The Bravity of a Nubile Girl

In the confessions of Sasmita;
another stroke;
making her love deep and visible;
I see my fraility.
My youth stands in front of me;
an effigy burnt down;
Oh! only the stunt laughs.
The hidden letters of hers
wait for nights like foxes
to come out from the holes
see the world
expose their bare feminine body.
The moment I brave to face them
or be a Sasmita
the whole life shatters. 22-12-2010

Flute Tune

A darkness was erupting like smoke
under the bush
the chorus of old agile Pravakar’s
bent back bone and disc prolapse
the tomb;a sylvan historian
witnesses all these and a lot more.

Amidst the pandemonium of the parliament
and withering manifestoes
a flower falls somewhere in Kalahandi
dreams slip like handicaps on the way
sleep like dried rivers
palsied people crawl for a meal
finding no help; Shira commits suicide
to live no life.A paralytic Chaitan Khuntia
waits for the pension to get love of others.

I still listen to the flute tune
sung in the orchard
the creepers buzz in them
the mango groove tilts abuzz
the earth murmurs as a plough man ploughs
the hymn echoes in me
live a life worth living. 26-12-2010

Crematorium

I am in a crematorium
I see the herb and thorn around;
my rotten body and mutilated limb
half eaten by vultures and foxes
the empty pot,the used up broom
my stinking dress and the slippers;
all around.

From somewhere often audible
the cry of kith and keen;how
easily I tore the relationship
ended writing diary and forgot
your faces.I am fallen at the centre.

Should I leave the place now?

I look around to see my love
I see the saplings,the lovely trees
their flowers of bewitching scent
and hue.The tear in the eyes of my
wife and son.The smell of my land
the sound of my temple bell
the smile of near and dear ones.
I cry to be here ;to be here always,
for all time to come;to bleed
on the thorns of life
smell the flowers of love.23-12-2010


Address-Golaka behari Acharya
At/PO-KESHADURAPAL
Via-Kushaleswar
Dist-Keonjhar ORISSA
758025 Email-golaka.acharya@gmail.com
Phone-(91)9938175100

Crematorium

I looked around me
saw the crematorium
the empty pot,the broom,
my stinking bed,the used slippers--
all thrown here and there.

My body is in the society.

I looked around again
found a sprouting tree
the flowers
its beauty bewitched me.I
promise to remain here.

The Unbuilt Half Of Mine

Can you peel off my loneliness
leaving the flame; the heat
you cannot.
If you could
I would not have been Goloka;
something else I would be.
My tear drops would be pearls
I would have kept some
at your doorstep and
some in the pocket
telling to walk on it
often in pleasure
and often in sorrow.
Throw the other for Chemi,Miti,Balia;
the characters of my poems.No.
No ,no,it is impossible.
I am a half built temple
the other half is lovelier than this;
death is the tip
but the other half
still not built
is the cause my sorrow and worries.

The Price of Onion and Fuel

The price of onion is 50 a kg today and Petrol costs 52 rupees per litre.How unfortunate it is!A country whose priority of the first five year plan was agriculture there nowadays nobody does a little farming even. May he be rich or a middle standard man.Once the kitchen garden could give us year long garlic or onion and a lot many other vegetable for day today maintenance but now we do buy everything.So due to that the rise of price of all day today commodities.The other cause of the price rise is the rise of the fuel price.The crude oil costs nearly 20 rupees a litre but the purified one is nearly 50.The govt.has freed the companies from their clutch to raise the price but it is a visible clearing whereas the underneath is too strong a clutch.However the authority should think of the country and its people.Instead of giving so many benefits to its employees and charging the people for the same indirectly raising the fuel price the authority should keep it to the minimum.Its impact leaves a strong indelible imprint upon everything.The people suffer.21-12-2010

Mad

Fly in the sky
I would in hale your beauty
come to my cabin
I must drink your love
wherever you are
I listen to you.

My senses are open
but they don't work
properly
I see the sky
I in hell the darkness
drink beauty
Oh! I am mad for love.

Ramakanta Rath , a Student and Me

A poet true to his instinct otherwise the images would not have been so inquisitive and so true to life.The poem 'ganita' touched me a lot.I feel had I been a lover so pure and perfect I would have been so good a poet.Today when one of my girl students turned very close and spoke that she enjoyed her lover just before two days;I turned extremely jealous and felt Oh I were that boy.Alas! I am not and she is a little student.Ugly.Phoo,Phoo.I cannot write anything.

Wishes

As I start the semibrave
wishes get wings
the cello, the flute—all brighten;
I think so I am.

OnceI planted a mango sapling
manured it,watered it
already a mango was in my mind.

My birth ,like a drop of a stone
on water
churn into and
death circle like waves around.

As waves mitigate
new ones arise
the note ends
the mango falls
the light sparkles
and I feel;I live.
I live in my wishes.
KESHDURAPAL;Odisha;India 11/01/2010

Yesterday and Today

In the morning my father-in-law did breathe his last.He was suffering seriously for the last one month.Though I could not utter still I felt so much pain is never better than death.However when he was clearly asking for the last drop of water from the kith and keen I remained away.But when I compare his death with that of Biswojit Behera's father's cry in the college last week when he came to return his dead son's books taken from the library he was partly insane and partly dead.I couldnot tolerate his crying tone.The cry of death was audible.

