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Best Poems Written by Jaydeep Sarangi

Below are the all-time best Jaydeep Sarangi poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Sailing Through Ichamati

We are a very old wall,
Useless at times. Sometimes forgotten.
People don’t want  us anymore
In need of no repair,

History books record tears on our bricks
Long languishing hours
Smoked around us.
Policies and  principles ruled our lives
When the country was young.

Ichamati is the corridor
Into things we can design.
We are twins 
Our veins have one blood
Even when we are separate souls on map.

Note: Ichamati is a river that separates India from Bangladesh.

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Caged Bard

(for Manoranjan Byapari, a rickshaw puller  who writes Bangla novels, stories and autobiography)
--Jaydeep Sarangi

You may dismiss all I record here
                    Stop! Please don’t ignore them as junk...
                     Here it goes....Hope you hear me....
                    You will hear me one day, sure!
                     You can never hide your face, Priyotosh.
                   We’ll get you in streets and lanes
                    Of this incredible city of joy.
               
Long struggles 
demystified Byapari of false tags 
of the caste-ridden  society 
beauty in the working class,
cooperation among the have-nots, 
humanism among rebels, 
simplicity among outcastes.

Byapari drinks them all.....
he salvages various concepts
from the hasty derogatory labels of the privileged, 
and makes the understanding concepts
more complete and realistic. 

We remain 
as hands folded in inaction;
prisoners outside jail.
Lectures move electorate in a civil society
Justice cries in a caged cell.

Byapari writes a new history
as Shankha Ghosh recommends
his books for Bangla readers, 
only Hope against Hope.
Artists are legislators of the world!
let there be enough crackers to celebrate 
it further
under an alien sky.

There is hardly anything ‘complete in completeness’.

 (Shankha Ghosh is a Bengali Indian poet and critic.He released Byapari’s book, “Amanushik” and spoke for Manoranjan Byapari on the 27th August,2013 in an evening gathering in Kolkata)

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Waiting

My thoughts are now
Waiting. Small things are 
Recalled , and stored
In raindrops and wind blowing.
My vegetable dreams
Usher monsoon of hope
When one comes to the end of things.

I sat with my daughter who kept talking 
about magic of land
I wait
Till the door is opened
I’m a visitor here
I’ve come to wait
For life divine.

Now I don’t look for a by-pass everywhere.
It’s straight from my heart.
I just wait to take the path, at times I ride on time.

I wait as I don’t find the way to return.
Will someone supply me the key?
Who can unlock the past?
Who is not haunted by rain?
Who will wait
To plant saplings of my choice
And wait for fruits
Red and juicy?

We wait for the rain to be over.
When windows are wide open
Fresh thoughts flood.
Old castles live with memories 
Of ancient ghosts chanting.
Finally, we leave the station.

Quantum computing goes unclear.

Details | Jaydeep Sarangi Poem

Baby Growing In a Poet

Death has different meanings for us at different stages of life
So is poetry.
Its images are collage
Of thoughtful ideas wedded into a door,
Symbols are its bricks and stones
Of a home of thoughts,
Where nerves make a man grow
Like a poem 
Beginning, middle and an end.
‘I revise quite a lot.’, says a veteran poet.
The fragile erotic moments of love, lust  and of touch
Come and go,
dream of a rivulet  where tribal  women are splashing away in the rain water
poetry captures them in sweet cadence.

It’s a movement in men,
A bubble of desire
That leaps water
As black cloud does in monsoon.
Poetry is close to heart
It moves hearts,
Extends things further
Where colourful mosaics 
Drag sensations from bricks and metals.

Lovers have a full day,
In rhymed thoughts.All red!
An art form may predate literacy
Beside a rivulet
Far away from the city’s rust.
Life rides on words!

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Tomorrow

I  return to muddy walls near the river
Erratic November rain heals  the world.
Now the courtyard is wet.

Night birds are carrying time’s wings
Though our hearts have deep bloody  wounds
Though the air if full of hatred and self love
Erring weaves gather mud
Even then, the world is engrossed in dreams of a beautiful dawn.

