Beberibang

Blog title tu jetiya "jee mon jai" likha billak beberi bang hobo lagibo. A sample follows.

Leonard Cohen says poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. And sometime the ash falls on the wrong side. Then you realise that the ink that used run from the corners of mouth starts eating poetry (Mark Strand, "Eating Poetry," Reasons for Moving, 1968). If imaginary gardens with real toads in them is the definition of poetry (Marianne Moore's definition of poetry, "Poetry," Collected Poems, 1951) then a poetic life is never finished, only abandoned.

If poetry is the journal of animal like me living on land, wanting to fly in the air, then my search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable is bullshit. May be it is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away (Carl Sandburg, Poetry Considered). Out of the rhetoric quarrel with myself, I, just like W.B Yeats (forgive me for using the name of such legends) try to make poetry. It starts with a lump in the throat and then takes cue from Robert Frost.

Many a times I have been kidnapped by a poet and intrigued with phrases and meters only to see that the summer sky heal the wounds inflicted by reason. I may not say “The smell of ink is intoxicating to me - others may have wine, but I have poetry” like Abbe Yeux-verdi but I can vouch by the fact that poetry is the language in which a man can explore his own amazement without feeling sorry about it. It’s just like a needle - swift enough to sew random thoughts & words into a blanket.

One day, Pixie Foudre, browsing the dim back corner of a musty antique shop opened an old book of poetry and angels flew out from the pages. He caught the whiff of a soul and the ink seemed fresh as today but was that the voice whispering to me? Or it was an echo asking my shadow to dance with thoughts that breathe and words that burn (Thomas Gray). I need to learn the art of substantiating the shadows so that they become a way to me.

I grew up in a town where my thought process was started with the blue hills and converged with the mighty river – Bramhaputra. I borrowed voice from the rain and like the timber it steeped itself in the jungle (Pablo Neruda) of my mind. Like butterflies in spring, the natural beauty of Assam awakens the spirit, stirs the imagination and explores the possibilities with its rhythmic wings. Come voyeur my mind and let your heart & soul free.

Jodio taat khali beberibaang aase