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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Rough Travel by Jeffrey S. Callico
Beyond the mundane lies the secret prompts of an eternity. They allures us as little agent provocateurs in soft, almost silent voices to tear us away from what is every day, routine and filled with murky humdrums.
Call of an eternity or the gloom of the daily life, to say which of this is more obscure, is undoubtedly the enigma that mankind desired to solve forever in human history. Poetry is one of those forms that run foremost in attempting to solve this puzzle.
But there is a catch here. Infinity is often found in a battling position with the daily. Moments fight against non-moments, what is eternal goes up in arms against the immediate. Love is palpably an obscure emotion we normally associate with eternity. In love we long to associate. Hatred is recognizably momentous. In hatred we strive to dissociate.
What better place can there be to experience this inherent violence of this two way journey that fumes, blasts, disintegrates in a fury but then again echoes with the sweetest sounds of longings, than what we call ‘home’.
Jeffrey S. Calico, in his recent collection of poems, Rough Travel, touched upon this theme of domestic alienation and pathos in all its subtle nuances but with a certain disenchantment that only a bio-lab’s scalpel has for a corpse on the table.
In one of the most beautiful short piece in this collection, he says,
Inferred
The talk we had
The other day was
Not worth our breath
You keep to yourself
I keep myself to you
Jeffrey, I believe, has that rare talent of speaking a sea even when he is only talking about a dew drop.
And to slightly add on to that I would say the poet in Jeff can truly work miracles with the most ordinary objects and behavior found in any household as such. In his poems they break away from their known relations and fondles into other unknown ones.
Gravity
The sound I make
Rising wakes the
Kid then the house
Is in its fullness
There is no escape
From the television
The cathode nipple
Still needs sucking.
Use of cathode next to nipple opens up a port that spills drudgery, boredom and something violently erotic at the same time.
Thanks to Graffiti-Kolkata for bringing in such a beautiful collection to us.
Review article : Sarbajit Sarkar
Call of an eternity or the gloom of the daily life, to say which of this is more obscure, is undoubtedly the enigma that mankind desired to solve forever in human history. Poetry is one of those forms that run foremost in attempting to solve this puzzle.
But there is a catch here. Infinity is often found in a battling position with the daily. Moments fight against non-moments, what is eternal goes up in arms against the immediate. Love is palpably an obscure emotion we normally associate with eternity. In love we long to associate. Hatred is recognizably momentous. In hatred we strive to dissociate.
What better place can there be to experience this inherent violence of this two way journey that fumes, blasts, disintegrates in a fury but then again echoes with the sweetest sounds of longings, than what we call ‘home’.
Jeffrey S. Calico, in his recent collection of poems, Rough Travel, touched upon this theme of domestic alienation and pathos in all its subtle nuances but with a certain disenchantment that only a bio-lab’s scalpel has for a corpse on the table.
In one of the most beautiful short piece in this collection, he says,
Inferred
The talk we had
The other day was
Not worth our breath
You keep to yourself
I keep myself to you
Jeffrey, I believe, has that rare talent of speaking a sea even when he is only talking about a dew drop.
And to slightly add on to that I would say the poet in Jeff can truly work miracles with the most ordinary objects and behavior found in any household as such. In his poems they break away from their known relations and fondles into other unknown ones.
Gravity
The sound I make
Rising wakes the
Kid then the house
Is in its fullness
There is no escape
From the television
The cathode nipple
Still needs sucking.
Use of cathode next to nipple opens up a port that spills drudgery, boredom and something violently erotic at the same time.
Thanks to Graffiti-Kolkata for bringing in such a beautiful collection to us.
Review article : Sarbajit Sarkar
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 09 # July'10
Now retained by the US customs since 18 June '10, the 10 printed copies which I sent to her......
