Shyamal kanti Das poems, Translated by Bappaditya Roy Biswas

 

Shyamalkanti Das

The peacock's game 

The peacock has taken me for a snake, and 

The thought makes him rip my body into shreds with

Blows from his beak.

He is clawing through my belly,

Turning the innards out.  

Instead of tears, colloidal mud is all

That emerges from between my eyelids. 

The peacock has held my head tight against the ground; 

With a sudden pull, has severed

My shrivelled appendix of a cock 

And with my trivial profane heart

That resembles cockscomb flowers,

His periodic displays of wondrous sport continue !

While watching the peacock at his game 

I turn into a mere shadow of what I'd been, 

The prowess to raise a hood has long bygone !

Playhouse

Hiding in a corner I wished to witness coitus

You, my sworn enemy

Came from nowhere and turned my head around

Throwing every protest to the wind, you clawed and gnawed 

My lidless eye off its socket.

My cuffs betray the blood which now gurgles forth 

Even a thousand attempts won't yield to me 

The spectacle of a flower in bloom anymore.

I was not at fault 

I only wanted to gape at evens and odds 

And at nature -- no holds barred

Wished to know where Man's so many thrills find final rest 

Wished to know which are the exact beams that now 

Light up the best things that Man finds pleasure in

It was you who did not let me know 

In my learnings a huge, huge fissure prevailed 

Something I will forever regret !

Translated by Bappaditya Roy Biswas 

Saswati Sanyal poems, Translated by Sourjya Roy

 Saswati Sanyal

Four poems

1.

Piranha

You emerged from the deepest sea.

I took you as quiet, nonchalant.

In your fins, I have seen slight twirls.

You can call it a slip out of the blue.

Then suddenly you jumped on me. 

Waves broke the silence of the sea. 

Sharp and piercing they were.

My salt-drenched body 

Lay flat under you

Not flinching, not crying in protest.

Now what remains 

Are bare sand ribs of trust,

Shards of glass, and an unkempt sundial.

The fiercest fish has left my maiden flesh 

Scarred.

With broken dreams.

2.

Beloved

Long back,

I was in love 

With one or two Bengali lads.

Some used to read Shakti's poems.

Others used to quote

Nabarun.

Some used to rhyme in our get together.

Some relied on parodies.

Black frame, thick glass.

I wonder who dusted the dusts 

Nestled in the deeps of their curls?

Their frames had male ego

Embossed on them.

None of them were good looking.

Neither they ever went to gym .

Words used to lurk 

From the corners of their fingers.

Pains of hushed words were lying dead 

On the tram-line.

And a bit further,

Was lying the dead poet.

Slowly the lens forgot

The aura of the city.

Sad lips, tram tickets, cigarettes

Glow worms lost their ways.

No one comes anymore.

Up and down the reading room strolls 

J. K. Rowling .

Lovers die. They are muggles. They are natives.

And time dimmed the lights on the writing table.

Words have no magic now.

Words had grown somber and silent.

Long back,

I was in love 

With Bengali poems.

3.

Electra 

I have heard that

Once I was addicted 

To my mother's milk.

It was difficult to keep me away

From it.

Now the sight of milk

Makes me puke.

By holding my nose, 

Keeping my mouth shut

I suppress that urge.

But like a strict father,

You make me drink a glass full of milk

Each morning.

But this tale is of the morn.

During night, a different story unfurls.

In the dark someone sings a lullaby

To make you fall asleep.

And a different you wakes up,

Climbs on to me,

Holds my breasts tight in his hand,

Readies himself to strike anytime.

To taste a changing me, 

Full of milk.

Who has no sway over her

Golden nectar.

The arduous hours pass.

Then the last few dark hours, I spend

Listening to the cries of a pregnant cow.

4.

Theorem

The legend says, 

From the sea, Varuna will rise

To meet the maiden.

But no one knows 

Where the man got lost

After the tipsy third wave,

Holding whose hand,

The woman dived

In the deep water.

Is '3' going to lead us

To some mourning mathematics?

Does it stand for the fusion

Of salt and poison,

Churned from the triangle 

Of a woman's vagina

Where men immerse themselves

To emerge as gods?

Translated by Sourjya Roy

Saswati Sanyal is a Bengali poetess. Her published works include 'Brail e Lekha Bivrantisamuha', a book for which she was awarded 'Shakti Chattopadhyay Sammanana' by Bangla Academy.