The story of Kafka
The cyber city
The son of a farmer
Becomes an insect
He flies
from the flyover
And enters into the metro
With him
everything appears
Like that of fairy tales
Quickly
The metro train enters
Into the breast of a mod woman
Secretly
The poor son of the farmer
does not know how to get out of
this metro station
A dead body is left
In the delusion
And in the labyrinth
The cyber city
does not know
When the son of a farmer
enters into the story of Kafka
and say
We will die again and again …
Translated by,
Nandita Bhattacharya
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The story of Kafka
The cyber city
The son of a farmer
Becomes an insect
He flies
from the flyover
And enters into the metro
With him
everything appears
Like that of fairy tales
Quickly
The metro train enters
Into the breast of a mod woman
Secretly
The poor son of the farmer
does not know how to get out of
this metro station
A dead body is left
In the delusion
And in the labyrinth
The cyber city
does not know
When the son of a farmer
enters into the story of Kafka
and say
We will die again and again …
Translated by,
Nandita Bhattacharya
The cyber city
The son of a farmer
Becomes an insect
He flies
from the flyover
And enters into the metro
With him
everything appears
Like that of fairy tales
Quickly
The metro train enters
Into the breast of a mod woman
Secretly
The poor son of the farmer
does not know how to get out of
this metro station
A dead body is left
In the delusion
And in the labyrinth
The cyber city
does not know
When the son of a farmer
enters into the story of Kafka
and say
We will die again and again …
Translated by,
Nandita Bhattacharya
Monday, March 9, 2009
Eskimo Love
The candle looks likean Eskimo with a light in his hand
The cold waves of Antarcticaroll down like the sledgethrough this Suburban townStill now the love is like the cold lightevery one waiting inside the Igloolighting the lamp with the fatwhen does love arrive ?
Translated by,
Nandita Bhattacharya.
The candle looks likean Eskimo with a light in his hand
The cold waves of Antarcticaroll down like the sledgethrough this Suburban townStill now the love is like the cold lightevery one waiting inside the Igloolighting the lamp with the fatwhen does love arrive ?
Translated by,
Nandita Bhattacharya.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Place a mirror
before the loneliness of a poor man
Place a mirror
before the loneliness of a poor man
He will discover himself in his own way
He will find himself vanishing
like the villages too
In this globalisation
And the cyber people get the ticket
to survive in the global village.
Looking through the mirror
he will see his own nude entity
In front of the
shopping malls, inox and Flyover
He died and turned into stone long back
The hammer and the chisel of the sculptor
Make a model of him
in the showcase of the free market...
before the loneliness of a poor man
Place a mirror
before the loneliness of a poor man
He will discover himself in his own way
He will find himself vanishing
like the villages too
In this globalisation
And the cyber people get the ticket
to survive in the global village.
Looking through the mirror
he will see his own nude entity
In front of the
shopping malls, inox and Flyover
He died and turned into stone long back
The hammer and the chisel of the sculptor
Make a model of him
in the showcase of the free market...
Baba I want to be a Maoist
Roaming round the jungles and the hills
the small boy fixes his eyes at the television set
He watches two tribal women in the police van
The police have arrested them from the jungle
Why did they arrest them from the jungle?
The boy wonders…
Those two women sat quietly…like a bonfire
They had Maoist gun on their shoulders
The boy hides his face in the lap of his dad
And whispers Baba whom do they call a Maoist?
The father says : the poor fights their battles
from hide outs of jungles always
The boy is painting with his water colours
Seeing his Baba he hides his drawing in his bosom
The father ask what did you hide…tell me
The small boy says Baba I want to be a Maoist...
Roaming round the jungles and the hills
the small boy fixes his eyes at the television set
He watches two tribal women in the police van
The police have arrested them from the jungle
Why did they arrest them from the jungle?
The boy wonders…
Those two women sat quietly…like a bonfire
They had Maoist gun on their shoulders
The boy hides his face in the lap of his dad
And whispers Baba whom do they call a Maoist?
The father says : the poor fights their battles
from hide outs of jungles always
The boy is painting with his water colours
Seeing his Baba he hides his drawing in his bosom
The father ask what did you hide…tell me
The small boy says Baba I want to be a Maoist...
The works of Shakespeare in the
Postmodern era
In this world of SMS
Everyday there born Hamlet-Ophelia and
Romeo-Juliet
as if in Swan lake of Tchaikovsky
The baby dancers of nineteen-twenty years
rises up from the flyover to the
advertisements of
corporate houses
Ignoring the ground reality
They are thinking that
fie to these caste system--
upper low racism
But the world is still remain in
the days of
Manu and Nazi
The dinosaur administration awakes
the song of the death
in the Swan lake
Everyday there fall down in the lap of
the death
the song of love,
Hamlet-Ophelia,
the dancers of ballet
Rizwanur and Priyanka--
The electronic and print media
taking them together
compose the works of Shakespeare.
Postmodern era
In this world of SMS
Everyday there born Hamlet-Ophelia and
Romeo-Juliet
as if in Swan lake of Tchaikovsky
The baby dancers of nineteen-twenty years
rises up from the flyover to the
advertisements of
corporate houses
Ignoring the ground reality
They are thinking that
fie to these caste system--
upper low racism
But the world is still remain in
the days of
Manu and Nazi
The dinosaur administration awakes
the song of the death
in the Swan lake
Everyday there fall down in the lap of
the death
the song of love,
Hamlet-Ophelia,
the dancers of ballet
Rizwanur and Priyanka--
The electronic and print media
taking them together
compose the works of Shakespeare.
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