Jayanta Mahapatra Poems
|2.||Deaths in Orissa||3/22/2017|
|4.||A Grey Haze Over the Ricefields||3/22/2017|
|5.||Of that Love||3/22/2017|
|7.||A Missing Person||2/15/2018|
|8.||Eine vermisste Person||2/15/2018|
|11.||Deaths in Orissa||2/15/2018|
|12.||Sterben in Orissa||2/15/2018|
|15.||A Grey Haze Over the Ricefields||2/15/2018|
|16.||Of that Love||2/15/2018|
|20.||A Missing Person||3/22/2017|
|24.||The Indian Way||12/27/2013|
|25.||The Moon Moments||12/27/2013|
|26.||Taste For Tomorrow||12/27/2013|
|27.||Main Temple Street||12/27/2013|
|28.||A Rain Of Rites||12/27/2013|
|33.||The Captive Air Of Chandipur-On-Sea||12/27/2013|
|35.||A Summer Poem||12/27/2013|
|36.||Dawn At Puri||12/27/2013|
Comments about Jayanta Mahapatra
It was hard to believe the flesh was heavy on my back.
The fisherman said: Will you have her, carelessly,
trailing his nets and his nerves, as though his words
sanctified the purpose with which he faced himself.
I saw his white bone thrash his eyes.
I followed him across the sprawling sands,
my mind thumping in the flesh's sling.
Hope lay perhaps in burning the house I lived in.
Silence gripped my sleeves; his body clawed at the froth
his old nets had only dragged up from the seas.
In the flickering dark his lean-to opened like a wound.
The wind ...
The substance that stirs in my palm
could well be a dead man; no need
to show surprise at the dizzy acts of wind.
My old father sitting uncertainly three feet away
is the slow cloud against the sky:
so my heart's beating makes of me a survivor
over here where the sun quietly sets.
The ways of freeing myself: