Utpal Kumar Basu: Selected Poems - Poem by RUDRA KINSHUK

Poetry of April-May


Bakul, I envy you only, how easily
you sink into her excited hair bright
no proverbs in your past, shadow, peace,
worms of buds

my endless blood falls among fire communites
because at the end of reaping such huge hay
man has never carried, I too never have seen
such wealth in any hair.

chaitre rachita kabita 3


The boats, lying on the solitary sands know you
all the days in their shades you sing of soul crops
sometimes have got into waves, into the blaue and bathing,
a thin smoke from your meagre meals

Sands not so hot as my uphappiness was.
I’m not dying for hunger, love and thirst
being in a grove of palms, something
more to be narrated,
another phase started before that
with the camels’ harness bells and the horizontal riches
they move continuously to the east along the brink of water
an endlessness and helpless net flots
in my eyes, in a magic way of
masculinity and feminity.

The light of anger washes the broken shord
and brings a topsy turvy day to any thing
favourable or not favourable
chaitre rachita kabita 7


The twilight sun sets behind the yamuna bridge.
The night-train has just passed. On the far corner of
a field of oilseeds, a sand-beach, hill-tops
all sound like a sad tune of the river bank.

Is the river then one of tears?

In the ether, in the sky the foreign boat
moves to the last light with the insect-call
as if the river yamuna ends in some horizon where
countless boats float in the flow having no
current, no water. From one forgotten bank
to another, to the farthest brink. You, the sad tune
drives your boat eternally.
chaitre rachita kabita 8


Peacock, perhaps you have been born in some twilight
And at the time of beginning of your first game
with your new wing’s opening under the clouds
I have seen you first, dear bird in that moment of eternity.

Having embarked such a distance, to profound silene
I have come to see your swift race, as if terrified you have called
us towards silence - the dark pine forest,
its complex being.

Then, at the forest’s brink, to the naked sight of youth
your talent appeared to be a lightning, It seemed new,
the newest creativity, thus gradually merges into eternity.

Take me back to seas, my being back to the tumultous waves.
I have seen its roaring break-up over stones of the end less earth,
the thuding waves take out boards and oars of the drawning ship.

Yet at the storm’s end, the day’s end in the dard forest
the terrified call is heard under the rain-clouds.
Perhaps in silence you have unfolded
your star-decked wings. Have you got any message?

chaitre rachita kabita 10

Puri Series


Raise your hands from distance. Consent if possible
otherwise signs prove futile. Night trains move away
keeping us half-awake. Is a continuous journey hard?
Sparks from iron-buds fall even to-day
on long, echoing station. On the doors, on excited nests
broken hands, spoiled eyes, remember the accident
I’m walking on crutches, liberationless, and old
man’s play of wealth None our proposals are agreed.

Puri Series 3


Look, these sea-beaches have been used time and again.
Smooth iron cages have been harsh for nothing, look.
Once the cage was mode tasionable than the cacatoo
Ambiguous, Roygunkar, the poet was very talkative.
One took him to be ultramodern and on the beach
each house seems to be worthdwelling.
No more the children play with sands on this ivory beach
They have grown up. They don’t expect anything from their children.
White worms eat up arithmatic pages. Still things
thrown into the sea return-sea’s unreasonable prestige, these things.

Puri Series 4

White Horse

White horse, I’ve come to understand from your mane’s
white pigeons, health, milk and the sun’s hatch to felt
But I’ couldn’t understand how men, there arms amputed
go away with huge cargo, embarking, gradually to sunlessness

to the west, to the sliding. Parentless war-torn content nose
the hince pammer to build only religion. A hue and cry.
Strange wind-will it away the date-palm leaves?
The blue tents swelling, alas, buyers, along the cats
the dead horses bowells swell on, the hungry hands.

Sada Goda

Indigo House

Some horses are no more today
and the riders themselves are not relevent
so grass return and grass is born
in the autumnal season
we feel tired.

In the bush of berries I find an immortal
friendless cub’s loitering, in the tiger’s yellow
stripes. I only see in the old bush of berries
a procession of human beings. That bush of berries
is no more safe.

Sewing Machine

I don’t have any count how often you scolded
me in dreams,
I was in deams - waking in spring’s world
alas, in that spring water
a gramaphone works - a low sewing machine moves
I think all day long
how many a time you scolded me
dreams end times, very little left,
I move a small piece of writing
along a few springs

This spring I may get a sewing machine
in a top branch of sky
I make a mistake - the deer explains that
half - lit nights and days to be put out.
Sitting in labyrinths in famous rustling of petals.
You may be a king, a godess, wise or recently
you have sunk
shadow-lit wings days in deer-shed
dependes on cook. His name...

