Many things happen to us unexpectedly. Even when our lives seem seemingly calm and normal,…..
“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”
Book: Ice Cream…With a Smile. – A bilingual collection of Poetry.
Poets : Swapan Roy
Transcreation: Arka Chattopadhyay
Publisher: Ekhon Bangla kobitar Kagoj, West Bengal, India, 2016
It’s the ice cream smile, I scream, you scream, we all scream for this smile. It’s in a form of hints. Hints of poetry. I picked up aroma of soil from ice-cream smile. Hints of porcelain have been written in a mysterious pot of love. An allusion of low winter embraces the pot. Taking few drops on my tongue I go back to the cover. One spoon of three cheers is blossoming there. Birds, which is also the hints of freedom, from embodied to un-embodied, from boundary to beyond the infinity. A silent motion towards the stream of dissolving words is unfolding the illusive fantasy of the slow melting of frozen feelings.
Switch on switch off. A state reversal touches the colour of infinite possibilities. Beginning of a poetic dialogue without destination, a journey to summit the hidden delirium. Secrecy of Antara[i] extends beyond horizon. Unseen lines of verse play inside Sanchary[ii]. The belief of return blossoms inside negation as the drops of ice cream trace the mark of journey. Essence of embryonic smiles condenses inside hints.
Return is a festival
Returning home towards the source
Peerless death dazzles
on the canvas of poetic body
Your nectar home is floating
with a gesture of time-stream
I have to go back to your unfastened home
Circle is a geometric illusion. There is no memory of return around the circumference. Travelling chords writes the story of deportation only. Straight line calculates the wrong measurement. Yet the shaped ruby or scandal in a single life will certainly go back to grand gala of return.
How much stream or carnal in river
Pisces’ womb conceived its phalguni[iii] in last spring
Looking the beauty I go deep into river
Upstreaming water inside water
Wiping your tears draw your eyeliner please
I’ll learn couplet of bilingual swimming
with my virginal touch
Snatching is an attacking word. Somewhat moon somewhat Tinni[iv]. Doesn’t complete any circle. As if it could have been. Though the crying one has fair share of denim, she moves to elate smile with adore of sky. Sky is a hint of flying, yet the confusion of perfect speed wrapped with every flight of life. As I was trying to explore it, Tinni told, I am the fantasy only, don’t fasten me to any limit please. The hypnotic subzero point moves on to melt down the limitations of staircase-practice with infinite possibilities of ice cream smile.
Returning songs around thronged Shiuli[v]-letters
Some obstinate words of philosophy
may be you
may be Riya
If I put on my tongue
tradition melts down
in relative motion of cloud-water girl
Motion said, song is rising
May be a rise
May be a return
May be a creation of smile of poetics
I pick up synonym of resound with two or three nocturnal sounds. Amorous cry is also an emigration in the translation of bird songs. Before being nocturnal I entered into long intervening space of its possibility, where all my aesthetic desires make their possible way. If I can weave it, please give me a sweet break of ice cream smile. Love and smile are still peeping from the symbol-less pot of burning. When the flame of fire from life-river burns my tongue, the river said, go on burning to become pure, go on burning to cross the quarry of ambivalent relationship.
Look at me without looking
Something is shaking in the field of vision
Is it the possibility?
I pick up a piece of smile from aqueous humor
Perception theory floats through vitreous lustre
Moving from conception to perception
A long way to go before being unconventional
Somewhat illusive captivation of neuron
You are not illusionist
Yet illusion becomes reality
in your philosophy of vision
The cautious girl sank once to cross the river. The process of sinking is translated into water. If you become motionless, the ridicule of object may be the subject of upstream to compose the history in the name of river. Sinking hesitation of damped cloud-girl slips into quicksand of mood. A Komol-Sa[vi]is gradually shaping the geometric hints of shifting towards another life; a shift from smile to weep, from weep to love, from love to loss, to fear, to uncertainty, no one knows the truth.
You fastened yourself to the driving seat
My passion of poetry made me restless
Dejection in the letters of last rain
Bowed cloud-water at Western-ghat
flying towards me
Breathing hides all sighs
Clearing a sip of fog
from burning of a potful kiss
deer of Eastern-ghat has come down just now
I am trying to translate the space between the lines of your smiles. It’s an allusion of vanishing point. I just want to touch the space-time curvature of your imaginary reality. It needs speed, a perfect speed with which I want to fly, want to fly to your world of imagination. You kept hints of horizon in the unbuttoned raincoat. When I was trying to become indifferent to the illusion of rainy season, Riya told, come on my dear, this is water, come down the broken water-stair to touch its turbulence.
