topics: |  poetry | bengali | india | biography | translation

I purchased eleven books from sAhitya akAdemi this month, most of them from
the "makers of modern indian literature" series, and this is truly the only
one  that was worth buying, even at the throwaway prices of the Akademi.

dasgupta's translations are in general more readable in english than clinton
seely's or even sukanta chaudhuri's later compilation, A Certain Sense. 

bio

born to a brAhma family in barisAl in the eastern sunderban delta
(bangladesh), jibanAnanda did his BA and MA in English from presidency
college calcutta, and was a lecturer at city college.  however, he lost his
job after six years (the college laid him off as the juniormost staff in a
time of financial stress).  he never recovered, living his entire
life in dire financial straits.  his works were also ruthlessly critiqued
throughout his life.  a number of volumes were published only after his
death, and he is widely recognized as the leading poetic voice of the
post-Tagore generation.

links: wiki
       banglapedia
       জীবনানন্দ দাশ (bangla wikipedia)

Excerpts

The Corpse : Jibananda Das p.26

Here, where the silvery moon lies wet in the forest of reeds
Where many mosquitoes have hopefully built their homes;

Where, wrapped up in themselves, and silent in desire,
The golden fish devour the blue mosquitoes;

Where, in this far corner of the world, the river lies
Deep and alone, painted in the colour of the silent fish;

And lying next to the field, in the midst of tall grass,
The river's water stares endlessly at the pale red cloud;

Or the darkness of the starlit sky
Looks like the head of a woman with a knot of blue hair.

The world has other rivers; but this river
Is the red cloud, the yellow moonlight carved up in patches;

All other light and all other darkness has ended here,
only the red and blue fish and the cloud remain;

Here, forever, floats the corpse of Mrinalini Ghoshal
Red and blue, silvery and silent.
			[shab, from _mahAprithibI]

The cat : Jibananda Das p.27

All through the day I keep meeting the cat;
In the shade of the tree, out in the sun,
Amidst the dense shade of the leaves
After a spot of success with a few bones of fish
He lies hugging the skeletal-white earth
Wrapped up in himself like a swarm of bees.
And  yet he scratches at the trunk of the Gulmohar tree,
Walks behind the sun, stalking it.
One moment he is there;
The next, he has vanished.
I saw him in the autumn evening stroking, with soft white paws,
The scarlet sun; then he gathered the darkness
Like little balls, grabbing each with a jab of his paws
And spread them all over the earth.
			[biRAl, from _mahAprithibI]