From my notebook / Rajib Sinha

EKOK KABITAPATH

INAUGURATION

Eminent poet Mr. Utpalkumar Basu published a new bangla webzine named
Ebang Bikalpa at Jibanananda Sabhaghar of Pashchimbanga Bangla Akademi,Kolkata.This website wish to take part for penetrating the art & literature of Bengal apart from mainstream writings.

NEWS

INVITATION

MAADAARI : RAJIB SINGHA

ATIT : ARINDAM BISWAS

BANALATA SEN 2010

হাজার বছর ধরে...

SHIRONAMHEEN : DEBRAJ ROYCHOUDHURY

TOMAR HAATE : AAL MAHAMUD

THE CENTURIES PAST OVER THE FACE,

STILL THE STORY REMAINS THE SAME.

YOU HAVE TO JOIN THE RACE
EITHER WIN, OR LOOSE THE GAME.

PHOTO: ARINDAM

11/7 er par abar Sahitya -o- samay

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,

Vanished from my hand,

Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.

My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,

I have no one to meet

And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,

My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,

My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels

To be wanderin'.

I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade

Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,

I promise to go under it.

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,

It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run

And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.

And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme

To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind,

I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're

Seein' that he's chasing.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,

Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,

The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,

Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,

Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Ritubadol : Arun Mitra

News

BHOY

DUTI MUKH

Suchona

From BANDMASTER,Tushar Roy

দেখে নেবেন
তুষার রায়


বিদায় বন্ধুগণ,গনগনে আঁচের মধ্যে
শুয়ে এই শিখার রুমাল নাড়া নিভে গেলে
ছাই ঘেঁটে দেখে নেবেন পাপ ছিল কিনা !
এখন আমার কোনো কষ্ট নেই অক্সিজেনের অভাবে,কেননা আমি
জেনে গিয়েছি দেহ মানে ক্ষুধা ও যৌনতা ছাড়া কিছু অনিবার্য পরম্পরা
দেহ কখনো প্রদীপ সলতে ঠাকুরঘর
তবু তোমরা বিশ্বাস করো নি
বার বার বুক চিরে দেখিয়েছি প্রেম,বার বার
পেশী এ্যানাটমী শিরাতন্তু দেখাতে মশায়
আমি গেঞ্জি খোলার মতো খুলেছি চামড়া নিজেই শরীর
থেকে টেনে,
তারপর হার মেনে বিদায় বন্ধুগণ,
গনগনে আঁচের মধ্যে শুয়ে এই শিখার রুমাল নাড়ছি
নিভে গেলে ছাই ঘেঁটে দেখে নেবেন পাপ ছিল কিনা !

From my notebook

কবিতা উত্সবে
রাজীব সিংহ

মনে মনে কবিতা বুনে বুনে অবশেষে পংক্তিমালা :

কবিতা শেষ করবার পর শ্রোতা-মেয়েটি উঠে চলে যায়
অন্য পাঠকের হাত ধরে অকস্মাৎ,হঠাতই ।
প্রস্তুতিপর্বহীন এরকম ঘোর অমাবস্যার জন্য
এতোটুকু তৈরি ছিলো না পথিক--
সমস্ত শরীর লম্বা লম্বা ডাল আর ঘন সবুজ পাতা দিয়ে
ঢেকে রাখে গাছ । কবিতারচনাহীন সেইসব এমনি দুপুরে
আস্ফালনে আস্ফালনে হীন হয়ে গেছি,হিরন্ময় ।।

Kaddish : Allen Ginsberg

   

