Black Coffee

Yesterday while having a cup of Americano in a coffee shop
I suddenly felt I am new in this city where
I was born and lived all these time.

I have never seen these leaves laden with so much dust.
Even the sunlight playing with those ugly leaves is so golden yellow.
I was just taking in the air which slashed through the simmering coffee
smell.

Unknown roads moving here and there remain unknown in this
carnival of life. I open my shoes and light a cigarette just below the
no smoking sign. They are so bored they don’t say anything anymore.

Poetry Reading at New Delhi

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A BODY LYING WITHIN A BODY

(FOR FLORA VASCONCELOS)

There is always a city inside a city

a reality inside a reality

and it loves to elude the tourists

who have come to capture the snaps.

 

She was a tourist there in Saraybumu

trying to see all the one million objects

housed in three museums

surrounded by guardian soldiers.

 

After some time she needed a leak

and asked a soldier where the woman’s toilet was,

he led her through a big door and pointed.

She entered, all alone, into an enormous empty chamber

with no toilet to be found.

 

Once again she asked the soldier for

the woman’s toilet,

and again he guided her back to the same door.

The same emptiness.

 

When she complained he crossed

the chamber and pointed to a small hole

in the stone floor, over which he parted

his legs and enacted a squat, then

pulled her by the sleeve and ordered her to pee.

 

Sometimes you need to pee in the sink -

And that is what I am doing right now.

Another Ordinary Day by Subhankar Das (2011)

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 07, 2012

Another Ordinary Day by Subhankar Das (2011)

Another Ordinary Day
Subhankar Das
Ten Pages Press
(c)2011

This thin chapbook was “published” as an e-book in 2011. I have no recollection how it landed in my stash. Considering the poet lives in Kolkata, India where he runs the Graffiti Kolkatabookstore, it isn’t like he knocked on my door one day and hand-delivered it to me. Perhaps in my overactive dreamworld he did, but not in the waking hours.

12 pages, staple-bound. Cover drawing. The poetry is very nice and as I am writing this I am listening to a Ravi Shankar raga randomly selected for me by itunes. Very interesting indeed.

UPDATE: It was sent to me by a poet/friend of mine! Okay, that mystery is solved.

CHAP*BOOKS

POSTED BY STEVENALLENMAY AT 12:46 PM  

The Muffled Sounds By Subhankar Das

THE MUFFLED SOUNDS
SUBHANKAR DAS

Twelfth Man

I do not remember it anymore
I do not remember the date anymore
but still April is the cruelest month
and on someday in April
my friend Subhash died of a heart attack
without treatment suffering at a free hospital
for eight long hours
the twelfth man who has no rights or claims
who comes and vanishes
falls on the way to be replaced immediately
by another.

Some-fucking-day I will drop dead here and nobody
will know, Subhash paused, his right hand up in mid air
and his fingers playing on an invisible piano.

Subhash was a writer who danced with
other little men in this
stark naked local hooch shop and melted
in thin air asking for a glass of drink
for he was all dry.

I do not remember the date
but still April is the cruelest month.

Ma

Ma did not have a dressing table. Maybe she liked her defective hand mirror’s self that emanated from the tired dusk like light like a drop of love. Running behind a dragon fly, crossing over again and again a dilapidated brick wall, an experience of a wet and sordid world like an age old breathing marked self imprints on my breast pocket. It resembled a crumpled winter afternoon’s tidbit made of tamarind, salt and chilly that left forever its tangy taste on my tongue. The dragon fly wasn’t named in those days. Then it never occurred to me that it’s a statutory to give a name to everything, it’s a must; as I did not know then the meaning of a dressing table or anything about its dazzle and cries.

It is said, my hair resembles my mother. Standing before the dressing table mirror I look at my ruffled hair and search for my mother in the long flowing locks. I don’t go to the hairdresser anymore. I have preserved the pale ribbon, a tip of which she held in her teeth to tie her hair and the memories of those evenings in a box, so that ants do not eat it up.

Be careful, son
Take care, my son
Stay at peace, my son

I take care and I stay wrong. In outmost care whom would I give those fountain-cherished days, to take care of? Who will try and understand the smell of the colorless withered ribbon.

Forget about me; just ponder over the closeness of the two bodies. Consider those poses and reflexes – the falsity too.
Feel the touch of the soft feet. Just feel the touch of the fingertips on the burning forehead. Without applied color you and empty and a zero.

But I saw the color that oozed out of her face.
I knew she was the doe, who wanted to go beyond the violence of the air,
leaving a single earthen lamp burning in the deserted hall.