The river calls
Come my dear, come
Have to spend sleepless night
You have heard sound of water
quick rise and fall of baseless stairs
Just recall the old water-jingle
You may remember
hints of wet eyes
Footsteps foreknowing how to sink in downpour. Freedom is the name of rain, sounds at every footfall, burns like clustered fireflies. I’m trying to explore the cricket-chirping silence of my lovelorn cave under the influence of its rhythmic beauty. You may be thinking to end it here. Yet secret matins on the lips of every night is waiting for you at the balcony of overwhelmed remembrance. I’m trying to explore a new do re me to transform the oscillation of rhythm to vacillation of whistle that you left for me.
Thinking what’s on the inside
cup of love embraces my lips
Yet flute of separation brims over surroundings
Who’s playing, who…?
Blooming eyes in fire delight
was there water?
was there shadow?
Bokul[vii]-smelling kisses getting wet
in tiny sip of watery hesitation
Perception mystery jumped out from the pocket of Copenhagen. Eyes germinated from the molecules of hesitation. Whether you see or not, macro letters from micro are writing down the quantum suicide note. Shadow of the cat, hidden behind consciousness, is arranging the correct point of superposition. The entangled life on the finger of Schrodinger said, that is not the death but duality, waiting for you.
How far you are from me?
Become weighty to think very far
I’m thinking some weight with mass
You lost me to search the height in pine road
Are you unaware of memoryless static energy?
Though the streak of lightning is momentary
see the old waterfall
getting wet spontaneously
Amazement is so conventional
I’m thinking to pick up wonder instead
Are you coming crossing the distance?
The foggy dawn in the sunflowery garden is reminding me of the imminent winter. Is the whimsical sunflower defines cold as a rejection of closure? Though a roaring blaze is underneath the shameless civilization, homo sapient relation is still smouldering, making itself nude to realize how much sin, how much poison, in self-contained egotism. If the acknowledged suicide thinks of fire, you bow down to pick up the illusive resonance. Ego of denial opens itself. All calamitous mistakes become coherent with do-re-me.
A formation of you when you mirror forth me
Looking is so relative
small waves ripple beyond the vision
One kind of me
searches another me
in secret charm of which you are cherished
A perfect reflection of dry index finger
in applied right angle of marmoreal rustle
If ringtone of rejection rings in between eyebrows
straight line can also weave
You are accumulating water in your lone eyes. While thinking whether the chemistry of salt is there or not, light scattered on my eyes. But pupil has neither affinity for refraction, nor the possible wings to cross the aqueous humor. That is why I’m weaving your hints with the sound particles of teary words to fly for uncertainty.
Here is my journey for excavation into my bookyard, a secret space for me to take a quantum leap from my first life to second one, where I create my third life, fourth life and so forth. The journey through this excavation process always creates a syncretic space for me. It’s a void magic with sunlit absence to reconstruct my own poems in an internalized language. Some imprints piled up in the exterior of action, in the interior of reaction. I spread the assimilated feelings in a continuum of my own way of realization. I start conversation with the smile of ice cream. Alternatively I could say I start engaging words to my feelings. Sometimes the words are word-allusion of me, sometimes of the poet. I don’t want any wall in between. Wall can’t be marked by water, there’s only engraving. An engraved wall is a history and I’m not writing a history anyway. I just want to implant words in my moments with poetry; the moment which is the indistinct whistle of nocturnal language; the moment which is the refracted light from the lost dew; the moment which is the unheard music of silent tears.
[i] Antara – Bengali word for the intermediate part between the refrain and final development of music of a song.
[ii] Sanchary – Bengali word for the third line or step of Indian musical mode.
[iii] Phalgunai– Bengali word for one born in Phalguna, the month of spring.
[iv] Tinni – Bengali name for a girl.
[v] Shiuli – Bengali name for a type of flower.
[vi] Komol-Sa – Soft musical notes.
[vii] Bokul – Bengali name of a flower.