I
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--
Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
lypse,
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--
like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
Newark--
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
every time--
That's good!That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end--
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair
and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
braintricked Implacability.
Ai! ai!we do worse! We are in a fix!And you're out, Death let you out,
Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with
God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure
--Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the
world--
There, rest.No more suffering for you.I know where you've gone, it's good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more
fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands--
No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret you
killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart
--But Death's killed you both--No matter--
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-
ity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
--by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capital
ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to
have husbands later--
You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill
--later perhaps--soon he will think--)
And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
--tho not you
I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came
first--to you--and were you prepared?
To go where?In that Dark--that--in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the
Void?Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream?Adonoi at last, with
you?
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull
in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon--Deaths-
head with Halo?can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,
than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have--what you had--that so pitiful--yet Tri-
umph,
to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower--fed to the
ground--but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe,
shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth
wrapped, sore--freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the
knife--lost
Cut down by an idiot Snowman's icy--even in the Spring--strange ghost
thought some--Death--Sharp icicle in his hand--crowned with old
roses--a dog for his eyes--cock of a sweatshop--heart of electric
irons.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out--clocks, bodies, consciousness,
shoes, breasts--begotten sons--your Communism--'Paranoia' into
hospitals.
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later.You of
stroke.Asleep?within a year, the two of you, sisters in death.Is
Elanor happy?
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over
midnight Accountings, not sure.His life passes--as he sees--and
what does he doubt now?Still dream of making money, or that might
have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im-
mortality, Naomi?
I'll see him soon.Now I've got to cut through to talk to you as I didn't
when you had a mouth.
Forever.And we're bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson's horses
--headed to the End.
They know the way--These Steeds--run faster than we think--it's our own
life they cross--and take with them.

Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar-
ried dreamed, mortal changed--Ass and face done with murder.
In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under
pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,
Father in death.Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'm
hymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not
light or darkness, Dayless Eternity--
Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some
of my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death
This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won-
derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping
--page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfect
Darkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!

II
Over and over--refrain--of the Hospitals--still haven't written your
history--leave it abstract--a few images
run thru the mind--like the saxophone chorus of houses and years--
remembrance of electrical shocks.
By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your
nervousness--you were fat--your next move--
By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you--
once and for all--when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my
opinion of the cosmos, I was lost--
By my later burden--vow to illuminate mankind--this is release of
particulars--(mad as you)--(sanity a trick of agreement)--
But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and
spied a mystical assassin from Newark,
So phoned the Doctor--'OK go way for a rest'--so I put on my coat
and walked you downstreet--On the way a grammarschool boy screamed,
unaccountably--'Where you goin Lady to Death'? I shuddered--
and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask
against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma--
And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of
the gang?You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on--to New
York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound--

Masters of War : Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks.

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly.

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain.

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion'
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud.

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins.

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
That even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do.

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul.

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand over your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead.

From the diary of SANDIPAN CHATTOPADHYAY

২৩ নভেম্বর ১৯৮৪

ভরত : রাতে ঘুম ভেঙে গেলে আমি আর ঘুমাই না । তোমার কথা ভাবি। কত কথা মনে পড়ে । তুমি বোধহয় সঞ্জয়ের কথা-- তাই না ?

সুরঞ্জনা : না, আমি নিজের কথাই বরং ভাবি । সেদিন ঘুম ভেঙে গেল । সঙ্গে কাজের মেয়েদুটো শোয়, তাই আলো জ্বালালাম না । বসে র‌ইলাম। গির্জার ঘড়িতে যেই তিনটে বাজল,অমনি এ-বাড়ি ও-বাড়িতে পরপর অ্যালার্ম। বুঝলাম,নভেম্বর,পরীক্ষা এগিয়ে আসছে তাই।আমারও স্কুলজীবনে ফিরে যেতে ইচ্ছে করল।

দাদার বিয়ের মেয়ে দেখতে আসমাদের বাড়ির সামনে দিয়ে যাচ্ছিলাম ব্যারাকপুর।দাদা একটা ক্যাসেট চালিয়ে দিয়েছিল--"যাবার বেলায় পিছু ডেকে কেন কাঁদালে আমায়...আমার এমন বুঝি মন নয় ?"

