In the darkened room a woman cannot find her reflection in the mirror. waiting as usual at the edge of sleep. In her hands she holds the oil lamp whose drunken. Jayanta Mahapatra (ଜୟନ୍ତ ମହାପାତ୍ର). Of that Love. Poems Jayanta Mahapatra began writing poems rather late in comparison with his contemporaries. But this. Post-colonial traits in Jayanta Mahapatra’s poetry. Dr. Mukul Kumar Sharma. Asst . Professor, Department of English and Humanities Jaipur Engineering College.
|Published (Last):||16 November 2015|
|PDF File Size:||19.79 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||7.99 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
It seems so strange looking at one another and finding ourselves go into the distances of our eyes; even my wife does not look as if she belonged to me, and even the mahapxtra I swallow every hour has nothing perhaps to do with me, like that unreachable Girl who leads me to a dim corner of my conscience, alone.
Life is absurd, the world is and the things which we see are. The dark tree that stands over the fields of my blood has failed to leaf and bud. This too is a fact not to be suppressed that fame came knocking at his door as there was a dearth of poets and he had been famous with his just Close the Sky, Ten by Ten and Svayamvara and Other Poems.
He is there to present and picture life and the world as they are rather than to be remorseful. Whatever be that, let us begin with Jayanta’s Waiting, a collection of poems written against a historical backdrop of penetration.
He is so abstract and condensed that words fail to claw at. In the earlier poems of his, he had been so much imagistic and lyrical, but in the latter he turned to feminism and social realities.
Book Excerptise: Selected Poems by Jayanta Mahapatra
I must try to understand it well. Watch it tear at your cries, break them into fits of unnatural laughter? So deep in time, consciousness and flux, they take their own recourse as for reflection and shedding of mahzpatra, so inner and internal. Or, are we the tramps in reality passing our days in doing absurd and useless things? We question Nissim Ezekiel with regards to his identity and he suffers from the quest for identity too, but Jayanta passes the test without any doubt, as he is an Indian poet jxyanta with Oriya blood and soul.
Today, we have a number of younger poets who seem to be influenced by the terse craftwork exhibited by their elders. Srinivasa Iyengar takes to while editing the book for the third edition in for to be brought out in and adding a new chapter called Postscript where there figures in the page about the new poet Jayanta Mahhapatra and his inclusion:.
‘ + $(‘#gedicht-autor’).text() + ‘
Such a thing is Vedic, Upanishadic and Puranic which it is available in him indirectly. And those eyes, closed imprison our reasons. The things of astrophysics continue to hold its sway over him. But lest it be not that we shall snatch their sweet pulsation of life.
I am one with the audience, foolishlessly sleepless, thinkling for tomorrows, the absurd wish to surround her in the aura of roses. Dead, empty tress stood by the dragging river, past your weakened body, flailing against your sleep.
There is nothing as that exists and this forms the poetic base of the poet, the vacuum writ large over the jayahta infinite. Is she an attribute of the Mother Goddess or a working class girl standing speechless and benumbed?
This review by Amit Mukerjee was last updated on: Things will be created and will crumle to dust.
He superannuated at the Ravenshaw College, Cuttack now Ravenshaw University and retired from his government job as the Reader in Physics in I gaze long at myself in the river, unable to make out thoser features with which I am familiar; only an unexpected darkness that lives alone under the stone is able to carry me home, as though I had never grown up: In the flickering dark his lean-to opened like a wound.
The afternoon wind drifts through the streets of the old city and wrecks the images on the placid river that holds the sudden terror of a man falling into its chilly depths. Time, the sense of it is very strong in him and he cannot without relating to it. The recurrent themes of his poetry are loneliness, the complex problems of human relationships, the difficulties of meaningful communication, the life of the mind in relation to the life of the external world and the complex nature of love and sex.
Working practically alone as a village-dwelling teacher of college physics in a poor eastern province, Mahapatra has developed a profoundly “sincere” inner voice surprisingly unironic, unalienated, unmediated, amhapatra interest to very diverse but contemporaneous Indian and foreign audiences.
It has become a mahapatfa shadow of its former self.
The opening stanza from the poem The Looking Glass which figures in Burden of Waves And Fruit is referential to be jwyanta here in this context: The woes of a developing third-world nation, none, but those who live and suffer can know it well. Rains and rites are the main things of his poetry.