Sreyash Sarkar

Sreyash Sarkar Poems

Sreyash Sarkar Biography

Sreyash Sarkar is an Indian Bengali poet, musician, painter and engineer (born 20 September 1993) . Sarkar has been published in international literary journals[4][5][6] and has been featured as the youngest achiever, in the field of poetry in Education World Magazine and in the French world magazine, Le Mauricien among others. Sarkar's works, as reviewed in The Galway Review and Red River Review, represents an endearing world of 'some basic formal truths'. Le Mauricien goes on to comment that, Sarkar thus delimits a position apart in the debate on the question of representation and brings up 'some basic formal truths' in pictorial space. The reflexive space, the powerful creations are not synonymous with anarchy. It is about safeguarding the autonomy of artistic creation and affirming a critical attitude towards the present world. Sarkar seems to question all objectivity in art, to approach the work as such, the expression of a search.[In his works] We see the misuse of motives, a short prosodic structure, a dry recitative and a rhythmic pattern constitutive of an intimate rumination, the effect of distancing and the search for an intimate cohesion. In an interview for Arty Legume, he had indicated his principal poetic influences to be Rabindranath Tagore, Rainer Maria Rilke, Arthur Rimbaud & Sylvia Plath, who taught him, poetic restraint and the 'economy of balance'.)

The Best Poem Of Sreyash Sarkar

I'm 23 And I'm Wearing A White Kurta

I've heard bleeding of grasses.
I've heard peeling of onions.

Drop by drop.
Skin by skin.

Emotions, slashed on the cutting board.

Please don't splash that. Please don't.
Tomato-blood;
I'm 23 and I'm wearing a white kurta.

Most days are bland. Most days are good.
Most days are days of dogs and kittens.

Most days are sure. Most days are true.
Most days are pages. Most days are chairs.
Most days,
I'm 23 and I wear a white kurta.

I've stepped on stones.
Stones have history.
History of marks.
Marks of water.
Water of ‘Me'.
‘Me's of density
Smoked and bewildered.

Opening and not opening.
And not closing.
And not chasing.

Keys, hurling familiar sounds.
I know,
I'm 23 and I'm wearing a white kurta.

Somedays it's the sun.
Somedays it's the rebound.
Somedays it's the hillside ground
Somedays it's the hollow, hollow ground
Somedays it's with a ballad, with a sweet ballad
Somedays it's the sudden flushes of the landscape.

Lift me over human cravings,
Lift me over these ‘somedays'
Lift me, so that I can see,
I'm 23 and I'm wearing a white kurta.

The untruth of being
The shackled heart
The colossal loss
The intrepid woe
All circumvolve

Into nothingness.
Nothingness of sarees
Sarees of colour
Colour of consciousness
Consciousness of sea
Sea, the febrile sea.

When the zero hour closed in
Someone whispered,
‘Are you 23 and are you wearing a white kurta? '

I scarcely comprehend the words,
‘I've lived' or ‘You've lived'
When I've made sense of,
‘I'm the thought of things'
When I've made sense of
Something less fleshed than time.

The time of the melancholic moon.
Alone, important and wise.
Darker than earth's dark.

The first day after death,
When grief stopped being a purse,
I realised,
I'm 23 and I'm wearing a white kurta.

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