a little soothing sax flowing down from the sound boxes......

Subhankar Das : Have a nice time friends........party hard......and if you are like me sit with a glass of wine and a book and maybe a little soothing sax flowing down from the sound boxes......

Yesterday at 8:45pm
Yannis Livadas, Rudolph Carrera and Mustafa Stefan Dill like this.

Yasmeen Najmi : I'm with you, brother! Tonight they have the luminarias (little candles inside bags) lit over all the adobe walls at Old Town Albuquerque and surrounding neighborhoods. A beautiful sight along with open houses and libations. Plan to settle in to some writing this weekend. Hope you are well!

Yesterday at 10:14pm

Mustafa Stefan Dill : Subho, you need to come and visit and Yasmeen and I will show you a NM holiday season!
Love and seasons greetings to you and all the Kolkata crew!

Yesterday at 10:54pm

Yasmeen Najmi :))

Yesterday at 11:07pm

Subhankar Das : I can imagine Yasmeen !!! It must be a wonderful sight !!!!
Seasons greetings to you Stefan and you too Yasmeen.I wish I was their right now with you people.

Yesterday at 11:09pm

Mitzi Szereto : Your christmas eve plan sounds much better than the party hard version. enjoy!

Yesterday at 11:36pm 12 hour

Charas Jazz And A poet Called Subhankar Das

By Santany Roy

Subhankar Das is a poet of late eighties. His first book of poems ‘Songs of the damaged brain’ was published in 1987. Till date he has published 14 books. Subhankar has been a literary activist at the epicenter of the underground movement in Bangla literature. The otherness of his works has provided new directions to alternative Bangla poetry.

Subhankar’s style departs from the conventional wisdom of poetry and anti-poetry. All such margins are being challenged and the reader is finally led to the magic stairs of ‘open text’.

Method and madness interplays brilliantly. Screams and silences are juxtaposed. The spirit of the Beat generation and the counter culture movement of the west have inspired this poet. An avid reader of William Burroughs, he used cut-ups in his earlier works but later drifted to an indigenous approach. Subhankar uses classic construction patterns embedded in contemporary oral street language – a postmodern attitude which earmarks his poetry. The transient imageries which develop and dissolve disturb what John Burger calls our ways of seeing. The paradigm shift is visible in a phrase like ‘burning in the rain’. How wonderfully he has explored the negative space of language by interchanging the figure-ground relationship.

From his first book ‘Songs of the damaged brain’ to the latest ‘That boy that toy’, Subhankar the poet has traveled long. ‘For Lucy once again and for all radio stations’ was a poem about love, one of the finest ever written in Bangla. ‘From the bunker of this life’, where even death is commoditized reflects the claustrophobia of today’s generation. Beat poet George Dowden called it ‘An Indian Howl’.

In his later works like ‘Charas Jazz’ which was written under the influence of the said drug and in the very long poem called ‘Bubbles of loneliness, solitary propulsion of comfort’ Subhankar has explored the scope of ‘automatic writing’. In his book ‘Luciana Lucia Lucia’ Subhankar plays the role of Text-Jockey and he creates Remix versions of his own poems, something unprecedented in world literature.

Subhankar is a poet with intense passion. This passion remains the vital force within his utterances, the deep musicality of all his works.

Subhankar has translated works of Allen Ginsberg, Mallarme and other poets. He is the founder of Graffiti Publications which is dedicated to highlight the works of underground writers and artists.

Distance # English And Greek Version

Distance



Doesnot matter whether it is Subhankar or no Subhankar.
Carrying my own corpse like this. No strength in the whole body.
The crumbling structure cage gradually bends and then becomes
smaller getting rounded. Rain water imprisoned in the
eye balls of my hand. The wind sucks-in sun salts. The way
I die would tell about that courage. This is enough. The
light of the sky and wind are sullen. It seems it is raining
but not actually. My knowledge may not be perfect. Oh my
wings. My wings.Wings. My wings. Because there is fire
in the wings-the bones of the featherless wings are
flying in the wind. Just now, they would lie on this paper.
Side by side. My wings, my bones, my hair.








Subhankar Das - Απόσταση (Μετάφραση: Γιάννης Λειβαδάς) ΝΟΕ 19Κατηγορία: Μεταφραστικό Εργαστήρι, καταχώρηση από: Σωτήρης Παστάκας



Δεν έχει σημασία αν υπάρχει ο Subhankar ή δεν υπάρχει Subhankar.

Έτσι όπως κουβαλώ το πτώμα μου. Δύναμη καμιά σ’ όλο το σώμα.

Η δομή αυτού του κλουβιού που καταρρέει σταδιακά λυγίζει

Κι ύστερα λιγοστεύει κυρτωμένη. Βροχόνερο φυλακισμένο

Στους οφθαλμούς του χεριού μου. Ο άνεμος απομυζεί ηλιακά άλατα.

Ο τρόπος που πεθαίνω θα μιλήσει για την ανδρεία ετούτη.

Αυτό είναι αρκετό. Το φως στον ουρανό και ο άνεμος σε μαύρα κέφια.

Μοιάζει να βρέχει μα όχι στην πραγματικότητα. Η γνώση μου δεν

Είναι δα τέλεια. Ω τα φτερά μου. Τα φτερά μου. Φτερά. Τα φτερά μου.

Υπάρχει φλόγα στα φτερά γι’ αυτό τα οστά των μαδημένων φτερών

Πετούν στον άνεμο. Την ώρα ετούτη ακριβώς, πάνω σε ετούτο

Το χαρτί θα πέσουν. Το ένα πλάι στ’ άλλο.

Τα φτερά μου, τα οστά, τα μαλλιά μου.

ΒΙΟΓΡΑΦΙΚΟ

Ο Subhankar Das γεννήθηκε και ζει στην Καλκούτα της Ινδίας. Έχει εκδώσει 16 ποιητικές συλλογές και είναι ο μεταφραστής των έργων του Άλλεν Γκίνσμπεργκ στην ινδική γλώσσα. Εκτός από ποιητής, είναι παραγωγός ανεξάρτητων πειραματικών ταινιών. Μεταφράζεται για πρώτη φορά στα ελληνικά, και ποίηματά του θα συμπεριληφθούν, μεταξύ άλλων, στην υπό έκδοση «Ανθολογία Ινδικής Ποίησης του 20ου Αιώνα».

Link: http://www.poiein.gr/archives/6354/index.html

Shadow Saplings

Who has seen the light of the words
like the moaning of a Chanting Bowl
A bright white emptiness
A zero just the moment of a jump of a deer
a glimpse of a framed picture

Because there is nothing I have much Dhamma wisdom
the moist light of a lamp
just the refuge of a sweating hand
which can give love for a few moments

As we did not have dollars
we remained just snake charmers

Miracle-man is actually not a human being
not true just a hangover of a dream
that hangs tilted from a rope

How long the dickory dock will tick
Pubic hairs greying one by one
You said don’t look down
Still true I also know I am ageing baby
Now keep your dick in the closet
and live like a rhino alone
with a faltering sight
As in the indistinct darkness only the memories are born
The shadow saplings draw close together
in the forest to cloud