straight line also can weave proven Pythagoras
Saturday, March 11, 2017
ICE CREAM...WITH A SMILE by SWAPAN RAY
RUNA BANDYOPADHYAY Reviews and Engages with a Poem
Ice Cream…With a Smile by Swapan Ray
(Ekhon Bangla kobitar Kagoj, West Bengal, India, 2016)
[Editor’s Note: The review was written in and first published in Bengali in Natun Kobita (New Poetry), January 2017. Subsequently, the reviewer translated it into English. I have left her translation alone without editing.]
Swapan-trip with melted ice-cream on my tongue
At the very beginning let me present a stage show of an ice-cream smile of the poet:
“In low winter, jests this and that what’s the nature of porcelain
puts on smile pours
Nothing much yet something more annoying than tying shoelaces happens in the morning; in the evening it becomes a finishing field;
after, oh, until it goes as well” (P-9)
Yes, this is just a drop of ice-cream smile, from which I reconstructed my own poems in an internalized language. The poet constructed his poems in a form of hints. Hints of poetry. I picked up aroma of soil from ice-cream smile. Hint of porcelain, writing in a mysterious pot of love. An illusive low winter embraces the pot. Testing on my tongue I go back to the cover page. One spoon of three cheers is blossoming. Birds. That is also the hints of freedom, from embodied to un-embodied, from boundary to beyond, the infinite. A silent motion is on the opposite side of word-stream, freezing the illusive fantasy of ice.
From here I start my pleasure trip on a boat made of ice-cream. It’s a conversation with smile of ice-cream. Some utterance piled up in the exterior of action, in the interior of reaction. I start engaging letters into the utterance. Alternatively I could say, I start engaging words to my feelings. Sometime the words are letter-illusion of me, sometime of poet. I didn’t want any wall in between. Wall can’t be marked by water. There’s only engraving. And engraved wall is a history. I’m not writing a history anyway. I just want to implant words on my moments. The moment which is indistinct whistle of nocturnal language. The moment which is the reflected light of lost dew. The moment which is the unheard music of silent tears.
Switch on switch off. A state reversal touches the colour of infinite possibilities. Breaking the beginning of conversation it moves towards the hidden delirium. Antara* is extending concealment up to the horizon. Unseen line of verse at Sanchary*. The belief of return is blossoming inside negation. As if mark of displacement is scattering in the drops of milk. Essence of embryo is getting condensed inside the hint.
Antara*- Bengali word for the intermediate part between the refrain and final development of the music of a song.
Sanchary* – Bengali word for the third line or step of any of the Indian musical mode.
Return is a festival
Returning home towards the source
Incomparable death with dazzling flash
is hanging in the canvas of body
Your nectar home is floating
with the gesture of time-stream
I have to go back to your unfastened home
Circle is a geometric illusion. Forgotten return around the circumference. Travelling of the chord is writing the story of deportation. Straight line writes the wrong measurement. Shaped ruby or scandal in a single life will certainly go back to the grand gala of return.
River is how much stream or carnal incessant
Phulguni* blossoms in last spring
in the womb of Pisces
Looking the beauty I go down into water
Water is up-streaming inside water
Wiping your tears draw the eyeliner please
I’ll learn the couplet of bilingual swimming
with my virginal touch
Phulguni* – Bengali word for one born in Phulgun, the month of spring
To think about the time of gull, I’m exposing some hints from confusion. Snatch is an attacking word. Somewhat moon and Tinni*. Doesn’t complete any circle. Couldn’t be so? From the denim weep smile is elated in eight parts with caress of sky. In the hypnosis of subzero point stair-practice is spontaneously melting down to ice-cream smile.