Saturday, June 19, 2010
before light enters upon your solitude
slowly breathe
repeat the words of your prayers in the darkness
before light enters upon your solitude
hold your thoughts close
to your heart
only you understand the trauma
only you understand the terror
the hours belonging to the night belong to you
you are lost in the daylight
fear has blue eyes the same shade as the sky
& you are tired of running, tired of running
tired
of
running
slowly breathe
repeat the words of your prayers in the darkness
before light enters upon your solitude
kiss sleep fully on the lips
and welcome her into your deathbed
growing old is the most satisfying of your dreams
where will you be
when you next awaken?
By Jim Wittenberg
5/26/2010
repeat the words of your prayers in the darkness
before light enters upon your solitude
hold your thoughts close
to your heart
only you understand the trauma
only you understand the terror
the hours belonging to the night belong to you
you are lost in the daylight
fear has blue eyes the same shade as the sky
& you are tired of running, tired of running
tired
of
running
slowly breathe
repeat the words of your prayers in the darkness
before light enters upon your solitude
kiss sleep fully on the lips
and welcome her into your deathbed
growing old is the most satisfying of your dreams
where will you be
when you next awaken?
By Jim Wittenberg
5/26/2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Yet there's no pain
Federica Nightingale
Yet there’s no pain in your eyes,
dim is the strange breath I breathe,
coaching tears to fall,
tantalizing crooks of bread
instead of sharing.
Go ahead,
far away from my brow,
keep me safe from your narrow lips
The cherry-tree becomes so tender
beneath that low sky
Give me back my hopes
Give me back my proposals
I’m red and mature to be haunted,
you’re my tragedy and my forgiveness
to be accepted instead of mercy.
Yet there’s no pain in your eyes
Federica Nightingale was born in Turin (Italy).She is a poet and translator.
Yet there’s no pain in your eyes,
dim is the strange breath I breathe,
coaching tears to fall,
tantalizing crooks of bread
instead of sharing.
Go ahead,
far away from my brow,
keep me safe from your narrow lips
The cherry-tree becomes so tender
beneath that low sky
Give me back my hopes
Give me back my proposals
I’m red and mature to be haunted,
you’re my tragedy and my forgiveness
to be accepted instead of mercy.
Yet there’s no pain in your eyes
Federica Nightingale was born in Turin (Italy).She is a poet and translator.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Incantation
An emaciated mother-horse was telling the lore’s of Mongolia to her feeble young one while feeding him on the grassy patch opposite Academy.
The last golden rays of the rain-drenched day emanated the fairy of the Victoria Memorial. The remaining greens of the Esplanade and Lady Ranu’s* pigeon-blue aristocratic detachment.
Discussing about the eminent war between terrorism and imperialism I, with my friend, were moving towards liquid fire crossing over poetry sessions and art exhibitions.
In Calcutta’s ambiance of nihilism and depression, hedonism, lust and hypocrisy blossom like flowers—
The homes had been broken. All the promises and holy rituals had been swept away.
In the polluted Ganga hilsa and beauty does not exist anymore.
Cursed embryos, burnt wood and stifled time flow by in low tides,
The unheard incantation of the mother-horse brought into my memory the tribal flute player of Singhbhum, the moonlit night that smelled of my mother.
*Lady Ranu Mukherjee established the first art exhibition hall of Calcutta –The Academy Of Fine Arts.
By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay
The last golden rays of the rain-drenched day emanated the fairy of the Victoria Memorial. The remaining greens of the Esplanade and Lady Ranu’s* pigeon-blue aristocratic detachment.
Discussing about the eminent war between terrorism and imperialism I, with my friend, were moving towards liquid fire crossing over poetry sessions and art exhibitions.
In Calcutta’s ambiance of nihilism and depression, hedonism, lust and hypocrisy blossom like flowers—
The homes had been broken. All the promises and holy rituals had been swept away.
In the polluted Ganga hilsa and beauty does not exist anymore.
Cursed embryos, burnt wood and stifled time flow by in low tides,
The unheard incantation of the mother-horse brought into my memory the tribal flute player of Singhbhum, the moonlit night that smelled of my mother.
