Prabir Roy
Born in 1952, Roy, an electrical engineer by profession, became a permanent resident of Jalpaiguri by choice and by love. Address – Shyamalchhaya, Ukilpara, Jalpaiguri. He was associated with “Sanhato kabita” (compact poetry) movement. Prabir Roy’s first book “Magic LanThon” (Magic Lantern) was published in 1980. Roy was involved with “Erka” and “Ekhon” magazines. He is always a great guide, mentor and friend of young poets. Almost 20 books of Roy got published till now. In 2013, his “Poetry Collection-1” was published from ‘ekhon – bangla kabitar kagoj’ (Now – Bengali poetry magazine). Still very energetic Roy is thoroughly involved with the e-magazine “jolpo” these days.
This is our pleasure to present some of his poems in English for the first time.
POEMS OF PRABIR ROY
COMPASS
My parents took birth in India
I took birth in India
Still their motherland is not mine
East has got no West
West has got no East
I’m broken in search of directions
IDENTITY
I’m not intoxicated that doesn’t mean I’m not intoxicated
I’m not a terrorist that doesn’t mean I’m not a terrorist
I’m not a fundamentalist that doesn’t mean I’m not a fundamentalist
I’m not a compromiser that doesn’t mean I’m not a compromiser
I’m not a bohemian that doesn’t mean I’m not a bohemian
I’m not alone that doesn’t mean I’m not alone
CURE
Everything is being repeated
You stood beside my bed and asked
How are you
Avoiding the context
The pictures remain as they were
INDEX
01 There was a boy called Atanu … 01
02 There was a father called Atanu … 30
03 There was a grandfather called Atanu … 60
04 There was a photograph called Atanu … 80
05 There was nobody called Atanu … 100
MAP-READING
The path to music school from our home was three-folded
Still we were used to reach there thru’ a straight line
This was our geometry
I teach geometry to my son these days
How an angle to be bifurcated
I find him in a pure addiction
Taking the compass up
He says, this is east, this is west
This is called an adjacent angle.
ONE FROM THE COLD WAR
The insult can’t be written with the vowels and consonants
We learn language with the new letters
This alphabet has given us skinless sound
Rubbed-happiness throughout the pages
Please don’t call it art
Please don’t call it poetry
THE SUNRISE
The lost lines of poems are waiting
BIRTHDAY
Since the words given by you were colourless
I’m still waiting
MELANCHOLY
Whenever the music stops I start returning to you
SORROW
Two lost hands are searching something somewhere
Translated From Bangla by Nilabja Chakrabarti
চমৎকার অনুবাদ! দুর্দান্ত!
অনেক ধন্যবাদ আপনাকে।
পাঠ ও মন্তব্যের জন্য অনেক ধন্যবাদ হিয়া… ভাল থাকবেন…