Pranab K. Chakraborty
Biography of Pranab K. Chakraborty
Human Being who believes in Humanity. In regional language Bengali, writes by the name Pranab chakraborty. He also known as Apoet Bangla.
Pranab K. Chakraborty's Works:
Editor of a Bengali little magazine 'INTERACTION Bhasha-o-bhavnaar', published from Nabadwip, Nadia, West Bengal, India.
Four Books of poems.
One of Verse-drama.
About twenty manuscripts of drama performed by the local groups but not published one yet.
Pranab K. Chakraborty Poems
Pranab k c 16/08/2014 what you see not truth
Rapists Not Even Safe Inside Jail In In...
Indian youths are mobilised once again to hold the reign of punishing rapist No unprecedented the incident
Stars And Me
Tell the stars not to follow me with their tensified delight
Chocolate-Poem Vs. Acid-Poem
I never try to produce Chocolate-poems To supply you the satisfaction By licking and sucking
To Attain Musical End (Complete)
Part-I long days ago a midnight in remote countryside
I Am Successful Man
If I get any piece of beauty to read to see or to listen If I get opportunity
21st February: Mother-Language Day
In Bengali we tell Maa, aami tomaake valobasi In English MOTHER I LOVE YOU
To Attain Musical End (Part-Ii)
(Contd. Part} my only friend the faint torch shown me there standing an old and deserted
Destiny not always any Draculic enigma embedded in performing devastating embark Destiny simply a super-structure
It was not my turn to chase the cloud everywhere It was not my birth to penetrate the cloud every sphere It was not me the cloud overcast many skies where it shine
It's the day to utter some silent sounds: don't lose power to ownself
The Child And Rain
One day when a child tried to show me rain falling from the sky became confused
Nature Made Technology
thrashing pattern differs man to man object to object machine to machine
Love And Death
if I die tonight sudden death don't think I have died with frustration sometimes death alternatives to love
A Valley Of No Flowers
Pranab k c
The valley never gets free from its glory
grey its wide openness never hides death
from its extreme interior of visibility
and metaphorical existence
My ancestors once played their flute to salute the peak