Biography of amitav mazumdar
Born in India, a Hindu by faith. Believes that every thought breeds another and then another and then another.......... First published poem published poem A TREE DIED INSIDE ME was published in The Statesman in 2005. Poems are mostly influenced from the writings of Li Bai- an insane poet rejoices in lazy wanderings.
amitav mazumdar's Works:
All shades of emotion carry this book. Whether it is religion, sex, terrrorism- everything glinted with a subtle impression. I wrote this book while listening to the fajr, while passing through the lanes of brothels, when people get traumatized after a terror attack, while sitting alone before a tall monastic hill and listening to the silence only- I do solemnize silence that breeds thoughts and dreams which brought out my GOLDEN SHADOWS. Read it with patience. At https: //www.amazon.com/author/poetamitava
amitav mazumdar Poems
Around My Words
(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
An Episode Of Love
I'll fly to make your wings flap Birds even dare to ascend high The enormous space and beneath the blue sky Our body'll spin like flashy ride
A Few Ends
And there stopped everything, every roads A ghastly flow of wind, with fiery swords Bloods crawl up, bones heaped over Half of the day gone, clouds began greyer.
To My Closest Neighbours
Behind those walls, I never eavesdropped Everytime a chime plop, my glances thronged My mother shoved hard, I withdraw my eye And a lizard ran, the blue walls become sky
It came serpently And laid in my Age-old mailbox.
If I'M So!
I need a hunt My claws are straight and sharp Narrowed at the ends Penetrates easily into
After A Rape!
We shall not forget We shall throw away our birthday cake We’ll wear a smile in disguise
My Runaway Friend
chasing away the swarms of flies- he makes awhile busy a crumpled hat a tattered shirt peeps his narrow chest hairy
Axes And Shovels
Those are not my mine, deep scars on the face of destiny Every verses be it satanic or holy – A jewel adorably been close to my chest In a feathered cup like my own breath.
I measured my steps before I waltzes A day ago that moment came to doorstep
The Virgin Rain
The dry earth swallowed Every drops of rain A year or a few months back My periods had began.
At The End Of The Day
At the end of the day I rummaged all the corners Everything is so distinct and clear Yet I end up as a loser.
Not so profound, not so deep Wounds in the bodies dig a sleep Writhing like a leech about to suck After a few winks, sleep forms into a crystal arc
The sun grand at its glow….making simmers….down at the downest plains….beside the hillside…a motion of mushroom pickers…. Light shovels in their hands….a cane-basket tied at their backs…eyes tilted beneath…always….towards the soil…..sometimes slithers…at the glare of mushroom pickers…. Where the hill slackens….a little curved…and the woods began….thick and thicker….dense to denser…with the sway of mushroom pickers… Their bodies are bendable….like the green climbers…easy to low down….asking for mercy….but could uproot deftly….the edible fungal growth….may be egg-white…or a little pinker….at a single touch from the mushroom picker…
From The Hills
Beyond the reach
A puff of clouds
I've tried to catch
And failed almost
At every bouts.
The shake is still