Dark Room
1.
The colour blind cuckoos are flying amidst chorus-clapping
And the wintry city is imbued with newspapers and newspapers
You have decked the bright woolen shops with chopping clouds
And telling of those Maple leaves
that are still like fresh shivers in pelagic stories
On the other hand, the eggs of white ducks are gradually turning golden
No one is willing to argue anymore
about the weather, or apologues, or antique gold coins
The thankless parables never turn around at the chorus-clapping sound
2.
The doors cannot be opened as per custom
Though, as usual, the wall remains serious and rough
Tongue and eyes get stuck in the sticky wind
Breaking your dreams, not a single road is
discovering any sermon, discovering any slogan
The postmortem news that is coming
from that windmill-like night and an innocent weather office
your colourful gloves cannot write its regular verbatim report
Where do you wish to go leaving behind that fish scale-stenched Summer
and that sharp January, oh my April-God?
When the doors are no longer customarily offering
the black smooth legs or the intense melting episode
Monolith
Why are you coming back to the invaded trench again and again
Oh my born-blind wall
Why returning the harmless gloves again and again
unacceptable even today in the second scene of the murder
Amidst the buried moonlight, there lies a country of fine shadow
stained sleep. Mane of night
Oh my born-blind wall, opening the silk of air
do you want to perceive those breathing houses
that have never to date lied about sleep and death
The fungi on your body still from all mysteries
are afar
The length of those movies growing shorter day after
and ending with a calm, cold cry
To find out their murderer why are you again and again
pouring sweat and blood into that invaded trench
Asylum of Birds
Indebted to Roger Ballen
1.
Your fever will never heal
The thriller through which you’ve walked
for thirty-six years, has thrown
evening-prayer to dead birds
Those cloudy signs are aging gradually
The fatigue of every episode
is adding more tourist-spots
Brown pastel is falling off along with the embellishments of buttons
Your fever will never heal
Though this separate warmth of yours is actually
opening an other door
Though your sitting posture is
actually the wreckage of those chairs
that are gradually becoming subjects of photography
2.
Abandoned stretcher. You have come rolling ahead leaving behind mild condolence and bed
The gifted shape of sleep lies turning a bit on one side
Your healing sense has not yet turned cold
Tearing off the subdued shadow of consolation and the sprouting leaves of potion
will you stand up in the land of feeble movies
Removing the silence of white garments
will you find out evening restaurants, ancient seal-signs
Abandoned stretcher, with white foam coming down from the corner of your lips
shall we never spend marine holidays?
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** All five poems translated from Bangla by Sudip Chattopadhyay and edited by Nilotpal Roy
Sudip Chattopadhyay was born in 1979 in West Bengal, India. He has authored six books of poems: ‘Jekhane Bhramanrekha’ (Where the Peregrinated Line is) in 2009, ‘Alphatone’ in 2016, ‘Mujrimpur’ (The Land of Convicts) in 2016, ‘Shamibriksher Niche’ (Under the Shami Tree) in 2018, ‘Aharlipi’ (Feeding inscription) in 2018 and ‘Eklami’ (Affinity with Solitude) in 2020. By profession, he is an assistant teacher in a Govt. institution