Tinni* - Bengali name of a girl
The distance of eye from the throng of Shiuli*-letters
A certain obstinate word of philosophy
may be you
may be Riya*
If I put on my tongue
tradition melts down
In the relative motion of cloud-water girl
motion said, song is ascending
There may be an ascent
of smile or movement of train
Shiuli* – Bengali name for a type of flower
Riya* - A famous female character of the poet Swapan Ray
Two or three nocturnal sounds. Finger is weaving the alternate words of resound. Amorous cry is also an emigration in the bird’s translation. I am thinking about the closing of a day. In its long intervening space there’s sculpture of desire. If I can weave it, please give me a sweet break of ice-cream with a smile. When the river water melted with fire on my tongue, the water said, go on burning, you’ll become pure when you cross the quarry.
Look at me without looking
A secret proposal is shaking in the field of vision
I picked up a piece of smile from aqueous humor
Perception theory is floating in vitreous
Moving from a concept to decision
old feelings roll down
Somewhat illusive captivation of neuron
You are not illusionist
Still the illusionism in the philosophy of vision
The cautious girl sank once to cross the river. Translation of water is in the sinking address. If you are motionless, it becomes ridiculous. The history of upstream will be composed in the name of river. There’ll be sinking hesitation of damped cloud-girl in the slipping quicksand of mood. A Komol-Sa* gradually soaking the geometric hints of relation.
Komol-Sa* – Soft musical notes
You clung yourself in the driving seat
I am restless by the love of poetry
Dejection in the letter of last rain
Cloud-water, bowed at the western-ghat*
flying towards me
Breathing is hiding all sighs
Clearing a sip of fog
from the burning of a potful kiss
deer of Eastern-ghat* came down just now
ghat* –mountain range
I was translating your finger lines by picking rain drops. You kept a hint of horizon in the unbuttoned raincoat. I was just trying to become indifferent to the illusion of rainy season. Riya said, that is water, in the sigh of broken water-stair.
The river calls
Come my dear, come
Have to spend sleepless night
You have heard the sound of water
quick rise and fall of baseless stair
Just recall the old water-jingle
you may remember
hint of a wet face
Footsteps foreknowing how to sink in downpour. There’s Firefly cluster of freedom in footfalls. Under the influence of rhythm’s beauty it’s calling the cricket-chirping silence. You’re thinking about the end. Still a secret matins on the lips of every night, waiting at the balcony of overwhelmed remembrance.
Thinking what’s on the inside
the drinking glass of love embraced my finger
Flute of separation surrounds the brim
Who’s playing, who…?
Eyes are blossoming in the delight of fire
was there some water?
Bokul*-smelling kisses getting wet
in tiny sip of water-hesitation
Bokul* - Bengali name of a flower
Perception enigma jumps out from the pocket of Copenhagen. Eye is germinating from the molecules of hesitation. Whether you see or not, macro letter from micro is writing down the quantum suicide note. Shadow of cat is hiding behind the consciousness, arranging the correct point of superposition. The life entangled on the finger of Schrodinger said, that is not the death but duality, waiting for you.
How far you are from me?
Becomes heavy to think very far
I was thinking some weight with mass
To search the height you lost me in the pine road
Are you unaware of the memory-less static energy?
Though the streak of lightning is momentary
see that how the old waterfall gets wet incessantly
Amazement is so conventional
I’m thinking to pick up wonder
Are you coming crossing the distance?
Being fog-bounded I’m thinking of the approaching winter. Cold’s definition rolls down in whimsical sunflower. Ego of denial opens itself. If acknowledging suicide thinks of fire, you bow down to pick up the illusive resonance. Will the calamitous finger sing do-re-me?
A formation of you when you mirror forth me
Looking is so relative
small waves are breaking down
beyond the vision
One kind of me is searching another myself
in the secret charm of which
you are cherished
In the applied right angle of marble rustle
There’s a perfect reflection
of dry index finger
If the ringtone of rejection
rings in between eyebrows
straight line also can weave proven Pythagoras
straight line also can weave proven Pythagoras
Water accumulates in your eye’s privacy. I’m thinking whether the chemistry of salt is there or not. Then light scattered on my finger. But there’s no refraction affinity in the pupil. Possible wings to cross the aqueous humor. I’m weaving your hints with the words of tears.