"নয়"টাকে একটা দারুন অভিমান-ভরা কাঁদো-কাঁদো "?"বসিয়ে দিল বলার সময়।ভরত মেয়েকে এসে জিজ্ঞাসা করল,কার গানরে ?

"আশা ভোঁসলের।"

                                                     (সৌজন্যে প্রতিভাস) 

দশ বছরে বিকল্প

লিটল ম্যাগাজিন
রাজীব সিংহ


বন্ধুবিয়োগ অথবা ভেঙে যাওয়া যৌথস্বপ্নগুলি
তারের বিদ্যুতের মতো সঞ্চরমান থাকে তার শরীর-এঞ্জিনে...
বিফলতার ধূসর আগুনে জ্বালা করে দুইচোখ,
ক্রমশ কবিতা-অক্ষম হয় দুইহাত :
চেনাপথের মাঝখানে থেমে থাকে বৃষ্টিভেজা ট্রাম--
রেলিংতোলা খাটের মধ্যে থেকে দেখি হসপিটালের সিলিং,
সিলিঙের ফ্যানগুলি অথবা
            দূরের পুরনো বাড়িদের শরীর ঘিরে বৃষ্টি...
টেবিলের চেনা-চোখ চেনা-গানগুলি 
ফিরিয়ে রাখে মুখ;


বাংলা কবিতার মেন রোড ধরে হেঁটে যায় দুই প্রাচীন বন্ধুতা--
কবি ও সম্পাদকের

(কেরিয়ারগ্রাফথেকে)                                                                                          

 আরশি   ----------সুতপা ভট্টাচার্য্য বারুই

এখানে আমার সাথে আমি

নিভৃতে আলাপ সারি ।

প্রশ্ন করিনি কোনদিন

নামধাম কুল পরিচয়

ক’কাঠার ঘরবাড়ি ।

নেহাতই অভ্যাস বশে

মুখোমুখি শুধু পরস্পর

বসে থাকা, চেয়ে থাকা

কিছু ক্ষণ মৌনমুখর ।

অঙ্গবিভঙ্গ জুড়ে

পরিচিত শিরা উপশিরা

এমন কি কোমরের তিল ।

আতিপাতি খুঁজে ফিরি

আরও কিছু ভীষণ অমিল।

পারদ-প্রলেপ ক্ষয়ে ক্ষয়ে

অবশষে কঙ্কালসার

আমৃত্যূ পরিচিত বটে

সখ্যতা ছিলনা দুজনার।

Mr. Santosh Chakraborty In Inauguration Ceremony Of The 1st Issue

1st Issue Of EBANG BIKALPA Published By Eminent Writer Swapna Roy

From Bikalpa

Review : Aabadbhumir Sahitya...

From my notebook

From my notebook

From my notebook

Franz Kafka: 125

Franz Kafka(1883-1924) has come to be one of the most influential writers of this century. Virtually unknown during his lifetime, Franz Kafka has since been recognized by his anxiety-ridden works to modern readers. Kafka came from a middle-class Jewish family and grew up in the shadow of his domineering shopkeeper father, who impressed Kafka as an awesome patriarch. Franz Kafka was born on July 3, 1883, the first child of Hermann and Julie Kafka. Franz was sent to German schools, not Czech ones, which demonstrates his father’s desire for social advancement. Franz had been trying his hand in serious writing since 1898, but these early works were destroyed. Later he began writing more seriously. His friend, Max Brod convinced Kafka to publish some of his works, and in January 1913, ‘Meditation’, a collection of some early short stories and sketches, appeared. In most of Kafka’s mature prose, the lucid, concise style forms a striking contrast of complexities, the anxiety-laden absurdities, and the powerfully oppressive symbols of torment and anomie that are substance of the writer’s vision. On the evening of August 13, 1912, Franz met Felice Bauer at Max Brod’s house. In this first flush of love he wrote ‘The Judgment’ on the night of 22-23 September, which he dedicated to Felice. He considered it his first mature work. In November & December he wrote ‘The Metamorphosis’. He also worked at the novel, ‘Amerika’. During this time, in September 1913, he went to a sanatorium in Riva, Italy for his health, and there met an 18yrs old Swiss girl, Gerti Wasner, although this affair only lasted foe 10 days. Meanwhile the courtship by letter of Felice continued. He proposed to her(Felice) in 1913 and she accepted. Despite his failing health, Kafka, became engaged with another lady Julie Whoryzek. As 1924 began, Franz’s health got worse and worse. He was forced to go to a couple of sanatoriums. He agreed to the publication of ‘A Hunger Artist’, with some other stories. He died on June 3, 1924. max Brod did not carry out his friend’s instructions to burn his work. He edited and had published virtually everything Franz wrote. Franz Kafka has become an icon of sorts, emblematic of modern times.