Dedication to a Day of small Diversity

While diving into water I see those fish, names
of which I don’t know- but know that you have
left our country for long. Leaves fall on
water, fish floating on them a flag
flying that in silence and in your absence.

Khandabaichityer din er Utsargapatra

A Day of Small Diversity

That greenness may break up - so the mythical crane flying with a piece of crystalmeat, veins scattered over the paddy field as if webs, downs
tie up the crop’s green ness, its vacuum, its tarror, its oozing blood
that gift, today’s birthday at the age of fifty.

Khandacaichitryer din


Orchid an easy flower-but its complexities
too needed in wind, in air. In air. In winter cold
I find them flowering in sarcasm.
We are disciplined, truck’s bricked path
distant canteen, some ordinary pines
no fraudery in these habildar tents
comes, is that no good news?
Only orchids mutilated faces float,
The matter to be looked in another way.


Works on Silk-carpet

bright pillows and cloud covered quilt
darkcarpets, silver insense sticks
burning, stone cheaps brought from kota
red bricks form Bhopal, in the low land
the triangle-shaped house yet to be complete,
neem trees and thickets of pomegranates,
charming cool of fig-leaves, when it to be completed

tearless joys and sorrows seen to be the reply...

Salma-jarir Kaj 3

a flying ox, an elephant’s lion countenance
a child skeleton, fire in seas
fruitful fish, clothing crane,
loving crops, desert boat,
thirst-temple lonely from it birth
visible at a distance, let us stretch
our palms, worked out palms and ask:
give some water,
- a roar of laughter for this...

salmajarir kaj 4

My friend, on keeping my palms in yours I come
to feel you to be in a cripping amount of debts,
your son a wayward one and the daughter
always gets late in returning at night, relieve
of your secrets you have, speak of your
storm speaking wife, of your cheating collegues,
of your insomnia, and if you must weep,
keep your head on this shoulder and weep, my firend

salmajarir kaj 7

Here I -
half-mad, thunder-struck,

I, another hare- bodied
say to some one naked:

Is love a fool?
I take down physical wormth, a female gardener
lying in this garden of flowers,
I wirte grass
having abundwnce
and the insects,
those in habit of lies, and

mortality to be of thunder-beauty

salmajarir kaj 9

The habit of thinking is lost. So recently I have chats with birds and beasts. I sing. They listen. Not days ago, the eagle said, “your music practice is better than that of a cuckoo. Perhaps artificial praise, sycophancy, but why for me? The jackle doesn’t feel music, such dedication, he too says, ‘Now it’s about four in the afternoon, take some curds with sugar candy.’

salmajarir kaj 12

This body is no beauty, the mind decorates it in prosperity, with sandal-riches and watery foams of soup, wounds treated with ointment, ice-cakes bought in reference to black-spots, the mind loves the body likewise, some stories of his licentionsness are kept silent, some secrecy, we do know now where he strolled on last 21st April’s night, the mind pretends to be a dullard as if indifferent to others affairs as the murder witnessing neighbours, the body understand entirely, it teases and starts singing with its hands raised - my mind, O non-chalant mind of mine

salmajarir kaj 13

On breathing trouble I understand the Fuldongri-hill not to be far away, if not why am I gasping? why it not to be cured by any medicine? I don’t know what things, I know find, reaching the hill top.
The stone-slab which we wrote our names on
has perhaps tumbled down,
The water-flow which I jumped over has ment
for redirecting to the crop-field. If so, I not find out it,
I think thus and the hospital-bed gets filled with dry branches, torn paper-bits and abandoned sloughs.
Who will remove these debris? Will I manage to get time?
I have almost reached the Fuldungrihill.
Cheparam’s house
is visible from here. Let me walk
a bit faster towards the hill.

salmajarir Kaj 14

A swirling green snake crawls among those of you who are born as pumpkin leaves. My terrified cry has resulted in a crowd. They have rushed here to kill the snake with bricks and sticks. I point to the crawling snake. Look, it hides there, lifts it hood again, now I start explaining it to the school children, it is a green snake, how cleverly concealed, matching with Nature’s colours, a nature mystery. But every body, present there, starts smiling, pooh! where leaves, whose snakes, those are members of Gopal’s family, there Sarada returning from market, Janardan Babu has gone out for a walk with his pet...
Strange! Another blunder...

