Arnab Saha
Poems by Arnab Saha
Both the poet and the typists are linguistic labourers. One translates the sticky flour into rounded words. They look like some misspelt words, blemishes on the chest of burnt moon.
Down below await with gaping wonder the audience, the starving majority. The other styles and plates those scribbles with much affection so they look like a divine dish.
Down below await with gaping wonder the audience, the starving majority. The other styles and plates those scribbles with much affection so they look like a divine dish.
Poem by Arnab Saha
LOWERED GUILLOTINE
Translated from the original Bengali by Kushal Poddar
1
The stormy shuttle car
climbs up the flyover.
My finger descends into your fist,
joyous, barrier breaking.
Shall stay in...