by Debi Ray
(Malar Jonya translated by Howard McCord)
Let me fall into your moving, delicate breasts.
Each one is a goblet of poison and pain
and only a handful---
a little lump of flesh my palm can swallow.
A cheek. Look here!
This heart-lance, meek with 26 years---no anger, please.
Sit a while on the pillow of my lap.
Youth is that it should linger for ten summers.
The days are short that we are in the world.
Don't climb on the bridge.
Don't let your eyes follow the train
driven by electricity
Take me in your breasts and keep me from fear.
Let your hand touch my testicles.
I don't want to be hurt
and I am afraid of the knives and forks
on the tables of cafes.
I am much afraid of the bloodlessness
caught in te years' youth.
Relieve me, if you wish I will
buy you a bull-terrier
for the taste of your body.
We have only a few days
on this earth.
Only a few days.
Swimming With Henry Miller
by Pradip Choudhuri
(Henry Millerer Sangey Santar translated by Jyotirmoy Datta)
Not much traffic here, I can easily remove my head from the trunk and lay it aside, move the bottoms from their place, can get entrapped without looking at my body, merely by lifting up my face from this cold sand in this cold sun, or else I run down the avenue, Hotel Du Mauriere, trash, trash, after that strange cold I feel out of sorts for days, nothing seems to jell, a coffee less week, as I return to the Bengali language from my exile, or as I read Corso's poetry sitting at home, or swim in the bathtub with Henry Miller (nowadays I don't), naked, naturally, O God, I have to be at least about that even when turning non-human, or else my unspeakable chin has moved 1/5", constipation in 1965, someone tears my mustache and munches on them, rots in my skin bag the juice of wasted youth---crossing the sky, I walk alone deep in the heart of the sky---
by Subo Acharya
(Ekti Kobita translated by Jyotirmoy Datta)
Men do live and men do die
good men live and bad men too
bad men die and good men live
good men die and bad men live
how men come to harm and what is harm
the secret fever rises in my heart
my empty skull is crooked and tired
bones in my cracked skin also crack
men do live and men do die.
by Tridib Mitra
(Aami Ebang translated by poet)
Autumn's phantasmagorical tempest
I at the door of 1964
wooden knocks--who are you wood pecker?
What is this?
chances dreams haha reality's become more dense
still boozed in love?
another revolt squanders like 1857 thrashes
Fire in Shantiniketan, fire here at Calcutta
In Midnapore Shyambazar Khalasitola
Fire in eyes face heart cock
This fireball gnarling
in happiness hatred pain intellect dream reality
All---junk--ho ho smoke net---
tinsel like groundnut
all around chirping
afar angry shadows roar, flounder on earth...