*Lady Ranu Mukherjee established the first art exhibition hall of Calcutta –The Academy Of Fine Arts.
By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Two Poems of Gary Cummiskey
Intimate lives
It is an evening in September.
You are typing
in the next room.
The cat slips out of the window as
the horse slips in.
Soon the details of our intimate lives
will be pasted on
major billboards
throughout the city.
Animals
They led the animals
Two by two
Into the ark
Not to save them
But to slaughter
Them to
Physical
Extinction
Until they time
When they would
Reappear
Centuries later
In various
Colours, shapes
And densities
In our
dreams
Gary Cummiskey is the author of several collections of poems and the founder of Dye Hard Press. He has published literary and cultural commentaries in South African media. He lives in Johannesburg.
It is an evening in September.
You are typing
in the next room.
The cat slips out of the window as
the horse slips in.
Soon the details of our intimate lives
will be pasted on
major billboards
throughout the city.
Animals
They led the animals
Two by two
Into the ark
Not to save them
But to slaughter
Them to
Physical
Extinction
Until they time
When they would
Reappear
Centuries later
In various
Colours, shapes
And densities
In our
dreams
Gary Cummiskey is the author of several collections of poems and the founder of Dye Hard Press. He has published literary and cultural commentaries in South African media. He lives in Johannesburg.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
GRAFFITI KOLKATA BROADSIDE # 06 # April 2010
Welcome to the sixth issue of GKB. Submissions are on for the next issue.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # 05 # March 2010
Cheers....it's back ....the new Issue of GRAFFITI KOLKATA BROADSIDE.
Edited and designed by Sharmy Pandey.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Virgogray Press Online: The Stark Electric Space (Graffiti Kolkata)
Virgogray Press Online: The Stark Electric Space (Graffiti Kolkata)
virgograypress.blogspot.com
The Stark Electric Space: An International Anthology of Indie Writers (Graffiti Kolkata, 2010). Virgogray Press is proud to distribute Graffiti Kolkata's first international anthhology, The stark Electric Space! ...
virgograypress.blogspot.com
The Stark Electric Space: An International Anthology of Indie Writers (Graffiti Kolkata, 2010). Virgogray Press is proud to distribute Graffiti Kolkata's first international anthhology, The stark Electric Space! ...
Sunday, February 21, 2010
CHEERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Finally the fast relief from blocked nose of the sniffer dogs the books are released from NY customs.. that is what the tracking shows but yet to be delivered !!!! Cheers !!!!Thanks for raising your voice in protest which acted almost like Xylometazoline Hydrochloride Nasal Solution!!!!! :))
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
An Open Letter By Jim Wittenberg
2/15/2010
The Stark Electric Space, an international anthology of indie writers, was recently collected, published and printed by Subhankar Das of Kolkata, India.
It features work by Malay Roychoudhury, Aleathia Drehmar, Parnab Mukherjee, Bob Rosenthal, Sharmy Pandey, Samir Roychoudhury, Shankarnath Chakraborty, Yannis Livadas, Boel Schenlaer, Sreedhar Mukhopadhyay, Paula Dawn, Arunabh Banerjee, Joseph Goosey, Ateendriya Pathak, Erik Vatne, Yasmeen Najmi, Pradip Choudhury, Sara Moss, Aloke Biswas, Jeff Callico, Federica Nightingle, Michael Aaron Casares, Subhankar Das, Heather Fowler, Subhash Ghosh, Tim Hall, Jim Wittenberg, Maria Grazia Galata, Henry Avignon, Elli Griva, Swadesh Misra and Selim Morshed.
It can be purchased by contacting Subhankar Das.
A more serious issue is that copies of the anthology have been confiscated coming into the United States. My two copies arrived the other day in the mail, but the package did look as if it had been opened by someone along the way. As a contributer to the anthology I can’t see anything in its pages that would make this necessary. It includes poetry, stories, pictures and art. Is it because it’s coming from southern Asia? The last I heard the United States was not at war with India. Has something happened in the news that has slipped by me?
