Sunday, October 11, 2009
2 Poems Of Aloke Biswas
The Heliotrope / The Photogem
They are not words, just jingling hemoglobin – turbulent in veins at the end of a different day. I saw a sounds cape in my travellogrammer at the edge of words. They have been roaming for ages on the music-misted peaks. The ancient periods of words were pouring slew of fogs close to the cardiac atrium as sound vocabs. Why I opened the pages of chirping dawn, why the great rhythm transformed into a drug-store rather than bursting into a symphony? Why I interpreted that the liquid Bohemian was sniffing a yes-walled mountain path camouflaged within the minus sign? The edge of the season that developed art of watching was getting widened gradually while the steely school syllabus narrower. The creeper of light thriving around the love-ladder held tight the ion-domed gene. The picnic of pico-inches, intoxicated tantrums filled up the lovelorn lover. The gun powdered erection, green hullabaloos at the windows….. the silent chorus of colour forced the idiot to come out in the mobbed exterior following retrospection. Who cares about the whistling champagne-penis? The decibel trees dance within thousands of crimson syllabi. The meritorious sun slaved hard to rid off wintry chill. Deconstructing the sunrays I would kiss the untouchable girl on my fantasy bed, I would kiss the tinkling of light in a disheveled farmer’s dress.
The door of sunrays expanded –
The storm and lashing rain entered haphazardly through
the gaping thirst!
There the wounded sunshine lies with requests and footnotes
and the autumn comfortable in the diction of ascent….
they are all very familiar, yet perpetually strange!
How the christening of the Dawn is yet unknown?
How the silvery scale of sun spurts open the sight?
Whose notes of Re Gaa Re! decoded in the symphony of dawn?
The whooshing love screeches to dead stop on my command to start
The vitamins stay unchanged even when the monitors crumble down!
Who said the wafting aroma of sandalwood-sound died
and the knickknacks got rusted?
Who predicted that the embittered gamebroidery of the sun
would be abandoned?
Who said that the vacuum cleaner swished down
the cascade of intellect with static fiery droplets?
And then who prompted that some areas got blessed with sunshine, but not all!
Aloke Biswas : These poems are translated from Bangla by the poet. Aloke writes in Bangla . Editor of Poetry Campus, a Bangla Lit Zine since 1991. He has 10 published books of poems.