@0. Swapan Ray: He is a poet, writer and critic of West Bengal, India, writes in Bengali language. He is one of the pioneers of the “New Poetry Movement” in Bengal. Some of his books:
1. Swapane banano Eka ( Alone made in Swapan): A collection of bengali poems from his 7 poetry books from a period of 1984-2008, edited by the poet Barin Ghoshal.
2. Eksho Surje (In 100 suns) : A collection of Bengali proses from his prose books for a period of 1996-2000
@subzero Ice Cream…With a Smile : A bilingual poetry book, written in Bengali by poet Swapan Ray and translated in English by poet Arka Chattopadhyay.
Publisher: Ekhon Bangla kobitar Kagoj,
65, Deshbandhunagar, Jalpaiguri-735101, West Bengal, India
First Edition: 2016
Few drops of “Ice Cream…With a Smile” which has created the space for me to reconstruct my own poems:
@1. Afar next afar hands moving towards the switch return returning secretion
On return colours will make a mark drops of milk from teats spots will appear, just see (P-10)
@2. Even the home is absentminded to hear about homecoming (P-11)
@3. On return the mushrooming ruby comes to mind was it round? rooound? can’t remember
@4. River, river only, is incessantly carnal. Moment upon moment in the last spring when the last spring was gone (p-15)
@5. In this poor world, the crying one has a fair share of denim, the smiling one’s sky is elated in eight parts and the leaning one is only for 5-23, slow
The gull has no time, who snatched? the moon entered in this anxiety, I didn’t! Listen Tinni… (p-16)
@6. You thronged Shiuli-letters in returning songs; I was in a hurry and didn’t even have my eyes…
The train moves is the forming smile unconscious for the cloud-water girl Riya is going away (p-18)
@7. Two or three nocturnal sounds, birds, moans… what instead of what tea and finger bring out!...sounds happen, within the night… (p-19)
@8. Look at me without looking… think of me without thinking… do me without… (p-23)
@9. She crossed the river cautiously, she sank only once
A touch wet…clouds were there…a little late, the mood missing…and yet I inserted, connected…did the Komol “Sa” connect? (p-24)
@10. The curve of the hook drawn on your back
I am excited alright (p-30)
@11. The calm finger will unbutton the raincoat
In writing this piece, I couldn’t write about the monsoons (p-35)
@12. The river calls
navel navel (p-44)
@13. There was indeed that “Meghetaburu” rain too, a downpour
Footsteps foreknowing how to sink footfalls walked away with the rain (P-48)
@14. Thinking what’s on the inside
You are leaving, thinking what’s in the fire’s mind old eyes but
There was some water too (p-50)
@15. A cat that waits for the hammer
A hammer that’s not sure about the cat only the box is naughty (p-51)
@16. You yourself came from ‘you are not there’
And said, do you want to say something? (p-53)
@17. Yours, fog-pockets on the tramline
Winter came back with eerie “Boroline*” (p-54)
Boroline* = Winter cream
Ms. Runa Bandyopadhyay, from West Bengal, India, is a poet, writer and reviewer in Bengali language. She is the Scientific Officer in Bhabha Atomic Research Centre, Mumbai, India. As she herself says: "Philosophy, history and science are the subjective face of my poetry, but not the subject itself. I roll down from subject to wonder, to confusion of object in a centripetal travel. Weaving the truth of moments with silent tears, I start writing the alternative history of life-river. I like to review those books which trigger me to write my own poem in my own way." Her books include: poetry, “Aseemer Khelaghor” (Playroom of Infinite), “Tamas Journal” (Journal of Darkness), “Poroborti Songbad” (The Next News ); reviews, “Antarbarti Pangkti” (Between the lines), “Tamoser Alokbhromon” (Light-travel of Darkness); and stories, “Parankotha” (Word of bosom), etc."
Posted by EILEEN at 10:43 AM