What should be done about this? What can we expect to happen next if US Customs agents are confiscating literature at the airport? Is this no longer a free society?
Does anyone has any suggestions how this should be dealt with? Or is it better for us to bury our heads in the dirt? Email me at: offbeatjim@sbcglobal.net
The Stark Electric Space, an international anthology of indie writers, was recently collected, published and printed by Subhankar Das of Kolkata, India.
It features work by Malay Roychoudhury, Aleathia Drehmar, Parnab Mukherjee, Bob Rosenthal, Sharmy Pandey, Samir Roychoudhury, Shankarnath Chakraborty, Yannis Livadas, Boel Schenlaer, Sreedhar Mukhopadhyay, Paula Dawn, Arunabh Banerjee, Joseph Goosey, Ateendriya Pathak, Erik Vatne, Yasmeen Najmi, Pradip Choudhury, Sara Moss, Aloke Biswas, Jeff Callico, Federica Nightingle, Michael Aaron Casares, Subhankar Das, Heather Fowler, Subhash Ghosh, Tim Hall, Jim Wittenberg, Maria Grazia Galata, Henry Avignon, Elli Griva, Swadesh Misra and Selim Morshed.
It can be purchased by contacting Subhankar Das.
A more serious issue is that copies of the anthology have been confiscated coming into the United States. My two copies arrived the other day in the mail, but the package did look as if it had been opened by someone along the way. As a contributer to the anthology I can’t see anything in its pages that would make this necessary. It includes poetry, stories, pictures and art. Is it because it’s coming from southern Asia? The last I heard the United States was not at war with India. Has something happened in the news that has slipped by me?
What should be done about this? What can we expect to happen next if US Customs agents are confiscating literature at the airport? Is this no longer a free society?
Does anyone has any suggestions how this should be dealt with? Or is it better for us to bury our heads in the dirt? Email me at: offbeatjim@sbcglobal.net
Monday, February 15, 2010
10.02.15.searching
night
my dark-eyed lover
jealous & demanding
I have abandoned my former love
the daylight
for you
& I wander the black
streets
searching
but you have kissed others
and they search everywhere
for you
too
night
our dark-eyed lover
can anyone ever be certain
of your affection?
can anyone
be
sure?
-- offbeatjim
2/15/2010
my dark-eyed lover
jealous & demanding
I have abandoned my former love
the daylight
for you
& I wander the black
streets
searching
but you have kissed others
and they search everywhere
for you
too
night
our dark-eyed lover
can anyone ever be certain
of your affection?
can anyone
be
sure?
-- offbeatjim
2/15/2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
RIP David Joseph Christy Jan 28 1953 - Feb 1 2010
Shutter St. Vouge
In rooming houses all over the city.
She can always remember the past with you,
Laying on kitchen tables with the Daily Mail.
Amongst the bottles, butts and forgotten dreams.
Always with that grin of assurance that
bares your heart and soul.
~ Dave Christy
Dave Christy October 7, 2009 at 2:10am
dearest subhankar, i sent you a broadside via post today, please let me know you receive it ok - and when you see Pradip, tell him "hi" for me - we have been friends for years. i am checking out your blog, it is great, i will be in touch.
cheers,
dave
Dave Christy October 17, 2009 at 2:17am
hello Subhankar--so happy you received the broadside. i love your blog, i wish i had more time on internet so i can contribute. i would like to write a short history of my Alpha Beat Press for a blog. can you send me a poem or two for my broadside? did you search for Kell Robertson? he had a stroke a couple months ago and not doing so well--he is a wonderful poet/songwriter and musician.
stay well,
dave
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
GRAFFITI KOLKATA BROADSIDE # Issue 4 # FEB 2010
The new Issue is here friends a little early perhaps but who cares as long it is not late.So rush in your new poems for the next issue.
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