Salmajair kaj 16

Music is supposed to preceed the twine
birth of truth and falsehood.
Before their being fashionable youths,
before learning to comb, long before
giving clarion call to the near by tent’s
girl, i.e. a long colours bearing history
at intervals of battle and blood-shedding
they certainly gave a side night
to this small pump-set,
in midday sun the machine adjacent to the garden house
would croon a song - and over its shade
countless colourless write karabi-flowers would
fall down thick...

salmajarir kaj 17

Dance of Kahavati

The sands of the river named Tamasa, its bank I have been seated on intends to explain diference between me and its water - its waves wish to convince me that I’m no tree, the youth from some slum, drinking behind the trees intends to reveal that I have dropped from the clouds, just now, to the wonder of his eyes.

May be then let me wait with my folded wings in the darkening morning of rains. With the sunlight I’ll take off.

kahavatir nach 2

With my hands raised higher I cry, ‘Lord you must give it to me.’ People derive pleasure and say, ‘your cajolement has no limit and let us see your trick again.’ I repeat it, only here and there I add a few breathing spaces more as ‘came I to this world’ or ‘cruel you’, these insignificant songs, you too can sing; people laugh. Is there anything more important than this?

Countless crickets fall thick in the forest in the scorching heat of the sun, speech less and dying, some of them burn with blue flames, their bodies.

kahavatir nach 3

If I return here, I will return to be blue. I’ll try to articulate something as light as the blue of the bare sky after rains - such hesitation free articulation which if not understood will make none’s liverhood difficult. None can say, ‘You are not understood at all’.

Then you too please come to be white-colour, to drip into our consciousness as hard spun non-violence of cotton - the white that demands ‘Make me bullet-shot, blood-smeared, give me liberty’.

kahavatir nach 7

Inertia settles down, sage, let us call our sister and brother. Let the reading table be there that I reach at it that I can swiftly write this day’s internal haemarage how ears taken the song, coming from leafless void what thought come to him, this body paralysed? Who has sent these torn jerssey, half pit left photo’s died garland, and whom these exercise collected? How have they returned? All mistakes remained alike. Why none corrected?

kahavatir nach 8

When wax being rubbed on paper, a picture distinct in the cloud covered midday, rains in chalta forest I see bride daughter plunged into a silmy pond. Slims cover the cricle. Is she lookin for lost utensils or to wake up to the next bank? None knows. At least not I. Wax and paper hill decide the girl’s fate.

kahavatir nach 18

Have you seen any flowerboat? I’m yet to visualise it, which I read only in books Rather I boolishly took a boat full of melons for the pleasure boat of Kangali, the ordinany for It was to take us all to the bathing place for doing marriage-rituals beside the river. First I’ll board at, smart with garlands in hands make my self seat at some distance

While thinking from the soil to the blue I come to discover that it board came to be full of burning flowers and burning leaves. The guills are burning. Then house bodes are there?

kahavatir nach 19

Night School

But I alas! Preparing to write about nostalgia. Recent memeries seen to be inseribed rocles that will not be value washed in course of time Its alphabets will be readable after the cooected for is subbed off. Someone at last will decipher. Today or tomorrow. But from third day outards, the sport will be under the contorl of distant memories. “Forty two years ago”, on the other day Gauesh Nandi told me placing his hand on my soulders, “you had visited our Purua cinemer branch to open an account your first month’s pay cheque. Rupees three hundres twenty one and seventy pease. Number C two four nine seven sevings. D’ you recollect sir? ” I get startted. No, nothing comes to memory. Those memories are alphabets euggoved on rocks. Perhaps on hiltop covered in bushes. Cattle graze. One day any Mr. Rakhaldas, climbing up from my side, will certainly decipher the complete tast in a span of one noon’s sushinne. Today my confusion of Howrah station vicinty will be Gaueshbabu’s (after retirement, in chandan Nagar, an the very bank of Ganges, small two storied house roof laying is yet to be ene why den you visit oneday cause of extreme satisfaction, ‘That about your music lesson, he moves a bit further in meaning entertainment. No no, you used to engage yourself in writing as well my younger brother in law also had that had bodied know tarashankabalis sen in law once it so happened.

I, preperaed a leap, ascended the rightnow jetty auchored book

Babughat ferry is on that side.

night school

I had trade of glass, the canopy which I have made of broken mirror covered with a cloth is now today fling in the sky, in the soft breeze, the evening settles down on its body, I as if feld the shadow of leo the face of shibnath shstri, the Eden garden in that tarpausin rolling un employed trade science Tapan’s sister in law’s sovy my trade deprtment likes to by such mismatched.

night school

Ther has come a strange ove which says: I am running from Roy’s house. It adds: Not alone a few more persons are with me.

