Jayanta Mahapatra Wandering Yaksha of Poetry
Who is Jayanta Mahapatra? Is he “a sacred relic growing up with the helplessness and the generous tears”?...
Footwear
is what we are;
While Mother Earth, bearing us, lies nonchalantly under every foot,
we are not embarrassed at being trampled on again and again.
Though there is one on the left and another on the right,
is what we are;
While Mother Earth, bearing us, lies nonchalantly under every foot,
we are not embarrassed at being trampled on again and again.
Though there is one on the left and another on the right,
Look for it
Not on to the stage,
Not in costumes or make-up
Not in props or sets
Not in the electric light,
Not in the sound system,
Not on to the stage,
Not in costumes or make-up
Not in props or sets
Not in the electric light,
Not in the sound system,
On 8 April 2023, Noon: New and Selected Poems, the latest book of poems by Jayanta Mahapatra was published in Bhubaneswar. Jayanta Mahapatra, a legend of our times, is enviously active even at 95. In the book-release function, he spoke at length about the love he has been receiving from his friends and readers over a long period of time, a love that has kept him alive as a poet.
A hot day to seek
that perfect ride
in the fair,
but since all are spread
within my head
I drag my younger self
that perfect ride
in the fair,
but since all are spread
within my head
I drag my younger self
Staring at the thumbless hands,
Ekalavya sits in silence.
Gratitude, grief, sacrifice...
are possibilities only in a poet’s imagination.
Ekalavya sits in silence.
Gratitude, grief, sacrifice...
are possibilities only in a poet’s imagination.
The house is unswept.
Never mind whoever comes
Bamboo leaves scraping the floor
My friends are of a different sort
If you see a fly
Do not lift your white hand, my love,
Never mind whoever comes
Bamboo leaves scraping the floor
My friends are of a different sort
If you see a fly
Do not lift your white hand, my love,
When I miss you in English
You are missing from me in French,
Like the last syllable of the free verse
That always eludes subconscious rhyming.
You are missing from me in French,
Like the last syllable of the free verse
That always eludes subconscious rhyming.
In my city, I am surrounded by constant cries
of the dying, burning pyres heaving
under burden of wood, smoke and bones —
wailing summed up by sonic notes of Om.
Civilisation’s first sound—Sanskrit syllable
echoing a conch shell’s harmonic mapping —
In the skies, full of vermillion,
Like an ascetic meditating,
A dark shape emerges slowly.
The lore has it,
Millions of years ago,
There was a volcano that threw everything up.
When I look into your eyes, I know you are an introvert guy
Your heart is burning with pain, the flames are shivering, and I
Can covertly see your eyes, full of introvert tears
Tell me whatever you want, for you I am all ears
Your heart is burning with pain, the flames are shivering, and I
Can covertly see your eyes, full of introvert tears
Tell me whatever you want, for you I am all ears
Indivisible unity, Parvati and Shiva forever entwined
Women and men interdependent, infused with traits of each other
A softer left lineament draped in finery, a muscular right stretched over taut skin
Artistry overlaying a deep philosophy of a shared destiny
Women and men interdependent, infused with traits of each other
A softer left lineament draped in finery, a muscular right stretched over taut skin
Artistry overlaying a deep philosophy of a shared destiny