo
and salt were being produced in Prince Dwarkanath’s
estate. To paint the portrait of Sita, eloped by
Ravana, Paul Gauguin was putting up red hibiscuses
on his yellow Jesus.
Where have you brought me, O saviour!
There’s nothing like non-reality,
everything vibrates into tunes of love.
In a midnight private bus
Two middle-aged women wiped my blood and tears.
Calcutta, the city of ominous fertility
gives birth to acres of Art, merges the mundane into true sublime.
By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay
and placenta had gone out of our consciousness
then a mysterious lily cropped up in Subhankar’s glass.
In awe or anticipation cried out the two golden retrievers.
Throwing a stone bowl full of Belli flowers at the plasma TV,
Somnath shouted at me: Bastard! Are you
a jester or a magician black, who relish owl’s heart
with virgin’s blood.
Failing to pass the exams thrice at Taxila the boy
moved to Nalanda.
He, who meditated upon the Upanishadic philosophy of
Brahma – the creator and the created, spanked on the
buttocks of a loose Krishna worshipper, lifting her
saffron robes and thrashing her out.
In the vicinity of nineteenth century Calcutta indigo
and salt were being produced in Prince Dwarkanath’s
estate. To paint the portrait of Sita, eloped by
Ravana, Paul Gauguin was putting up red hibiscuses
on his yellow Jesus.
Where have you brought me, O saviour!
There’s nothing like non-reality,
everything vibrates into tunes of love.
In a midnight private bus
Two middle-aged women wiped my blood and tears.
Calcutta, the city of ominous fertility
gives birth to acres of Art, merges the mundane into true sublime.
By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Dy(e)ing Craft
Remember? After completing the designs,
you stretched the cloth across the frame
and fastened it with pins.
You always had beeswax-bars
in your pocket; smudging the silk
to avoid pigmentation. It looked
allid with the paraffin etched on its skin.
I took up where you left. Picking
colours—one or two, with a hint
of gloss. I daubed...daubed; colours rich
in subdued shades. Mixing and separating.
Nothing could seep in
through wax.
I wrung till the veins didn’t
crack. Dye-bathed till the colours
didn’t make seepage patterns.
The thousand suns has melted
the surface. The fabric now
is a vintage batik, mounted
on the walls, for the people to marvel.
~June Nandy
http://throughthestripedshirt.blogspot.com.
you stretched the cloth across the frame
and fastened it with pins.
You always had beeswax-bars
in your pocket; smudging the silk
to avoid pigmentation. It looked
allid with the paraffin etched on its skin.
I took up where you left. Picking
colours—one or two, with a hint
of gloss. I daubed...daubed; colours rich
in subdued shades. Mixing and separating.
Nothing could seep in
through wax.
I wrung till the veins didn’t
crack. Dye-bathed till the colours
didn’t make seepage patterns.
The thousand suns has melted
the surface. The fabric now
is a vintage batik, mounted
on the walls, for the people to marvel.
~June Nandy
http://throughthestripedshirt.blogspot.com.
Return
Got back around dark.
You were sad, and
hadn’t got out of bed all day.
There wasn’t much in the house.
I lit a candle.
We had hummus on crackers,
and lay close.
The little flame warmed us.
We will be ok.
by Doug Mathewson
You were sad, and
hadn’t got out of bed all day.
There wasn’t much in the house.
I lit a candle.
We had hummus on crackers,
and lay close.
The little flame warmed us.
We will be ok.
by Doug Mathewson
What approach to you take to writing poetry?
Is your approach formal or informal? Do you have a set time during the day or during the week when you write poetry? Or do you keep a pencil and a piece of paper at hand for when inspiration strikes?
My own approach is informal. I try to set aside time early in the day for writing, but sometimes I can't write anything during these periods. I have learned to jot down words that come to me all through the day, regardless of where I am and what else I might be doing. Many of these surprise inspirations go nowhere, but sometimes they are the beginning of my best poems.
How about you? Would anyone like to respond?
Jim Wittenberg
My own approach is informal. I try to set aside time early in the day for writing, but sometimes I can't write anything during these periods. I have learned to jot down words that come to me all through the day, regardless of where I am and what else I might be doing. Many of these surprise inspirations go nowhere, but sometimes they are the beginning of my best poems.
How about you? Would anyone like to respond?
Jim Wittenberg
sorrow
nameless christ
his redeeming angst
sacrificing
self
we think of robbing
his corpse
his death is perplexing
but what is he worth?
at what cost
his
excruciation?
the sorrows
his passing introduce
-- offbeatjim
1/26/2010
his redeeming angst
sacrificing
self
we think of robbing
his corpse
his death is perplexing
but what is he worth?
at what cost
his
excruciation?
the sorrows
his passing introduce
-- offbeatjim
1/26/2010
lost people by Jim Wittenberg
it’s the poetry of lost
people
we’re looking for
we don’t need to look for the poetry
of anyone we’ve already found
their words are accessible
everywhere
they’re so abundant we trip
over them like tripping over rocks
on an unpaved road
the poetry of lost people
is like air
ethereal
it disappears before we touch it
-- offbeatjim
12/28/2009
PLEASURE by Subhankar Das
PLEASURE
Who wants to recover
As if to get back to the normal state
The sharpness of the smoke that burns the eyes will abate
Will the heart call all the birds and talk
Deliver a great speech about the usefulness of a heavy wing
All the muscles of the leg will one day know
all the artistry of a failed flight
As the white of the teeth becomes familiar with the
free and easy parched-peas like this
Ages passed on account of prestige and
position or weight and importance just like a dog
As the fear and the whiteleciousness pry at every step they
cannot get familiar
or knowing everything to enjoy defeat they munch on time
This very pleasure he also knew halogen lights lie like the moonlight
The accounts of the day are drying up
and we have decorated all sides with wings
people
we’re looking for
we don’t need to look for the poetry
of anyone we’ve already found
their words are accessible
everywhere
they’re so abundant we trip
over them like tripping over rocks
on an unpaved road
the poetry of lost people
is like air
ethereal
it disappears before we touch it
-- offbeatjim
12/28/2009
PLEASURE by Subhankar Das
PLEASURE
Who wants to recover
As if to get back to the normal state
The sharpness of the smoke that burns the eyes will abate
Will the heart call all the birds and talk
Deliver a great speech about the usefulness of a heavy wing
All the muscles of the leg will one day know
all the artistry of a failed flight
As the white of the teeth becomes familiar with the
free and easy parched-peas like this
Ages passed on account of prestige and
position or weight and importance just like a dog
As the fear and the whiteleciousness pry at every step they
cannot get familiar
or knowing everything to enjoy defeat they munch on time
This very pleasure he also knew halogen lights lie like the moonlight
The accounts of the day are drying up
and we have decorated all sides with wings
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