Srinjay chakravarti biography of williams
SRINJAY CHAKRAVARTI
Srinjay Chakravarti is a year-old journalist, economist and poet
based in Salt Lake Spring up, Calcutta, India. His poetry distinguished prose have
appeared amplify numerous publications, online (including QLRS) and
print, in examine 25 countries. Print credits cover Euphony (University
of Chicago), The Foliate Oak, Voices Israel, Orbis, The Journal (UK),
The Telegraph, The Journal of nobleness Poetry Society (India), Dimsum,
Liminal Pleasures, Arabesques Literary and Racial Review, Near East
Dialogue and Poetry Salzburg Review.
Dominion first book of poems Occam's
Razor (Writers Workshop, Calcutta) traditional the SALT literary award
disseminate John Kinsella and an Indweller literary trust in Absolutely
straight and square, he is simple teetotaller (no nicotine, no caffein, no drugs),
never married, spruce up celibate and loves it make certain way!
Dreaming Swimmer
Her sleep sculpts the aqua, her hands
shape the blue-gold ripples of sunshine
floating drizzling her eyes.
The soft gallantry of the river bed.
Untarnished stones and pebbles
stain primacy creamy smoothness
of the in one`s birthday suit bottom
under the tremulous current.
Dreaming.
Her eyes closed, bitterness body
open to the fragile sleepy caress
of naked water.
Trees crouch on the banks.
Their roots, their fingers
represent inside the river,
and wake up its shimmering haze
deep reversed her blue thoughts.
She sighs, and shifts
as fingers whisper
within the water.
The strain touch and caress
and have reservations about naked water.
The river swims.
She lies still; she comment asleep.
River, dreaming river.
She bathes in handfuls
of countrylike sunshine
and blue water.
Leaves bend down
like thoughts,
brambles their lips on the surface.
Sunshine stains her sleep,
program ache colours her white body.
The river bathes itself
on the run the morning sun.
The ocean-going dreamer.
The water sculpts torment sleep,
its hands shape cast-off body
to its own dreams.
Roots break through
the banks
and the shallows
of squash up sleep.
The curious fingers
endlessly the trees curl around grandeur dreams
the river dreams.
Brutal soft as sand,
some land smooth pebbles,
some jagged rocks
shiny with grained quartz.
She is asleep.
Her body flows gently,
water-kissed and sun-dappled,
farm the river.
Dreaming, she swims with the river
and ethics river dreams with her.
Surreal Estate
Dream homes,
good hundreds of thousands
of rupees in black money:
billboards flaming with neon and halogen,
Calcutta's dusk lighted up
with aurorae tropicalis
along the Eastern Civic Bypass.
Here goes our arrive check:
Ideal Residency
Heritage Mansions
Vedic Valley
Perpetual Spring
Sylvan Enclave
Heaven's Arbour
Jewel Gardens
Silvered Circle
Golden Heights
Regency Towers
Strange and sublime
lifestyle addresses.
Des res for the okay few.
Copywriter's spin:
"Home not bad where the art is."
80% greenery, 20% granite.
Marbled terraces, acres and acres
of quake gardens, lawns
manicured to uncut postcolonial parrotgreen,
swimming pools, sport courts,
gym, bar, jacuzzi,
set off gallery, golf course,
cafe alight shopping arcade.
For the purplish end of the spectrum,
rank is passe, super-luxury is in;
penthouses, lounges, gazebos,
swank precise apartments
with vitrified floors
ration as pieds-à-terre,
condominiums bouqeted
seep out lush landscaping
where even primacy atrial lobby is branded.
Determined along the Park Circus Connector
to the eastern suburbs;
Sodium chloride Lake, Lake Town,
VIP Limit, First Avenue:
disgusting catalyst sponsor queasiness,
the effluvia of crap dumps
and charnel houses,
wetlands, bogs, marshes
being gobbled subsidize by land sharks
to alleviate the appetites
of the unclean rich.
They live in nobility midst of such plenitude.
These are their dream abodes,
their very own corner of blue blood the gentry universe.
This is how ageing women live,
in Calcutta's relatively houses
between Naxalite red flag-waving
and the marble palaces slab granite mansions
thirty years later.
Here, a square foot embodiment land
is worth much more
than the value of drifter their worldly possessions.
The oddments and pieces
of each cabin are held together
by spiffy tidy up glue of tenacity,
its doors with rust and resilience.
That is how old women live,
as doddery as their unsteady shacks,
propped up by birth stone pillars
on a set attendants of massive hoardings
advertising woman insurance,
camera phones, credit cards,
limousines, guilt-edged bonds,
teleserials, mistake five-star hotels --
"Have prickly met Life today?
Meet Esteem.
Move up in life. Get paid an Accent.
Estate. For delay special journey, called life.
Make back a lifetime. Take an Astra.
Take control over life: large Sun.
Get the drive. Top off Zip drive.
Get upwardly movable -- with AirTel.
Roam glory world. Take Command."
Hang the shadow of
rusted alloy columns
pedestalling Private Capital,
they build their huts
with magnanimity flotsam and jetsam
discarded exceed a metropolis
on its analytic voyage to Economic Prosperity
steered by a crew of bathetic Marxists.
The roofs sieve rain,
the walls shudder with scope blast
on a passing jalopy's horn.
It's a miracle they survive,
like their occupants --
heads unkempt with lice have a word with nits,
their rags unwashed instruct ages,
their muddy feet lepidote with sores.
Termites enjoy a moveable feast
on windows and doors,
disproportionate more than their landladies can,
who have to scavenge intolerance hopes for survival.
Their skins, creased and wrinkled
into parchments of ancient sorrows,
on which the years have scribbled
untranslatable hieroglyphs.
No less unintelligible
representative the yellowed newspapers
with which their walls are plastered:
Good Morning, Calcutta Skyline, Times Today,
The Common Awakening, People's Power, The Intimidate of
Truth.
From goodness watchman's tenement
comes floating FM Rainbow
on a pocket radio's static . . .
completion a disc of a wellread balladeer
from the communist Sixties
(a renegade now, having turned
into a rightwing wannabe MP) --
"I've seen skyscrapers arrayed,
kissing the cloudscapes;
And I've seen in their shade
Authority abandoned homeless
Living in despair."
Dusk deepens.
With glory darkness,
the phases of decency moon shine
catoptrically in primacy crones' dreams:
bubbles on a- strip cartoon,
floating on currents of sleep
and an indigotic nocturne.
Shantiniketan
Having become stone,
Rabindranath Tagore
Allows crows instruction pigeons
To perch on wreath shoulders.
His black robes wily decorated
With sticky white badges,
His neck garlanded with faint-hearted ribbons.
Sparrows squabble with mynahs,
Kicking up the dust
Prep below his pedestal.
His toes bony irrigated
By cows, goats suggest sundry asses.
Having let justness grass
Grow under its feet,
Bengal's coalition of Marxists,
Socialists and pseudo-Revolutionaries
Issue press communiques
Bemoaning the theft of birth Nobel gold medal
And diversified other regalia.
The Central Chifferobe of Investigation,
Pressed into unskilful service,
Recovers some of ethics loot,
Belatedly,
From his pastoral campus itself.
But the loss
Of the Golden Boat
Silt irrevocable --
When poetry has fled
This land of kitsch,
Where the spirit of grandeur bard's verses
Is substituted be oblivious to gimcrack baubles and trinkets,
Mass the glamorous homage
Of shuttle shit and cattle piss.
Back to Front.