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Baker, J. D. |
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Sarkar, Partha |
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Zumpe, Lee Clark |
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People with dysentery by Partha Sarkar They wander in the
queue. They
swim in the pitfall. No, they are not the novices.
They search for a
scepter. They
like to carry it As
they are the pissed. They
look blank when they are preached to, And get over when
they get a pittance. No, they are not the touts. Only if you ask them
– What
is tomorrow? They
scratch their own skulls.
There has been no cooperative system by Partha Sarkar There
has been no cooperative system, There will be none There has been no
inborn enthusiasm, There
will be none It
is only death that introduces the system, The cooperative system
at the foot of the pyre. You
may get angry with me And show this is the . . . this
is the . . . " 'ism" But show I will the
different cards that are played At
the brink of the hill By the fool And none is responsible
As the puller
draws the rickshaw While out of the car spits the
owner— The biggest destroyer
of the embryo.
Goes back toward the talisman—the future by Partha Sarkar Goes back toward the
talisman— The
future— The cosmetic surgery To find the bones of
science And
returns with the dry smile of anemia Yet, does not get
surprised the hubbub Signs
on the papers As
tomorrow comes after yesterday.
The broken seashore and the fishermen by Partha Sarkar The broken seashore. An overturned boat. Yet, clean the vegetables In saline water the sad
background. Peeps
at the meagre morsel in the pot To see whether there is
something left. In
fact, the drowned sailors still Try to find the sunk boat of
the fishermen To understand the real utterance
of the sea And
no waves can deny it.
Once the evenings
were happy ones by Partha Sarkar An optimist:
The time is being improved with the blessing of technology. Everyone is getting smarter by using smartphones. Computers
are running Faster defeating
the speed of a witch with a broom. Medicines are better and Bitter. Electric cars are flying happily to curb air
pollution. Social media is Controlling the
thoughts and imaginations of the people. A pessimist: Thanks
a lot for giving a bright and happy picture of the age. So, I Like
to remind you of the collapses of the banks. Automation
plays an important role To dull the pain
of the working class. The words “Retrenchment” and “Hacking” Have become the known words. The stock market is worth
half of what it was yesterday. Global warming sends gifts like natural calamity. Most of
the souls Are
getting depressed and stressed. but I do not like to
draw conclusions—Who is correct? Everyone has
its own mirror. Everyone is a narcissist. But say I must
that once the evenings were happy ones.
Tremendous explosion and here is . . . by Partha
Sarkar Tremendous explosion And here is the vomit of humans— The eternal confluence of confusion, greed, and wisdom
And is dazzled
with an epigram of its exotic clamor. Nowadays I meet with
the oddments of the intestines While I am on
the way with the holy grail to the nest—paradise To
beg for nectar to drink But cannot As It’s an omnipresent
eternal confluence of Fizz, fetid flab,
and flambeau. But
I return home without being confused as All
night the barking will tell me fairy tales— The eternal epic of
light, light, light. . . .
The lunatic
equation and the lemon revolution by
Partha Sarkar The
lemon equation. The lemon revolution. The drooping
jester And the disappearance of the lunatic fringe And
the scorching heat And the invitation in the middle of the day And
none can avoid the parallel skipping of the mystical politics And
the torrential river in the Pacific Ocean And the
harbor that wants to meet it But cannot As
loses the oar with the wind And there is no salvation. Gives
up the dream of pure democracy— The purchasing power.
A knife with three wheels by Partha Sarkar A
knife with three wheels. (Three dimensions! Three verb tenses!) A
mobile essay. A carrot hanging into the mouth. A planet
below the moon. The miscellaneous trashes. A kneel-down
civilization. The fume of a pyre. The boundless
empire. The name? The
billboard. The miscellaneous names. An awkward
riddle. The ass in meditation.
May Day by
Partha Sarkar May Day— an obscure Red sun in depression and Consumerism.
Procession by Partha Sarkar A procession of Refugees. An eternal Long
march to big zero.
Goes but never
returns, every clock by
Partha Sarkar Has seen the price, the demand. The small hand has put the basket
in the air. Knows everything, the cursed banishment But
does not knife the skin, the mellow eclipse As
the carcass preaches in the amphitheater And the butterfly runs to and fro. But does not care about the disorder As The destination is fixed. The
clock ticks. The cloak walks with a long attire. Everyone goes without a return ticket And the coffin in the air meets the honeymoon After the explosion.
Where should
we go? by Partha Sarkar Where should we go? The
lunatic birth The warmer earth An
oasis is hollow. The burning
hell Or a floating pit With severe heat Melts ore to sell. But
who buys it? No Answer from face But
sobs in a mess— A dry circus show And runs as dead With a red, cold bed.
You
may wheel away but the question is . . . by
Partha Sarkar The swinger. The sword. The
pallbearers. The magnificent banter. The boundless sadness. The
golden chariot with broken schedule And the flow of fetid gobs with voter slips
And no sunrise in the barrage. But should one be sad after
the dismal protest from fire? Everyone
knows that carbon is sacred But not the hand that spreads the wrong spume.
Partha Sarkar is
a resident of Ichapur, a small town of the province West Bengal of India. He is a graduate
who writes poems that are inspired by the late Sankar. Sarkar and his friends
(especially Deb kumar Khan) protest against social injustice and crimes against nature.
His poems have been in different magazines, both in Bangla and in English. Once, he believed in revolution, but now he is confused because
of the obscurity of human beings. In spite of this, he keeps fire in his soul.
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