 | help center | e-mail options | report spam |
| subhankar45 has shared a video with you on YouTube: An excerpt from the new film "Birth of A Pillow" by director Sharmy Pandey, Kolk An excerpt from the new film "Birth of A Pillow" by director Sharmy Pandey, Kolkata, India. The scene traces the guilt and self-destruction of a priest as he is distracted by a woman across the courtyard. film site: http://graffitiexpressions.blogspot.com/ music site: http://www.norumba.com more details: http://imdb.com/title/tt0963747/ | |
| © 2009 YouTube, LLC 901 Cherry Ave, San Bruno, CA 94066 | |
Graffiti-kolkata. This is our blogzine.We have been publishing stuff for a long long time in Bangla, now it is time for something in English.React and Shout like you always have.
Monday, June 29, 2009
subhankar45 sent you a video: "Birth of A Pillow - In the Shadow of a Holy Book"
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Calcutta City Blues – Spring Sonata
By Pradip Choudhuri
A hurricane penetrated her body
and died in a flash
her eyes quivered
she was petrified
she knew the trick
A real love story defies authenticity
it falls a little short of pornography
Most people cannot handle love properly
The story must unfold like never before
An illegitimate child eschews his mother’s love-life
A poet is the eternal husband
Most fathers are cannibals
She took her first flight
just after her wings were clipped
An electrified cord in hand
she did not reply
If I would telephone tomorrow
Such huge breasts without a soul,
my god
The society that never existed is garbage
The woman rode away at dusk
Ignorance sometimes defeats the great will
She’s destined to set history glow
follow her, fool!
Sensitivity makes and unmakes poets
She’ll be a living legend 7 days after my death
While burning,
charcoal darkens the area with smoke
Wagner met Basho at Sanjo-Shi
After the consummation of a long screw
she said she never meant it
and demanded a little peck
I have no idea
if the wooden bridge still links
route #5 with eternity
is there a hyacinth that still blooms?
They say my friend who was in love
died from cirrhosis of the liver
An open rice field in autumn
at the northern edge of town
she told me later
she knew she loved me as
I vanished to the horizon
making a 7-km stretch
When I last met her
I did not see her canine teeth and pink gums
she must have eaten plenty of animal flesh
including porcupine
I had written the de’nouement
long before the drama was conceived
Sheer chance that she should
play this bloody role at the altar of the muse
She’ll know how she’s been devastated
long after the completion of the trauma
The doctor maintained
it was infectious
but not malignant till now
he gave me two xray-slides
to have them rechecked with Duncan& Apollo
If she comes
I’m not sure to say “no”
definitely
I still love Stravinsky’s “Le sacre’ du printemps”
--this bloody spring
I heard people say
she was beautiful
so I wrote beautiful poems
I never felt like reviewing her form
nor question what beauty was
Love framed with words is called poetry
poetry begins by breaking the frame
My dear, don’t disturb your mother
when she is seated beside me
dispelling the darkness, else
it will spell disaster for the planet
Pradip Choudhuri : The Hungry Generation Movement included among its membership the young Pradip Choudhuri.He is a poet and has several poetry books and has edited several poetry journals since 1975 -- most recently, the long-running ppHOO.
A hurricane penetrated her body
and died in a flash
her eyes quivered
she was petrified
she knew the trick
A real love story defies authenticity
it falls a little short of pornography
Most people cannot handle love properly
The story must unfold like never before
An illegitimate child eschews his mother’s love-life
A poet is the eternal husband
Most fathers are cannibals
She took her first flight
just after her wings were clipped
An electrified cord in hand
she did not reply
If I would telephone tomorrow
Such huge breasts without a soul,
my god
The society that never existed is garbage
The woman rode away at dusk
Ignorance sometimes defeats the great will
She’s destined to set history glow
follow her, fool!
Sensitivity makes and unmakes poets
She’ll be a living legend 7 days after my death
While burning,
charcoal darkens the area with smoke
Wagner met Basho at Sanjo-Shi
After the consummation of a long screw
she said she never meant it
and demanded a little peck
I have no idea
if the wooden bridge still links
route #5 with eternity
is there a hyacinth that still blooms?
They say my friend who was in love
died from cirrhosis of the liver
An open rice field in autumn
at the northern edge of town
she told me later
she knew she loved me as
I vanished to the horizon
making a 7-km stretch
When I last met her
I did not see her canine teeth and pink gums
she must have eaten plenty of animal flesh
including porcupine
I had written the de’nouement
long before the drama was conceived
Sheer chance that she should
play this bloody role at the altar of the muse
She’ll know how she’s been devastated
long after the completion of the trauma
The doctor maintained
it was infectious
but not malignant till now
he gave me two xray-slides
to have them rechecked with Duncan& Apollo
If she comes
I’m not sure to say “no”
definitely
I still love Stravinsky’s “Le sacre’ du printemps”
--this bloody spring
I heard people say
she was beautiful
so I wrote beautiful poems
I never felt like reviewing her form
nor question what beauty was
Love framed with words is called poetry
poetry begins by breaking the frame
My dear, don’t disturb your mother
when she is seated beside me
dispelling the darkness, else
it will spell disaster for the planet
Pradip Choudhuri : The Hungry Generation Movement included among its membership the young Pradip Choudhuri.He is a poet and has several poetry books and has edited several poetry journals since 1975 -- most recently, the long-running ppHOO.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Two Poems Of Subhankar Das
DISTANCE
Doesnot matter whether it is Subhankar or no Subhankar.
