> Creative > Poem
A few poems of Kushal Dutta
Water-born
Tearing the water, grows on the water
The poetic scenes of the restless waves
By welcoming it and having seated it
On the bow of the boat,
My boat moves upstream to the paddy fields
In the stroke of the oar show off
Pani-paruwas* Elengs* Ilihis*
Jump apart like grasshoppers
Hearing your laughter ?
The picture of the fully grown paddy
Waiting, looking at us,
How unbearable !
Go
Reap the paddy
*Pani-paruwa : A kind of water insect, backswimmers, Notonectidae.
*Eleng : A kind of flat white fish of medium size, Megarasbora elanga.
*Ilihi : Ilish fish, The hilsa fish (small size), Tenualosa ilisha.
Translated from the Assamese by Ajit Barua
Shivering Sprouts
... so vitally alive
like the sculptured foreplay
of an eager couple
Throbing between moments in the wind
A fresh red sprout of a sapling
at the water’s edge
At the roots of the sapling
where, from this side of the river
at a precise angle
you see that unearthly sight
from there till the middle of the river
a root slithers like a cobra
Where, a while from now
a drenched maiden that came swimming
will trip and faint
After another while
at the root of the sapling
the sculpture will be sculpted
till the sun drowns
through the horns of the homing buffaloes
Down the mustard fields
through reeds and sedges
down the thick woods
the wary eyes discern
the fresh red sprout
of the sapling
On the other bank of the river
where the road diverges to the woods
the steadily closing lids of two eyes
Will throb between moments
till the buffallo bells recede into the distances
and merged with the silence
* Uri-am : Biscoffia javanica
* Dhunduli-phëti : Coelognathus radiata
Translated from Assamese by Prof. Pradip Acharya
The abstract star
At one time everything slips into the past
Let me take it for granted
that I am flying in the sky
over my head
below my feet
beginning from the fingers of
my outspread hands the endless sky
The sky of the night of the dark moon
the enchanting endless sky
of the night of the dark moon
“Do not start your journey on the night of the dark moon”
The known warning of my mother’s simple faith
yet I was born in such a dark night
she hides thing truth from me
The star gazing at which I am flying
in enchanting sky of this night
is dead is it’s sky in the same present
yet it is living for me
it is the living abstract star of the projected truth
At one time everything slips into the past
Am I going or flying
gazing at the star
just asume by
my own reasoning
What a pleasure in making assumption
many a journey begins with such asumings
what is the end of all these journeys
the abstract star of my assumed sky
Translated from Assamese by Prof. Prodip Khataniar
Suspicion
1.
He is waiting eagerly to listen to my new tune
But he is overwhelmed by the apprehension that progressed sluggishly
Like some slow lethal poison
Have I lost all my saved tunes in that still undetected ailment
His suspicion is not at all baseless
He is my well-wisher just because the suspicion embraces him off and on
And that’s so I can feel on closing my eyelids and pray from my heart
He is ever suspicious towards me just because he is my well-wisher
And let him remain suspicious ever
2.
Just think – actually suspect that your brains are healthy
I do also suspect the same at the same time – how healthy are your brains
It is good to suspect – Like you do – Like I do
At least for a healthy brain
3.
“I think, therefore I am”
Sartre inverted the sentence suspecting the correctness of Descartes
“I exist, therefore I think”
And I have profound suspicion for both these sentences
Fuming slowly ensnared in suspicion in the hearth of sordid darkness of the past
The location of a stationary starting point suddenly glows up
From where the history commences all over again
Does it actually keep the life continued like deference
Translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury
Is situation under control?
1.
Only the smoke and ash are floating in the air
The smell of burnt corpses smacks my nostrils again and again
Within the perimeter of this smoke, ash and smell of burnt corpses,
is the situation under control?
2.
Leaving aside the perimeter of this abstract circle
made by the imaginary lines of smoke, ash and smell of burnt corpses
I look back into my feet and once again I clutch the soil
Since the time of learning algebra, after having finished simple arithmetic,
I have learnt to draw
Various triangle, rectangle, circle or quadrilaterals of various sizes
with lines of various length and degree
All these geometric skills I have applied successfully
in the answer sheets of my school exams
or flower garden or in my newly constructed house of the latest design
Yet, till today, with the angles of smoke, ash and corpses,
I have not been able to draw
A single triangle or any geometric pattern
Within the perimeter of this smoke, ash and smell of burnt corpses,
is the situation under control?
Translated from Assamese by Rubee Barua Das
Poem
Sometimes I come out for a morning walk if I feel like
To imbibe pure oxygen unadulterated serenity
Till falling on the bed again at night
To remain standing continuously and firmly
The morning walk is really very useful and inspiring
But the path changes suddenly on the way
Logic takes the logical path and illogical the illogical one
(It is a different subject altogether the power of counter argument and the tussle)
But I always wander off my cursed path
In deep hazy fog of polluted argument
And
In some such cursed mornings
My shadow that often sets out of the house by the same exit
Suddenly proceeds leaving me aside through the path that he considers to be the true one –
To imbibe more pure oxygen and more unadulterated serenity
I gaze at my shadow with the natural fondness
At some point of time losing the shadow with the natural arrogance after a prolonged weight
I tread on my moody rainy natural path
Because I am sure that till the Sun emerges
The shadow shall never return
To my path
And
In the chilly December winter
Till the path clears after the melting of the dew
I keep on walking keep on walking keep on walking
Dripping sweats from my forehead
Through my very private path of my arrogance
Translated from Assamese by Bibekananda Choudhury
About the poet
Kushal Dutta (B. 1976) is an Indian poet, journalist and editor writing in the Assamese language, has five collections of poems and three other non-fictions. He has also edited a number of literary, cultural, GK, cine magazines, souvenirs and books including ‘Ajit Barua Kabita Samagra’ (The complete poems of Ajit Barua, 2015). He was awarded the MUNIN BARKOTOKI LITERARY AWARD (2003) from the Munin Barkotoki Memorial Trust (Assam); the KATHAMALITA AWARD (2011) from Kathamalita Magazine (Assam) and the SRIJAN SAHITYA SAMMAN (2013, from ‘Srijan Xahitya Sammelan’ (West Bengal). Moreover, he has participated in several major literary events, including NEW VOICES (Bhubaneswar 2004, organized by Sahitya Akademi); the 51st AKASHVANI KAVI SAMMELAN (Ujjain 2007, organised by All India Radio); the 31st SAARC FESTIVAL OF LITERATURE (New Delhi, 2010, organised by FOSWAL); All India Poetry Festival (New Delhi, 2016, organised by Sahitya Akademi); the 2nd KAVYA HOTRA (Goa, 2016, organised by Goa Kala Academy); the 53rd South Asian Literature Festival (New Delhi, 2017, organized by FOSWAL) etc. His few poems have been translated into all major Indian regional languages including English and also translated into some major languages of the world. On the other hand Photography is also a subject of keen interest for familiar poet Kushal Dutta. His first ever photo exhibition (along with painting based on Dutta’s poems titled ‘the baya’s nest’ by Manjit Rajkhowa) was held at State Art Gallery, Guwahati from 4th to 9th Feb. 2013. By profession Kushal is a journalist working with Dainik Asam, an Assamese daily from Guwahati.
.jpg/800/800)
Navigations 
Quick Contact
Subscribe Us
Quick Mail