Third Eye Kick Ups – 1

The Serpent inside you will now wake up
from its long sleep and you
will know who is your friend and who is your enemy
he said.
Fuck, who needs now another rising serpent,
as it is I do not have a woman for last
two months.

Third Eye Kick Ups – 2

Nobody wants to hear truth
because it never is stranger than fiction
and your third eye never helps you
to see any better either.

Rainy Day – 1

Love is like a bullet
whistling down the wind
on a rainy day
nothing left to prove.

Rainy Day – 2

The rain is washing everything away
the cigarette buts from the night
the dust on the leaves
the ink from the words
of the crumpled pages in the bin
only the memories and mistakes
remain unwashed.

Game

you are playing a double game
she said
promising both of us the same moon.

i know I am soft
and crave for all these
lunar moments of eternity
as forever does not mean anything anymore.

I would love to play a triple game
instead,
one for my heart

It’s time I think.

Jump

Why does it hurt
when I know I have to leave you
Why does it hurt
when I know it is the end
Why does it hurt

The frog jumps and jumps and jumps
as if the school days are not yet over
as if the story has something
a twist at the end
Waiting for this
Waiting in that jump
and the space closes in
the walls the rivers the endless life

The Muffled Sounds

and rain save us
wash away all the good news and pain
dabbed all over this paper
and the muffled sound of the man
who jumped out of the balcony.

the well dressed guy
actually wanted to fly to the roof top
of the house in front
where this girl caressed the rain.

is the force of repulsion
stronger than a wish.

Pacifier

I am not in mood,
I have a bad headache this morning—
and she pushed a pacifier in my mouth
to suck on.

Baby safe silicone soother nipple
Extra soft more elastic more durable
than the real.

Spitting it out
I walked out to the veranda and lit a
cigarette and sucked in the smoke instead

Shooting Poops

Shooting stars are so rare these days just as our wishes.
I saw a man shoot past my window
With one end of his red towel tucked to
his shoulder. But Superman is long dead, this
must be a replacement.
But he has forgotten to wear his undie
over his trousers today. Maybe it is still wet
from last night’s rain.

Talking of undies I remember all those holes
I have in my nickel friendly one that
my balls always poops out from one or the other.

I should make a wish now but this guy is
so busy fixing up the world will he have time
even to think about those few hole poop oops.

Black Coffee

Yesterday while having a cup of Americano in a coffee shop I suddenly felt I am new in this city where I was born and lived all these time. I have never seen these leaves laden with so much dust. Even the sunlight playing with those ugly leaves is so golden yellow. I was just taking in the air which slashed through the simmering coffee smell. Unknown roads moving here and there remain unknown in this carnival of life. I open my shoes and light a cigarette just below the no smoking sign. They are so bored they don’t say anything anymore.

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Most of the poems in this collection have previously appeared or will appear in different zines for which I am thankful to Guerilla Pamphlets, Full of Crow, Blink Ink, Danse Macabre, Mad Swirl and Graffiti Kolkata Broadside and were originally written in Bangla translated by the poet into English.

NOTICE OF COPYRIGHT

THE ORIGINAL MATERIAL COMPRISING THIS COLLECTION IS COPYRIGHTED 2012 BY THE AUTHOR. FIRST EDITION. NO ORIGINAL MATERIAL MAY BE COPIED OR REUSED WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.TITLE IMAGE BY SUBHANKAR DAS.A BOOKS ON BLOG™ PUBLICATION ISSUED FEBUARY 2012 BY THE CAMEL SALOON.

“BY THE BANKS OF THE AJOY…” REVIEWED BY FEDERICA NIGHTINGALE

The last poetry collection by Subhankar Das, “By the Banks of the Ajoy, Jaideb Vanishes into the Blue”, is a true jump into a world of images and stunning views of ordinary life. Edited by Virgogray Press, the book is printed bilingual, in English and Bangla. The title poem of the book alludes to authors Henry Miller and Henry Denander while mingling with echoes of Bangla lore of the mythical poet Jaideb who lived by the river Ajoy. The poet’s poetic language and voice — a mix of traditions — with the peculiar match of bilinguism, give the reader an enlightened view on the puzzle of existence, as well as the surreal effect of transforming every verse into a necessary path which leads to the Truth. Natural elements are the stones on which the poet inscribes his visions, by drawing a straight line that separates appearances from substance. Voices from the past, memories, and the blues often populate the lengthy free verse, telling us short stories of love and melancholy, while a disenchanted eye of resignation keeps looking forward toward success.

