Joy Goswami

Rating: 4.33
Rating: 4.33

Joy Goswami Poems

I have brought the sacrificial goat
To the heap of grass, leaves and bark

He has forgotten his last beheading
But round his neck garland-like
hangs a mark
...

By deeper water, upon greener rock, I had pitched my tent
And washed away with care the colour of my scream
Your bone and stone ornaments dried on wet rock
And Night would spread its blue-black skin upon the water
...

Ma comes and stands
by the window

The river swift below

Leaping out of the water rows of burning snakes

I come to the river to pick up
my iron-fettered flute

By the window high in the sky
Ma comes and stands

then moves away.
...

Suspicion comes and sits on his shoulder one morning,
Slowly with long, thin beak, it cleans his ear
...

If you ask me, 'what have you done with your life'
then I must tell you...
...

Lay yourself down, when you wish to be born lay yourself down
in a grassy field meadow pasture lay yourself down and say Ma Baba Ma Baba
Soon your body will become this tiny in the morning
Office-goers will see on the grass drops of dew
...

This noon I do not sleep, I do not wake, I do not die, I do not live
Time enters the room through the window, until this noon I did not know my hand, my own thin hand is a lyre
...

Dusk has fallen. Go home.
Don’t wait any more.
Trees, flats, trees, signboard, trees
In between the slate sky
...

When did light string me to sleep’s dark branches,
O Tamal,
When did peacocks enter
night's township
go from door to door peddling songs!
...

An eye had wandered, to another’s beloved, her leg.
When, carelessly, her sari lifted just a little -
Outside, the rain comes down. A lantern’s been lowered underneath the table, in the dark
...

All that rainfall
Laid out in the rainfall, all those dead bodies
Beating at the dead bodies, all that wind
Trembling with the wind but not billowing out, all those
...

Ash moves in the room, printed in darkness
Paper, book, cover, painting, the call of dead birds---
Ashes moving in the room, what is suppressed in the room
One trunk of stories wants to rise up from the floor
...

Dead peacock in the dream
The moonlight fell upon his body

Cactus in the veranda
Room besides the roof
...

In the evening sadness comes and stands by the door, his face
Is hidden, from the dying sun he took some colors and painted his body
The sadness comes in the evening,
I stretched my hand and he caught my wrist, in an iron-hard clasp
...

A name I’ve written on a blade of grass
On the date my mother breathed her last.
...

A mound of earth a heart
Crowned by a set of bones playing
Bones. Dice. Bones.

A mound of earth, a heart
The ground awaits your spade and shovel
It's your right, so dig will you?

Clumps come away lumps of earth
Flesh earth flesh earth -
Dice. Bone. Dice.

Ulcer-lacerated the world
Is still afloat, offer it a fistful
Of earth a handful of heart -

What, afraid it'll kill you?
...

Wars march into the past
Peak upon peak rising

Towards tips of frost

Behind them the little houses
Sit their bright lights on

For the men they have lost
...

Sizzling sound in the water
My sleep broken
A billion years of sleep
...

On the roof a senseless child. Growing long
its neck goes off to drink
from a faraway pond.

On the forest road from time to time the harpy calls, hypnotic.

Walking on the cloudpath around midnight,
a skeleton salesman hawking:
Curd, fresh curd . . . I think

The senseless child on the roof,
with its rockhard thirst, I keep it company,
I bring my mouth to the pond and drink -
not water but blood - I drink . . .
...

Out the hull of the boat falls the scull
into the water

One heave of the ashblack water and then darkness

Where is that fallen scull now?

Two inquisitive fish, two pieces of stone, wood, a broken bicycle
Driven into the muck next to a ring, a couple of coins.
Their eyes gleam in the dark. They have been in the water
so long they are turning into its creatures.

Landing near the lost scull, I see
it has grown wings, spikes on its back, a horn on its nose
and tied by a rope to its horn that giant boat which it steers
again through rain past the fogged and drowning world.
...

Joy Goswami Biography

Joy Goswami is an Indian poet. Goswami writes in Bengali and is widely considered as one of the most important Bengali poets of his generation. Biography Joy was born in Kolkata. His family moved to Ranaghat, West Bengal shortly after and he has lived there ever since. Goswami was introduced to and encouraged with respect to poetry by his father, a well-known political worker in the area. He lost his father at the age of six, after which the family was sustained by his mother, a teacher. She died in 1984. Goswami's formal education stopped early, in grade eleven. By this time he was already writing poetry. After a long period of writing in little magazines and periodicals, his writing was finally published in the influential Desh Patrika. This brought his immediate critical acclaim and so long after his first poetry collection was published, named Christmas o Sheeter Sonnetguchchho (Sonets of Christmas and Winter). He has received the Anita-Sunil Basu Award from the Bangla Academy, Govt of W.B. the prestigious Ananda Purashkar in 1989 for Ghumiyechho, Jhaupata? (Have you slept, Pine leaf?) and the Sahitya Akademi Award, 2000 for his anthology Pagali tomara sange(With you, O crazy girl).)

The Best Poem Of Joy Goswami

I have brought the sacrificial goat

I have brought the sacrificial goat
To the heap of grass, leaves and bark

He has forgotten his last beheading
But round his neck garland-like
hangs a mark

Joy Goswami Comments

1st comment below you trapped all year and he still got 1000 times more bread than you just like I know it hurts so bad don’t it? HERE☛.........jump47

0 0 Reply
Sayeed Abubakar 26 October 2012

Dear poet, From Bangladesh we nourish a good idea about your poems. Your name is very familiar here. But sorrowfully I have to say, here the translation of your poems presented in Poemhunter is really very weak. We do not consider you so weak as a poet.

13 9 Reply
Koena Mokoena 21 April 2012

I believe each & everyone has hie or her own talent, hence i am a poet. A Bathroom Fairytale according to my own point of view it takes us back where we belong. The fact is i am talking from experience as i have been in a bath before. Your correspondence will be high; ly appreciated. Have a nice day!

5 12 Reply
Koena Mokoena 21 April 2012

I believe each & everyone has hie or her own talent, hence i am a poet. A Bathroom Fairytale according to my own point of view it takes us back where we belong. The fact is i am talking from experience as i have been in a bath before. Your correspondence will be highly appreciated. Have a nice day!

4 5 Reply
Koena Mokoena 21 April 2012

I believe each & everyone has hie or her own talent, hence i am a poet. A Bathroom Fairytale according to my own point of view it takes us back where we belong. The fact is i am talking from experience as i have been in a bath before. Your correspondence will be highly appreciated. Have a nice day!

1 7 Reply

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