Presented by KAURAB

Sabyasachi Sanyal

Sabyasachi Sanyal (b 1973) belongs to the first generation of Bengali poets in cyberspace at the turn of the millennium. His poetry insanely seeks alternative styles in speech, language and verbal texture. While one hand it honors the Bengali tradition of nature-sourcing poetic ideas, on the other it is able to explore lesser known epistemes and literary habits. His poetry is often simultaneously magical, morbid, funny, lyrical and philosophical. His maiden collection Neel Gramaphone (Blue Gramophone) was published in 2006. His best work till date remains Bracketshahar (Bracket City). Sabyasachi works as molecular biologist in Lucknow, India.


Five poems from Jacket2

Four days in Kodaikanal

I have never been to Kodaikanal

Since, I never went to Kodaikanal
Kodaikanal is a sunlit beach.
Where, lying on a reed-mat
I caress my pistol, reading Hemingway
and the cashewrinas behind me
peeping over my shoulder
and reading Hemingway
Get obliterated.

Since, I never went to Kodaikanal
Kodaikanal is a snow-clad village.
Where, on a kayak, lying in foetal posture
I search for salt-pits on my lip, reading Hemingway
And the bears behind
peeping over my shoulder
and reading Hemingway
Get obliterated.

Since, I never went to Kodaikanal
Kodaikanal is a breathtaking place.
Where, as soon as I open Hemingway up
the baby sun slips across the parabola –to the west
and as my breath is taken away
without pistol or provocation
I get obliterated.

I never went to Kodaikanal
(Since I do not exist now, dear reader
do fill in for me)


As, I never went to Kodaikanal
wherever I went
Kodaikanal followed me there.

A Narration

A continuous bell throws up
all the probable links
between a neck and a rope
     here, the maletarian flora
     gutted and ate thick penises

Then the airs of estranged birds
were gliding, hovering
Settling flirtatious on high branches

     We traveled afar, embedded in salty chips
     diving deep into salivary glands
     We picked songs resembling a Godmother
     from the fiery tongues of ebony girls

Then, the balloon-vendors
were pumping depression into
headless carcasses

The thoughts that can materialize at this point—

     1.In a seagull’s nest my songs can rest unhatched
     2.My lover will go away, hands held by my own poverty
     3.Trying to usurp a bedroom, a 007 will take out the nails and keep them safe in the mahogany box.

A continuous bell throws up
all the probable links
between the necks and the ropes
Here, I lost my guitar
My cell-phone....


The moth flew towards July,
its meanings, towards November
and the notes of the moulting hormone
bubbled through water.

As if monoliths were hewn from empty people
transmitting recurrence
As if recurrence was a lamentation and
the word "canopy" just lost its meaning.

Lost ! for habit has its own way of
dealing with consciousness
and fear is an essential
that molds habit.

Lost, for loss is a word that recurs without mercy.

We could identify our "jerseys"
only in the dialect of a broken mirror
and “time” became an evening wash--
we put on our faces and went to bed.

Think of a magic that has no wings
A reality that’s emptied of magic
Well, think of a barber offering
prophylaxis to a broken mirror.

Think, what does it take – fear/habit/loss--
for our granaries to moult.
And heaving enormous diaphragms,
coruscating wings, the meanings of moth
Fly into a surgical table.

Communicating with a freezer

We built fire and
central became an agony

Unplug it—he said
and communication is a chance
habit is just a pulse
that transmits; a dictation

As we gain volatility
Sea-gulls settle for chimneys
Eternity settles for any myth
And young suburbs discover –
It’s the graffiti that actually hold the goddamned earth
on its fucked-up axis.

And grating into daily wakeups
a picnic starts corroding
my pencil

- Would you kindly let your blood follow the GPS screen
- Would you just let gravity shoot up and bring down a pheasant

I unplug the fire,
return my borrowed arms and heads to a freezer
ask for a whistling tooth in return

And let the picnic eat it up entire.

Temporary Prose

Without "safety" any man is a "pin"

In exchange for my home
I was given a handkerchief
Now, isn’t it obvious –
The secret of any successful pin
is acquiring a public handkerchief.

If you ask a Bull-
In a given scenario,
how the exact proportion of Black and White
is measured

The Bull definitely will
want you to get acquainted with
the grey-bellied Matadore.

Playing a perfect whistle
You are summoning the Crow.
Patiently explaining --
What should be the exact dynamics
of its wings during an emergency

And, softly immersing its beak
in your left eye
the crow is washing away
all its worries.

[Crumbs: 1. Kodaikanal is a picturesque small town Southern India.

Poems translated by the poet


Sabyasachi Sanyal


Neel Gramaphone (2006)

(Blue Gramophone)


Shankar Lahiri

Sabyasachi Sanyal


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