My girl has a river in her
Her playmates are in distant lands
Making friends, new playmates
Life's wheel moves towards the confluence.

I count rain drops.
My heart is emptied to have more sadness
Separations, homelessness on the banks of the river.
River's heart knows tomorrows. Erring times.

Details | Jaydeep Sarangi Poem

Counting Your Absences

Dark night is closer, after your
Callings, callings from the half -seen trees.
Night owls are crying. A smile is 
Ominous dancing in the branches.

Of  slow time, night unfolds
Its  ranges of stories, night’s regular acts.
All dead voices are laying ice cold.
 My  prolix is a wakeup call.

Night’s mysteries are awake with my poem
After a long cold sleep at Tirupati.
Foul smells hard, ghostly.
Time is decaying mundane trash.

One uncouth face conjures up,
Other unshaped faces, wild  dark. 
Only the hooded eyes, a simpleton
Strange sounds of howling. What a loss!

The art is moonshine.
My reason is homeless.
A few seeds have life.
My dead brother is back.

Nobody is awake  at this odd  hour
only a child’s unmasked   hooting.
 Spirits of the dead have a night out
for an appointment with the unknown.

The emperor of words, “Take care.”
No matter, how high you fly in the sky
You rain somewhere beyond a known order. Farmers 
are waiting. Your water carries a bread of hope.

You paint houses with poetic colours.

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Memories of the Night

The queen of the daylight lurks likes memories.
Then is gone her silky array of words in Bangla
Disappearing fast as the blue king of the night in Hindi,
She regains her place, moves back and forward,
sits in the throne of the dappled memories in English
wheels to stalls: maladies and wellness of the world.

Words are loaded with possibilities random,
many windows holding images and conceits
touching the rainbow in the limitless blue.
The queen has many rooms to her .
Lived with shades she keeps words as her guardian sylph
protecting from the valour of Words.

Pictures of delayed morning, each day that passes
in the thesaurus of words, memories of the night unfold.

Details | Jaydeep Sarangi Poem

Revisiting My Mother Goddess

Revisiting My Mother Goddess

The lake
That looks like a piano
On it sat 
Thousand cranes and two
Seemed like a moonlight sonata by the moonlight.

But why is my mind yearning forever
For the  unmindful musings?
I had been there once, nearly
Forty years ago.

They send me return tickets from Jhargram,
For the festive October,
Celebrating the home coming of our mother goddess
But they never take me to that childhood playmates.

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Where are the Rivers Gone?

Ponder highest wisdom, clear and deep
The reverent eyes must see our coloured faces 
Floating on sliver flowing in rhythm
The flashing water of life 
Where my own people live
All my ancestors stay awake with its dark night.

I’ve know rivers going home
Ancient, hand holders
I bathed in the Euphrates when I was young
I heard the singing of the Nile
I took my love to the Ganges 
I rushed to Beas when she declined my advances
Dulung lulled me to a painless sleep.

Gushing through ancient forests,
old temples and hard mud rocks
My path is drawn by the reckless wind
My fury turns  wild, dejected
when I beat the rocks in the Subarnarekha; 
another poem will mean nothing more. 

I never shut amid the flow of the damp soul 
lingering, drifting yet running with a broken heart.

Details | Jaydeep Sarangi Poem

Myths of Stones

Far into these stones of silences
 soft in the smell of history
from watery chaos to cosmic egg 
whose return to words I am waiting for?

We are delivered by myths
where lay our old fever of love.
Time and the boat, victories and losses 
the rise and fall in the Nile water.

There I may meet King Menes on a late summer night
when centuries drift to hold a larger life
This sleep is a book where I meet 
Colossi of Memnon in the silence and noise.

My fears of losing receive no one.
My unwarranted fulfilments of tomorrows
are bare faces of lives connected somewhere before,
lives disconnected without reasons.
Now I stand among flurry desires
in the gates of the ruined Mortuary temple.
These ruins are my own like my faiths.
How can I forget  all I hold
before I go for a long sleep?