Collaborative Poetry from Aishwarya Das Gupta and Subarnarekha Pal

These poems are a result of collaborations between Aishwarya and Subarnarekha which resemble jam sessions conducted by musicians. Instead, in their poetry jam sessions, the two young collaborators allow their fertile imaginations and striking sensibilities to fuse and mingle into fascinating wholes that would surely captivate readers. Read on to delve deeper into the surreal innovations from this daring duo who call themselves “Wyrd Whistlers”:

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শতবর্ষের আঘাত- বোনা চাঁদ
জ্বলে আর নেভে
বন্দী যুক্তাক্ষরেরা ঘুমায় নিঃশব্দ ছায়ায়
আলোক জটাধারী নক্ষত্রমন্ডল
চেয়ে থাকে
ধোঁয়া ধোঁয়া নেশায় এক ব্রহ্মাণ্ড থেকে অন্য ব্রহ্মাণ্ডে দৌড়ে চলে
জ্যোৎস্না ভুলিয়ে দেয়
পৃথিবীর ক্ষত
এক টুকরো শেষ বাসনা
কুন্ডলী হয়ে ভাসে

উর্ধ্বগামী চারণায় , উৎসের খোঁজে

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ভুলে যাওয়া বাদামী শব্দগুলো
আবিরের মতো উড়িয়ে দিলাম
অশেষের মাঝে,
অবশিষ্ট আমি।
থেকে যাই অল্পেতে–
সময়ের পরমাণুতে
বদলে যায় সময়ের সরল গন্ধ
হাঁপিয়ে উঠি জটিল আমি।
হাত বাড়াই আলো ছুঁতে চেয়ে
অন্ধকারে খুঁজে নিই খোলস,
নিদ্রা তখন আলো হয়ে ঘনায়
বাতাসের ঘন গরলে ঝিমিয়ে পড়া ঘণ্টা
জানান দেয় নতুন রাতের।
শব্দগুলো হাহাকার করে ওঠে…
আবার ফিরে যাই কবিতায়, কবিতা হয়ে।

******

The Whistling kettle
Opens a door in my head.
One old quilt was all I had
When the train cut through the thick and unhappy snow
Of late December.
I was reminded of the soft October night–
I killed the last of the sparks with my shoes.
Cursed by the ashes, I never turned back.
I forgot what forgetfulness looked like
And put all my pennies to buy a jar of clouds.
But the clouds soon turned into a dark smog of loneliness.
I burnt a box full of matches and set fire to it.
The smoke I inhaled,
The fire kept me warm.
The fire soon froze into a hollow nightmare–
Where I danced.
Wore a white satin dress.
Wore a purple mask.
They fitted well with all my blues.
I danced till the dark sky threatened to envelope me
And leave me starless… The nightbound travellers held me back, tied me down
With the threads of despair.
I traded the last piece of my poetry for freedom.

******

This is the hundredth time I’m picking up
The fallen autumns in my hands.
Their browns have seeped into my soul,
Crawling and crumbling–
The Cold of the moon touches me
Breathing it’s magic in my dreams
I write them in my letters to the unborn supernovae
I enclose the untold tales of a dead generation–
But there are histories withering away in my fists.
My fingers still itch
To scratch the surface of the future…
When a new light will be born
Out of bones.
And dust.

Aishwarya Das Gupta teaches in Calcutta Girls’ College. She is a weaver of words who loves to recede into her bubble of silent dreams. She is an avid reader, lover of cinema and creative arts and if left alone to her own devices, may be found lingering under the shady bough of a lonely tree.

Subarnarekha Pal is our resident artist, illustrator and Instagram specialist. She is an independent thinker and enthusiast and jams poetry with her friend. Amidst everything, she struggles to be an artist.

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