Carrying my own corpse like this. No strength in the whole body.
The crumbling structure cage gradually bends and then becomes
smaller getting rounded. Rain water imprisoned in the
eye balls of my hand. The wind sucks-in sun salts. The way
I die would tell about that courage. This is enough. The
light of the sky and wind are sullen. It seems it is raining
but not actually. My knowledge may not be perfect. Oh my
wings. My wings.Wings. My wings. Because there is fire
in the wings--the bones of the featherless wings are
flying in the wind. Just now, they would lie on this paper.
Side by side. My wings, my bones, my hair.
The Colourful Cockroach
Instead of this piece, I wish to paint a big cockroach --
Small thorns in its long legs create shiverings.
Assume that this piece of writing is a colourful cockroach
just after a while it would fly away with a flapping sound.
Are you afraid of cockroaches?
When cockroach flies in your room helty-skelty--
You call your maid with a loud cry
and ask her to kill the cockroach
but if the cockroach too gets coloured!
If while getting coloured, it becomes a butterfly,
then you would have loved it.
You would not have thought of the drain,
the hole in the basin,
of the commod's backside,
or of the pan of the urinal,
the cockroach which has fallen into any of them
and trying to rise with outmost effort
even while seeing this, you are pissing upon it
with devilish pleasure and a little bit fearfully,
you would not have remembered, that
if a little bit more colourful it would have become,
with its wings getting shaped like a plant,
then you would not have jumped up if it sat upon your body
rather you would have looked coyly
or thought about that girl
around whose head, not butterflies rather cockroaches
circle in hundreds.
These two poems were translated from bangla by Bishwajit Sen and was published in Postmodern Bangla Poetry 2003. Editors Samir Roychowdhury, Tushar Gayen and Kamrul Hassan.
Subhankar Das :Writer,Producer,Publisher of Bangla experimental stuff.Produced 6 short films with more than 16 international film festival fame and appreciation.Has 16 published books of Bangla poetry.Translator Of Allen Ginsberg's poems in Bangla
Doesnot matter whether it is Subhankar or no Subhankar.
Carrying my own corpse like this. No strength in the whole body.
The crumbling structure cage gradually bends and then becomes
smaller getting rounded. Rain water imprisoned in the
eye balls of my hand. The wind sucks-in sun salts. The way
I die would tell about that courage. This is enough. The
light of the sky and wind are sullen. It seems it is raining
but not actually. My knowledge may not be perfect. Oh my
wings. My wings.Wings. My wings. Because there is fire
in the wings--the bones of the featherless wings are
flying in the wind. Just now, they would lie on this paper.
Side by side. My wings, my bones, my hair.
The Colourful Cockroach
Instead of this piece, I wish to paint a big cockroach --
Small thorns in its long legs create shiverings.
Assume that this piece of writing is a colourful cockroach
just after a while it would fly away with a flapping sound.
Are you afraid of cockroaches?
When cockroach flies in your room helty-skelty--
You call your maid with a loud cry
and ask her to kill the cockroach
but if the cockroach too gets coloured!
If while getting coloured, it becomes a butterfly,
then you would have loved it.
You would not have thought of the drain,
the hole in the basin,
of the commod's backside,
or of the pan of the urinal,
the cockroach which has fallen into any of them
and trying to rise with outmost effort
even while seeing this, you are pissing upon it
with devilish pleasure and a little bit fearfully,
you would not have remembered, that
if a little bit more colourful it would have become,
with its wings getting shaped like a plant,
then you would not have jumped up if it sat upon your body
rather you would have looked coyly
or thought about that girl
around whose head, not butterflies rather cockroaches
circle in hundreds.
These two poems were translated from bangla by Bishwajit Sen and was published in Postmodern Bangla Poetry 2003. Editors Samir Roychowdhury, Tushar Gayen and Kamrul Hassan.
Subhankar Das :Writer,Producer,Publisher of Bangla experimental stuff.Produced 6 short films with more than 16 international film festival fame and appreciation.Has 16 published books of Bangla poetry.Translator Of Allen Ginsberg's poems in Bangla
Thursday, June 4, 2009
2 Poems Of Ateendriya Pathak
Come Some Day
Come to our home someday
I’ll show you the portrait of Tapati, Anal’s too
Faded yet you will know them
Change Tapati’s name if you will,
Tear Anal to pieces
May you raise a wall before me
It is you provided me with this home
Lest my feet touch them
With caution I’ve thrown the flowers
And the sacred leaves into the waste
Come someday they will tell you all
Even if a wall stands in front
The pictures are hung on the walls
They gather dust, spiders weave
And the pictures get a wrap
Knots tangle up my words
I am helpless inside the mesh
I cannot come out of the wrappings
Come someday and see all
Tapati and Anal and me
Our room, arranged table, wrapping on the table
And dust on the wrapping
I Grow Old
I look on
The boys go, the girls
The green fades on my person
Pale dry branches stretch
Motionless I stand
I grow old
They set me aside
Their gaiety goes on day and night
Who are they, who fathered them
Desperate they cross the bounds of birth
And march on
In full swing the fete unbearable
In the light in the darkness in the light in the darkness
In a circle within a circle
They have the glow of fire
Charred with fire their everything
They know how to burst into flames
But know not what it is to be burnt
Helpless I grow old
Leaving them to themselves
All the nights and days
Here I have the grey evenings
Colours shed on the way
Deep darkness lies ahead
As I fathom the depths of darkness
I grow old
Translated from Bangla : Satyendu Gupta
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)