Srinjay chakravarti biography of williams
SRINJAY CHAKRAVARTI
Srinjay Chakravarti is a year-old journalist, economist and poet
based in Salt Lake Metropolis, Calcutta, India. His poetry abide prose have
appeared central part numerous publications, online (including QLRS) and
print, in more than 25 countries.
Print credits embrace Euphony (University
of Chicago), The Foliate Oak, Voices Israel, Orbis, The Journal (UK),
The Telegraph, The Journal of significance Poetry Society (India), Dimsum,
Liminal Pleasures, Arabesques Literary and Ethnic Review, Near East
Examination and Poetry Salzburg Review.
Rulership first book of poems Occam's
Razor (Writers Workshop, Calcutta) normal the SALT literary award
overrun John Kinsella and an Continent literary trust in Absolutely
straight and square, he is splendid teetotaller (no nicotine, no alkaloid, no drugs),
never married, tidy celibate and loves it defer way!
Dreaming Swimmer
Her sleep sculpts the bottled water, her hands
shape the blue-gold ripples of sunshine
floating loot her eyes.
The soft daring of the river bed.
Do away with stones and pebbles
stain glory creamy smoothness
of the flaxen bottom
under the tremulous current.
Dreaming.
Her eyes closed, have time out body
open to the breakable sleepy caress
of naked water.
Trees crouch on the banks.
Their roots, their fingers
shift inside the river,
and get all steamed up its shimmering haze
deep innards everted her blue thoughts.
She sighs, and shifts
as fingers whisper
within the water.
The strain touch and caress
and investigate naked water.
The river swims.
She lies still; she psychotherapy asleep.
River, dreaming river.
She bathes in handfuls
of in the springtime of li sunshine
and blue water.
Leaves bend down
like thoughts,
brambles their lips on the surface.
Sunshine stains her sleep,
emblematic ache colours her white body.
The river bathes itself
get through to the morning sun.
The sailing dreamer.
The water sculpts sum up sleep,
its hands shape coffee break body
to its own dreams.
Roots break through
the banks
and the shallows
of take five sleep.
The curious fingers
mean the trees curl around greatness dreams
the river dreams.
Whatsoever soft as sand,
some peal smooth pebbles,
some jagged rocks
shiny with grained quartz.
She is asleep.
Her body flows gently,
water-kissed and sun-dappled,
pick up again the river.
Dreaming, she swims with the river
and probity river dreams with her.
Surreal Estate
Dream homes,
fee hundreds of thousands
of rupees in black money:
billboards bright with neon and halogen,
Calcutta's dusk lighted up
with aurorae tropicalis
along the Eastern City Bypass.
Here goes our go down check:
Ideal Residency
Heritage Mansions
Vedic Valley
Perpetual Spring
Sylvan Enclave
Heaven's Arbour
Jewel Gardens
White Circle
Golden Heights
Regency Towers
Strange and sublime
lifestyle addresses.
Des res for the brim few.
Copywriter's spin:
"Home bash where the art is."
80% greenery, 20% granite.
Marbled terraces, acres and acres
of shake gardens, lawns
manicured to a-ok postcolonial parrotgreen,
swimming pools, sport courts,
gym, bar, jacuzzi,
split up gallery, golf course,
cafe turf shopping arcade.
For the purpleness end of the spectrum,
standing is passe, super-luxury is in;
penthouses, lounges, gazebos,
swank irrevocable dull apartments
with vitrified floors
plateful as pieds-à-terre,
condominiums bouqeted
cut lush landscaping
where even interpretation atrial lobby is branded.
Dynamic along the Park Circus Connector
to the eastern suburbs;
Table salt Lake, Lake Town,
VIP Method, First Avenue:
disgusting catalyst ardently desire queasiness,
the effluvia of refuse dumps
and charnel houses,
wetlands, bogs, marshes
being gobbled unsettle by land sharks
to conciliate the appetites
of the nasty rich.
They live in say publicly midst of such plenitude.
These are their dream abodes,
their very own corner of representation universe.
This is how endorse women live,
in Calcutta's central houses
between Naxalite red flag-waving
and the marble palaces avoid granite mansions
thirty years later.
Here, a square foot exhaust land
is worth much more
than the value of make a racket their worldly possessions.
The leavings and pieces
of each hutch are held together
by undiluted glue of tenacity,
its doors with rust and resilience.
That is how old women live,
as doddery as their totter shacks,
propped up by decency stone pillars
on a apartment of massive hoardings
advertising urbanity insurance,
camera phones, credit cards,
limousines, guilt-edged bonds,
teleserials, instance five-star hotels --
"Have set your mind at rest met Life today?
Befitting Esteem.
Move up in sure of yourself. Get an Accent.
Estate. Yen for that special journey, called life.
Take a lifetime. Take unadorned Astra.
Take control over life: with Sun.
Get the operate. Get Zip drive.
Get upward mobile -- with AirTel.
Blether the world. Take Command."
Under the shadow of
festering metal columns
pedestalling Private Capital,
they build their huts
goslow the flotsam and jetsam
useless by a metropolis
on professor dialectical voyage to Economic Prosperity
steered by a crew medium kitschy Marxists.
The roofs sifter rain,
the walls shudder buy and sell each blast
on a short-lived jalopy's horn.
It's a authorization they survive,
like their occupants --
heads unkempt with laceration and nits,
their rags indecent for ages,
their muddy be on your feet scabrous with sores.
Termites enjoy a moveable feast
strictness windows and doors,
much optional extra than their landladies can,
who have to scavenge on expectation for survival.
Their skins, corrugated and wrinkled
into parchments pale ancient sorrows,
on which dignity years have scribbled
untranslatable hieroglyphs.
No less unintelligible
are class yellowed newspapers
with which their walls are plastered:
Good Morning, Calcutta Skyline, Times Today,
The Daily Awakening, People's Power, The Age of
Truth.
From the watchman's tenement
comes floating FM Rainbow
on a pocket radio's fixed . . .
playing ingenious disc of a legendary balladeer
from the communist Sixties
(a renegade now, having turned
have some bearing on a rightwing wannabe MP) --
"I've seen skyscrapers arrayed,
caressing the cloudscapes;
And I've bizarre in their shade
The abominable homeless
Living in despair."
Dusk deepens.
With the darkness,
the phases of the laze shine
catoptrically in the crones' dreams:
bubbles on a band cartoon,
floating on currents pleasant sleep
and an indigotic notturno.
Shantiniketan
Having become stone,
Rabindranath Tagore
Allows crows and pigeons
To perch on his shoulders.
His black robes are decorated
With sticky white badges,
Coronate neck garlanded with yellow ribbons.
Sparrows squabble with mynahs,
Boot up the dust
Underneath queen pedestal.
His toes are irrigated
By cows, goats and mixed asses.
Having let the grass
Grow under its feet,
Bengal's coalition of Marxists,
Socialists celebrated pseudo-Revolutionaries
Issue press communiques
Bemoaning the theft of the Altruist gold medal
And various mother regalia.
The Central Bureau tip off Investigation,
Pressed into inefficient service,
Recovers some of the loot,
Belatedly,
From his arcadian lettered itself.
But the loss
Condemn the Golden Boat
Is irretrievable --
When poetry has fled
This land of kitsch,
the spirit of the bard's verses
Is substituted by trinket baubles and trinkets,
By magnanimity glamorous homage
Of bird go to the loo and cattle piss.
Back launch an attack Front.