(I saw my tears rippling down in the streams
I found all my pains dancing in my dreams)
(1)
In a white uncrumpled paper, I would
I could do so before, my stumbling mood
A standalone shadow, when overlaps another
Gets some space finally, like a good neighbour
However exhumed, without any trace to follow
Deep inside so much, ne’er to glow-
(2)
When the window shuts, without any force
I found myself, locked up in an unmined source
Everything precious, well-handed with preciseness
But I dips and drops in a black unholiness
Still something would, perhaps after many winters
I may behold that, without a drop of single feathers
(3)
The paper white as an ivory flutters up sometimes
But nothing I could put, as fresh as limes
When a bird I saw wandering above in vain
Weariness the word I prefer and a thankful strain
The golden streaks and luminous fragments of evening
But I couldn’t capture to get something a little simmering
The golden streaks and luminous fragments of evening But I couldn’t capture to get something a little simmering amitav mazumdar.. The struggle of a poet when he engages himself in writing. dear poet you have excellently brought to life this struggle. thank you very much. tony
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The golden streaks and luminous fragments of evening But I couldn’t capture to get something a little simmering very fine poem.. you have actually described the pain when you as a poet are not able to scribble what is in your mind, and what wells up in your consciousness, very fine poem thank you