Subhankar Das’ poetic world is strictly cynical, apparently hopeless; beauty is a mere misunderstanding, a conflict turned into slapstick comedy. Pervading the whole book is a pessimistic vein in which life and death alternate between despair and nothingness, causing a loss of trust in love, which could be the only anchor. The long prose poem that is the collection’s title piece can be considered to be the manifestation of the author’s exploration of life’s mysteries, black holes, and unsolved responses, his search for a way to human nature and nature’s signs. A powerful visionary grasps at a gleam of hope. Without doubt, this is a worthwhile and inspiring read.

“That pretty fish in my aquarium who loved me so dearly is gone

today. Why do they all go? Where do they go? There is a staying

in every going away. All the rocks are but mad. They have lost

their stoniness in these magical lights, unknowingly, that’s why

instead of the heart there plays a light. She’s not here but I see

her sitting on a chair every day with her tresses flowing,

thinking unmindful.”

(from the poem By the Banks of Ajoy, Jaideb Vanishes into the Blue)

Federica Nightingale is a poet, writer and translator. She is Editor in Chief of  Project Collage (Errant Editions Small Digital Publisher).

My new poetry chap book of poems : BY THE BANKS OF AJOY, JAIDEB VANISHES INTO THE BLUE

http://networkedblogs.com/s6lkg

The season of murder

It is the season of murder and dust
but it is not like a bullet.
The warmth of the setting sun comes
rushing on the letters.
It is the very longing to be black
but all chairs would be removed.
Let’s not talk about swaying, the glasses
would enter into my eyes.
Continuous searching of my body
does not yield any truth any yearning for the past.
Only the dream glasses that covers
the habitual hollow looks.
Tearing away the sleep the nails
and looking at the mesmerizing shadows
of the lustful tingling.

22 Poems of Charles Bukowski in Bangla Translation

planning a mini chap book of 22 poems by Charles Bukowski translated into Bangla by me….. this might be the cover……

Just learned from my poet friend Jay Passer that Buke smoked bidis the last dozen years of his life…

Ok then cool Indian bidis and poems by Buke for you very soon now..

 

By the banks of Ajoy, Jaideb vanishes into the blue

Jaideb’s sweet meat shop is long gone.  Why did he leave with that
lady-spirit of Mudiali, to sell sweets in Hydra? Why do they all go?
Where do they go?? In every going there is a staying back.
The flower which steals the breaking blues of the ocean is known as
Hydra. Hercules had killed, almost killed that nine-headed beast.
Where of all places did he bury the lone immortal head? Where?
Fragrance of the long-lost memories fills the air, whose gust kisses
the cyclopean rocks and grasses.

She ran up to me and kissed and kissed.  The entwined existence
enjoyed the pleasure-blinks while I forgot the vacillating fingers and
the predictable disaster. Who knew, it was but a greeting. It happens
all the time when the sun kisses the lemon tree in the neighboring
garden, Oh Yes! Its lemon and not olive, I know. Wine and sour olives
have stung my palate again and again so often.

The beautiful maidens sing no more the death song while spreading the
insect poison. Here the death song is to run from one mountain peak to
another in one breath and smuggle the body bugs in the rough waves of
locks. It is easy, to be Mr. Blue in this blue & white land. Henry
Denandar knew how words of poetry could escape, only to be captured as
colours, someplace else. That Mr. Blue never could know. But the girl
knew that all too well. So also knew Henry Miller that silence, a
pause in the musical score of creation by an expert calligrapher.

That pretty fish in my aquarium who loved me so dearly is gone today.
Why do they all go? Where do they go? There is a staying in every
going away. All the rocks are but mad. They have lost their stoniness
in these magical lights, unknowingly, that’s why instead of the heart
there plays a light. She’s not here but I see her sitting on a chair
every day with her tresses flowing, thinking unmindful. I do not look
at her, for she may leave again, intrigued, floating away with the
pretty fish. She did although ask for a kiss someday.  The “Kathal
Champa” flower also needs profound sunlight to blossom. All trees know
that, know the death-madness, childish silliness of hatred. But how do
I call her in this darkness, will she find her way?  As though the
darkness, pleasure would be safe if she found her way.

The wine sellers know how to quench the thirst, the unending craving
of man mad for words. Everybody thinks they know everything, in
reality nothing is ever known. There is no need to know anything. No
need to recognize anything. While having tablets one might have to
advise against it someday. To love, someone must learn to un-love
first. As the word will become his shield so everyday the disaster
comes to beg for his shield, takes back all the failures, all the
realities, all the dead pledges.

The red skies and eyes are blue; the evening is just falling on the
apartment.  Shall it cover the apartment entirely! Tell that woman who
is doing the rain dance for me in her dry garden across several
thousand seas, it is raining incessantly here.  In peaceful deep
slumber lay the two tired dogs and the itching bugs. And over my
entire body play the gleeful immortality of the pretty fishes and the
madness of those lights.