Water- flow, plastic mugs and tubs come running with wood-pieces, burthbamboos, it seems a few human bodies too feoating half burned as if dead

Is then the five of that house still burning today?

night school

Tusu, My Considerate Girl

It cann’t be likewise.

Either be fully mad or die.
This field is meant for sale of men,
Here cotton and women get to balance together
Here snakes and scorpions wait together for customers.
This house lonely, this body a broken market
Only death would not do? An experiditure
for last rites follows.

tusu amar chintamoni 3

Myrabalan: I look at the fruit with endless worder
doze in the eyes, fallen on the ground, the lamp
lighting noon, those who came returned,
the high branch of the pepul tree treambling
in the wind, but alas, the lamp which burns
useless at this moment...
a myrabalan to some extent, left, it
may be extinguished, the prayer of the last
winter suceeded in, Rukshini’s dumb
boy now a days speak fluently.

tusu amar chintamoni 5

No water-meeting here No lake
The more you walk the more the tower of pride
The more you come out of you, the more you find
the mine of rejected metals,
riverless bridge and dead wells.

Walk miles and mileds along the way of joy.

Have you heard of a mad girl at Basudevpur?
Perhaps still there,
be sure to visit here. Give her some water and guava.

Much more water...

tusu amar chintamoni 8

That endearing, covered with garlands and
trigs, see if none sit now on that seat,
something more to be done- We are to go
to some distant land, to the junle, to willside
my travell-path is lit with sight-I
am dharmadus, the resisiowl minded- I’ll find
sal-leaves, basuetfull of bamboo leaks, and mouse soils...

tusu amar chintamoni 9

You who are reading this piece and will leave after a white will lthink that some body gone with the doors left open, why no nuss. flowers fallen, you, a maniac think if you yourself have left the door open broken box shattered think the gas over lighted.

tusu amar chintamoni 11

I do like to enter the stomach of tjhat old great gird
as it food, like corns or as insects, but with
my own complete consciousness, living sense and
intellect, perhaps to see the universe
And after returning from it inside I like
to recount properly the fearful tale of travelling
to the meditating saints in the forests
in the fall of darkness...

tusu amar chintamoni 14

Continuons lying on this bed of grasses.
No tree-stone-count of duration of my sleep
perhaps there’s disurbances of bears and tigers.
No chanse for me to be afraid with me I have
bells of bear-dance. They will come to use
Will be not dance? And a fire-ing for tigers!
It will surely want to jump through the burning
ring - to and fro.

tusu amar chintamoni 18

No moon struck to another moon - a feather
A bird was moving form the east to the west.
such accident on the way.

I myself didnot see it. On the first floor in
the tax-collecing office Road, on the? ? ? room, I was
sleeping in the room with windows closed. At
The last phase of night the collector inforned me
the breathed his last, it is long.

tusu amar chintamoni 19

A small piece of veranda existing between
sleep and monipur. Milk and tea leaves
are here. Will some body put the kettle on?
sound of boiling water will rowse me,
the people’s chorus -
Paper boats come floating to this director.

Today is the death - anniversany of a great man.

tusu amar chintamoni 20

While going to buy a match-obx I saw the sky
covered with red clouds, Those dexereties of
old days, restless, open-winged-flying in the sky.
Though all of them are visible, some of them are
not such distinct. In that the countenanle of
Anu, of satyen, of Debu leushari, his hand amputed
Is that Banani whose younger brother shouts
Fly away, the police on raid on the high road

tusu amar chintamoni 21

A Writing on Cover

That day I stored water in an earthenpot
with a cover, near the window-but the to
the earth’s motion the worldly restlessness touch
it-excite it-pulls it to the west, to the
wintry night-winter-chilled that water,
life -like, it rolls on the floor when the pot broken
- as if waves - as if a dat of thedead -
it means sudden summer has returned.

Fish Fighting

I sit silently near the empty bottle.
It seems the cats mewing here and there.
I have red parts of the hand bill of jalim lotion.
Morning dailies are yet to come.
Family women have manaze to get
a few rupees as a mock payment of
doing-up his bed.
The new son-in-law laughs pleasure.
The son is the Ketu’s place.
The fish has moved to the fronts.

meen yudha 1

I will wake up in the orchard of apples and grapes.
I will ask each and everyone.
Why will it bring victory only to truth, not to false hood?
It is impossible to get reply to such question in the affirmative.
Its seems so. Some one seems standing on the door steps.
I remove the latch. The local peon looks for me.
He says: a registry for you from Nurpur, at wrong address,
so this unnecessary delay, where do you roam
all day long?

meen yudha 2

At Baksigunj on the River Padma

You have kept coloured leaves, words in colours
sound of snake movement.