BIKALPA : an aesthetical journal for modern readers…

City-centric popular media can hardly reflect the enormous cultural and literary potentials of Bengal. With a view to ventilating the eternal hope and aesthetic spirit of our culture, BIKALPA, now EBANG BIKALPA, was launched in a new form in 1998. From the debut it was overwhelmingly acclaimed by the writers and readers in no time. During the period BIKALPA has ventured to attract readers by its laconic and meticulous observation. Now it is proved contagious and it brings to cover the whole range of Bengali reading people inside India & abroad.

India had a very reach literary and cultural heritage which demands that we stand on the occasion to stop decaying by means of our literary effort. From now on EBANG BIKALPA would be a definite cultural digest with your fraternity. Let your feeling be ventilated through our own dreamy mag.

Bengali Poetry & Me

Since 1984, I 'm going to start a poetry-life in a small town of  West Bengal named Malda. It is in the mid of Bengal. The river Mahananda and ancient dynasty Gour penetrate me in creative writing. Then I was a little school boy of Malda Zilla School. The mainstream writing of Bengali poetry was far from me due to geographical distance. The mind-scape of the peoples of Malda was too much economy oriented. And for this reason there was no way to fulfill myself in creative studies & writings. Only few bookshops & wheelers are there. A district library was going to ruin by political aggressiveness. For a while I took a venture and was going to publish a little magazine named TRISHA(1984) based on art & literature. This magazine took an important role to motivate readers in new writings. After that a group of writers joined unitedly in this forum - Tridib Gupta, Tuhin Das, Sanjeeb Neogi, Tripti Santra, Asim Sharma, Debabrata Bandyopadhyay, Siddhartharanjan Choudhury and so many writers and artists were joining in this forum. In 1990, I went to Calcutta for my study in JADAVPUR UNIVERSITY. Then I saw the mainstream reality of Indian literature and took part in this field. Maestros of Bengali literature(as Arun Mitra, Annadashankar Roy, Shankha Ghosh, Debesh Roy, Sunil Gangopadhyay, Shakti Chattopadhyay, Sripantha alias Nikhil Kumar Sarkar etc.) were coming so close to me. I was astonished with fear & surprise. After completion of my study I was thrown by my fallen careergraph in my native-city. Depression, political chaos covered me for many years. In this period I fell in love with Sampa and was going to revive myself from this phase. Mr. Bijesh Saha, the publisher, owner of PRATIVASH gave me a proposal to publish a poetry-book from his house. It was 2005 Mr. Saha published my book CAREERGRAPH in a colorful inauguration ceremony at BANGLA ACADEMY in presence of Sunil Gangopadhyay, Dibyendu Palit and many prestigious personalities. It was a turning point in my life. Now a days I'm innovating me in new diction and genres of literature. There was also a way to publish my own ideas and readings in a new magazine named BIKALPA(1998-2009), after getting govt. of India's approval which turned into EBANG BIKALPA(2009). It is the only way to get tuned myself in recent writings. Now BENHUSH SONNET(moreover 100 sonnets) and PAKHIDER UPOKULE EKA(a novel written in poetry form) are ready to make their appearance.