Dr Tapan Kumar Pradhan
Biography of Dr Tapan Kumar Pradhan
Autobiography of an Award Winning Poet
I wanted a medal, and so I went
to the awarding committee vice president
and showed him all my poems and asked:
'Would you consider me for an award? '
'Your poems are all so simple and straight -
with no sign of style or high intellect;
even a schoolboy can plain understand them -
how can we award you for your poem? '
So I returned next day with a bunch of new
poems steeped in philosophy of high brow:
'Ah! they look now much better', he said,
'But which Party do you follow - Right or Left? '
I frankly said I belonged to neither,
whereupon he said, ''Your poems, my sir,
should follow some firebrand doctrine, or else
how can they the Jury's mind impress? '
'Casteism and Secularism are leading issues,
you can write on Feminism, if you choose! '
So the next day I wrote a few poems based
on sheer madness: 'I'm an Anarchist! ', I said.
'Ah! the poems are terrific! Now you get
a foreword written by an eminent poet,
and launch your book at a public gathering
by a celebrity of some social standing.'
'If my poems are good, then why this pain? '
I asked him, and he answered with disdain:
'Without propaganda, sir, your poetry's as good
as a chair with three legs that ever stood! '
And so I went to a dying old poet of repute
and made him sign below a foreword I wrote,
and having launched my book by a young rising
politician, I wondered: 'When the award's coming? '
'You will get the award, ' the vice president said,
'But you've still to do one thing, I am afraid -
to ensure your book is well received by public,
please get it reviewed by a well-known critic.'
'What's an award to do with a darned critic? '
I asked in rage, but his answer was as chic:
'Your poems are sophisticated, not easy to chew -
only a critic can lucidate your point of view! '
And so I did as directed, and at the end
of a year, in Autumn, a letter was sent
to me, declaring they were only too glad
to confer on me their top poetry award.
At a glittering function I received my medal,
but I swear, dear reader, before one and all
that as long as I remain in this world,
no more poetry for me - ah, no more award!
Dr Tapan Kumar Pradhan's Works:
Dr Tapan Kumar Pradhan Poems
Give Me That Promotion, Sir!
<center> How are you, sir? I was just passing by,
A Woman's Scent
That night when my mother took me to her breasts I knew woman had a scent quite different from man's...
Haiku on Soul
Soul to the Body: - 'So how are you, buddy? ' 'Not dead yet...'
A Prayer to God
Hails to thee, Lord! In your praise we offered a thousand oblations broke a hundred coconuts, and offered prayers
I, She and the Sea
Sombre though we were we knew - For the hearts beneath our skins did throb, As the surf surged up the sun swept shore And we lay in repose in gold sands galore -
Like a princess she comes at the appointed hour floating like a shadow through the stillness of night
Wind in the Afternoon
An assault of cabbage leaves on the pavement Tries vainly to cover up the manholes; Splattered egg yolk on the serrated kerb: Two men look from the window. Wind blows.
I Love You, Vani Vihar
However your memories lacerate my heart, However your ideology sells in the mart - Voices of pedagogues shriek from afar Here in the murkiness of Parija Library
It Can Happen to You Anywhere...
Your enemies can do it, your friends can do it to you. Your driver, doctor neighbour, neighbourhood shopkeeper your uncle, your priest, your teacher
full bare breasts clasped in a tight embrace, lips glued to the jutting nipple
Bitty Mohanty's Denial
I did not do it - it just happened one night we could have slept easily in separate rooms but she said a single room could be cheaper she also felt lonely and needed someone near
A Fixed Match
That hushed silence, that beating of the heart, biting of the nails, and that racing of the blood excitement in the stands, tension in the pavilion, frenzied munching of popcorns in the galleries –
Hour of Coming
Death does not come when you call him However much you call, he never comes: He comes only at his appointed hour - Playing hide and seek, biding his time
At the Bus Stop
<i>Eight-thirty! </i>.... still no sign of the bus - The driver must be sipping his coffee By some roadside <i>dhaba</i>, why should he care If the passengers suffer? …… if I suffer?
Like a princess she comes
at the appointed hour
floating like a shadow
through the stillness of night
Her chalk white body
glimmers in the dark
as she flings open her robes
with a brush of her hands