tomake pathai churno megher chithi,
ekhane ekhon brishti porob jano?
hemonte shesh pantho nibash ghire
jomechilo joto jhora pata aar dhulo
dujonei jani ,shekhane jabo na fire
bondho agol khulbe na kokhono.
ekhane aakash normo jhorae raate
ekhono ekhane jadu prodiper jin
ichche puron biloe dedar hathe
elei na hoe sudhte na-bola reen
tai abelae churno megher chithi
mone ache aajo ,brishti tomar prio
durer statione choriyecho dalpala
chithi nai nile,jol kona guli niyo -
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007,9:50 AM
brishti porob-Tathagatake
khub bhalo laglo :)