The sun above the head, blue, each asks
the lost child about its home, name,
whereabouts its parents, their own country,
it does not know who has taken it here-
it can remember only the noise of snake movement
since birth. It can remember this little.
colourful, it does not forget even that
The rest is irrelevent, dark and fallen from tradition.

baksignje padma pare 1

A floating day of light clouds,
as if love, as if a document

I have folded the net of thoughts.
The web of sight gets dry in the sun.

Why have the singers not yet arrived?

This life meant for wounds, for glands of blood

Give me some time, a few minutes more.
For long I have not got down to seas.

baksignje padma pare 3

Now I don’t have any responsibility, except
to move to seas and forests with my note book.
I have no assignment except counting waves.
Silence reigns.

Water gradually evaporates, the perplexed law
of Nature. Winter returns. Locks of hair
open and fly in the wind, as if it’s evening
as if silence.

Heard that people like birds them selves
fly in the nooks of fields, jump from the air.
Even they climb trees and peck fruit.

My savings are this beach, assuring huge book,
this understanding

baksignje padma pare 4

Listen, my daughter to this arabian tale
of both travell and luxuries.
A son of grass and penance in the Nile basin.

This worldly life, an earthen geometry,
has lost direction in stormy rains-floating
ghost stone in canal.

The more I look up words, down words and breathe in
the more the distance grows, anger and geographical tevror,
distance of a few mile seem to be
that between the planets.

I add: I’ve come to teeach songs and fables
of morality and immorality in the crop markets,
the new way of slaughtering.

Someone has concealed the setting sun,
they have made the skin trunsparent in fire;
now a new music instrument -
of another province musical
a musiic-flow of mountain side.

baksignje padma pare 5

Who will wake up is the songs of dawn?

Helpless I implore - O the beautiful find some remedy.

The time table of the frontier rail is leaf-fringed
I thought of going some where. I note it down.

Images, new art, look at the flying vulthres above
the day ends in the departing sun light.

baksignje padma pare 7

Turbulent water. I’ve been standing by it
I’ve asket, “Only I know the secret of pacitying you
none any more.”

Water has got calm. It knows me.
I’m Raju, a boy from kash-bush, working in hostel.
I comply with orders. I talk a bit much.

baksignje padma pare 8

Just after death I met a green hibiscus.
‘Do you remember me, blooming by Ramani babu’s
rail quarter? ’ A strange looking
manolia asked, “You must recognise me,
I bloomed at the foothill, slightly fragrant”.
Then the sagoon-bunch aked with a mild smile
I am no true follower, yet I know that you
haven’t forgot me? Then after the session
of questions and answers, if successful
you will get a degree with papers
caligraphical letters on it tell that
he is truely dead; at the end the
labyrinth of government inopector’s
signature with impressions of seal.

baksignje padma pare 10

Rain-filled clouds emerge out of blood sea
Rains fall. Rains evaporate.
They say, “We know you, the brother of
fire and soil.

As we are. But it is residetral
suffering from incureable disease.”
I wanted to know- what’s remedy for me?
-‘Carry this talisman’. They tie to
my arm such as a string whose content
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? : O fearful, O desert,
you continue to be? ? ? , honnoured.
people leave seat to you, ask you to join
in the dinner party, you continue to stay
procreate like ugly creatures attached
to environment

baksignje padma pare 14

I move to the direction which you startled algae direct.

I get clashed with fish in water,
quickly I come to shore

Algae indicates the direction of current,
the damages of men boat-carried

Sleep, sleep my son; the halessman sings
I, a hydrophobic one, ghost live in water
ghost-fish, I bow to it from sank, a bamboo,
this consideration.

baksignje padma pare 18

Standing at the end of a long summer day
I’m thinking to cross the frontier camp.
Is there anything which not diven to me by others
shirt, shoes, card-packet,
a bunch of false tickets
even the ticket collector’s black coat, though old
empty plastic bottle thrown into the pond of water
spotted with palm trees around.

Standing at the end of a long summer day
I like songs coming from distance,
not that from proximity.
What left by others, useless,
whom corelessness glorifies,
I under their shadows lie, breathe in
sometimes I move to some distant land
but that is temporary transportation

baksignje padma pare 21

transcreated from bengali by rudra kinshuk

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Poem Edited: Sunday, December 5, 2010

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