He is the author of twenty-five collections of poetry, ten novels one of which is in verse , and a book of critical essays. He is also assistant editor of the important literary periodical, Desh , and is in charge of the poetry section. Stylistically innovative, sensuous and imagistic, his poetry shot to prominence in the s. Goswami has won numerous awards, including the Ananda Puraskar in and as well as the Sahitya Akademi Award in
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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 He caught me out from my room, his face Is black, he is ahead of me and I follow him I crossed from the evening to the night, from the night to the dawn, then the morning, the noon, the day, the month Crossing water, tree, boat, city, hill Crossing blows, stumbling, poison, suspicions, jealousy, graves, genocide, the bones and ribs of civilization, swamp and grass Then crossing my own death, death after death, going on and on The bony fingers holding nothing but a pen Nothing Since then always the sound of the bird beating its wings in his skull, When he tried to hear someone instead he heard that sound, When he looked in someone's eye he always saw the eye of the bird, Waking up every morning he cut off one friendship, In the night when he lay beside his sleeping wife, checking his own body He wants to examine it to be sure that his wife is not sleeping with anybody else.
By pressing your own throat you strangled many times the shout of delight You restrained the shout of delight when death was near Are you dead? Or not? Death appears, comes near, nearer, then disappears This heart-breaking stress of pleasure, peculiar and unknown to you Such a whip you have never felt before What happened at last? After a torturous wait for her and your death-sucking lip Overflowed the limit and the sky broke open.
Out rolled the storm of the destroyed The storm of distress rolling onto the floor But you are still restless, where, there is no peace, none Fire does not descend, fire does not bow his head! Where do you throw the flames, where should you, With that thought the cloud bangs his head, sky! Where is the tree? Who can take the flames?
You have burnt tree after tree after tree, With that test, in the burned out darkness Ash moves in the room, paper, book, painting The floor of the room cracks Void One trunk of fiction emerging from the void, poet! Illustrated by Nilanjana Basu. Nilanjana has been regularly illustrating for Parabaas. She lives in New Hampshire.
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Joy Goswami
Sumana Roy writes from Siliguri, a small town in sub-Himalayan Bengal. Her website can be found here. A superstar poet is just as much an oxymoron as a wealthy poet. Since a literary critic, in spite of her nosey detective instincts, has access only to a writer's words and not their bank records, it is difficult to say whether the Bengali poet Joy Goswami is the latter. The film is about a man who is terribly and stereotypically a 'poet': absent-minded, lacking in worldly wisdom, social skills, and emotional intelligence, indifferent to his wife and household and yet dependent on her income and housekeeping skills. In keeping with his affinity for casting commercial 'stars' in his films, a business decision he does not hesitate to admit, Ghosh cast Bengal's most popular actor, Prosenjit Chatterjee, as the poet Indranil. But most Bengalis of my generation did not go to see the film for Chatterjee's sake.
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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 He caught me out from my room, his face Is black, he is ahead of me and I follow him I crossed from the evening to the night, from the night to the dawn, then the morning, the noon, the day, the month Crossing water, tree, boat, city, hill Crossing blows, stumbling, poison, suspicions, jealousy, graves, genocide, the bones and ribs of civilization, swamp and grass Then crossing my own death, death after death, going on and on The bony fingers holding nothing but a pen Nothing Since then always the sound of the bird beating its wings in his skull, When he tried to hear someone instead he heard that sound, When he looked in someone's eye he always saw the eye of the bird, Waking up every morning he cut off one friendship, In the night when he lay beside his sleeping wife, checking his own body He wants to examine it to be sure that his wife is not sleeping with anybody else. By pressing your own throat you strangled many times the shout of delight You restrained the shout of delight when death was near Are you dead? Or not? Death appears, comes near, nearer, then disappears This heart-breaking stress of pleasure, peculiar and unknown to you Such a whip you have never felt before What happened at last?
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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.
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