Golaka's Thought: An Untime Rain And The Crop

Golaka's Thought: An Untime Rain And The Crop

An Untime Rain And The Crop

I write this page when my surrounding is shedding tears for a sombre cause that torments the farmers. When they were about to harvest their crop it started to rain and continued for four to five days .Most of the crop was by then cut but not collected from the land.All the paddy is dipped in the field. The ones not cut are breaking the tip due to it.All most all the farmers suffer.The govt has declared some compensation for them.I don't think they can give judgment to the poor farmers since there is no parameter for the escalation of the loss.It will be petty rough for the people who do farming in others land and get fifty percent of the harvest.They will never think of the same.What an ugly society is ours! Golaka behari Acharya
KESHADURAPAL
Kushaleswar,
Keonjhar,
Orissa
758025
phone- 919938175100
email-golaka.acharya@gmail.com

Memory

Time flows through the knuckle
leavin g memory
in the fist
I unfold and see history.

My corpse fallen alone
you’re --no killer--
in a palace
but blood stints on your body;I see.

How amazing
the killer is blood-bathed.
The man killed
frowns at God;you
fail to leave me alone.
My memory is with me.

Memory

Time flows through the knuckle
leavin g memory
in the fist
I unfold and see history.

My corpse fallen alone
you’re --no killer--
in a palace
but blood stints on your body;I see.

How amazing
the killer is blood-bathed.
The man killed
frowns at God;you
fail to leave me alone.
My memory is with me.

Memory

Time flows through the knuckle
leavin g memory
in the fist
I unfold and see history.

My corpse fallen alone
you’re --no killer--
in a palace
but blood stints on your body;I see.

How amazing
the killer is blood-bathed.
The man killed
frowns at God;you
fail to leave me alone.
My memory is with me.

I Run

Neither in defeats
nor in victory I am.Always
water flows,the body remains.

At every starting point
a gun fires,my body slips;
the shade below the foliage tilts.

Behind the setting sun
blood spills.
what does history pen (?)
water,river,event
my name or yours.

Neither in defeats
nor in victory I am.Always
water flows,the body remains.

At every starting point
a gun fires,my body slips;
the shade below the foliage tilts.

Behind the setting sun
blood spills.
what does history pen (?)
water,river,event
my name or yours.

Neither in defeats
nor in victory I am.Always
water flows,the body remains.

At every starting point
a gun fires,my body slips;
the shade below the foliage tilts.

Behind the setting sun
blood spills.
what does history pen (?)
water,river,event
my name or yours.

Love of Animals

I have been a complete vegetarian since birth.The wet eyes of the goats led to the slaughter house make me cry often.I fail to stand there.But I don't feel why the law prohibits to show sympathy to such innocent animals in the shape of domesticating a deer or a bear while we keep the goat or cattle as domestic animals.It was probably TWO YEARS BACK A TRIBAL MAN KEPT A BEAR AS LOVELY AS HIS OWN DAUGHTER as he got her in the jungle motherless.Eating simultaneously,sleeping together and passing all his love and affection to hers he passed his time.She was a part of their poor family.The govt officials could know this and arresting the poor man left the poor animal in the zoo where she remained without meal without getting her 'papa' and died at last.The poor animal lover was in the bars when the only left out member of the family the daughter started begging.Where did the govt do the right.Similarly yesterday the police and forest officials came to our village and took a deer from a man who has been suffering from brain tumor yet kept it from its childhood since he got it in the jungle in its infancy.He could have killed it some time earlier.When the forests are fast finishing animals' lives are greatly in danger the rules are made without any great thinking and rather putting them to peril.hell to this type of planning which the officials who wrre executing were also not in love.

There,Where I Was

Everything went
the rosy cheeks,kiss-crazy lips
the loins;ready to welcome you
yet I remain there ,were I was
when all of these withered.

The whiteness of my bone
deepened,the weakness too
the backbone bent,rattle often
wrinkles grow
hair whitened,half of the ridge
of teeth went
the other half still help smiling
as I see the photo.Hey;I smile
as I remain there,
where I was.

I fail to forget
those events happened to me
I remained inside to
remember you;not to allow
death peep into
either to touch you or me
as I remain there
where I was.
Keshadurapal;30-11-2010( This poem came after reading Ramakanta's Sannyasi)

Wishes

As I start the semi brave
wishes get wings
the cello, the flute—all brighten;
I think so I am.

Once I planted a mango sapling
manured it,watered it
already a mango was in my mind.

My birth ,like a drop of a stone
on water
churn into and
death circle like waves around.

As waves mitigate
new ones arise
the note ends
the mango falls
the light sparkles
and I feel;I live.
I live in my wishes.

Golaka's Thought: She

Golaka's Thought: She

She

Even when she is
even when she is not;
wind blows softly
leaves look greener
sky calm
earth placid
flowers strewn everywhere
when
I think of hers.

A Letter to Matt Moony;The Poet

Sir, I am really very sorry;I was not that clear in that specific poem.Of course,your matured hand pointed out that fault to me.It was rather clear to the Indian readers.Thanks once again.
On/around the road,everything--good or bad--happens.It witnesses a lot many events.One such intolerable event in Indian democracy is when all of us are united in the name of a faith or religion,we can break with that instrument.Politicians do it so easily.Why a Graham Steins or a Babri Masjid demolition!In the road of our lives we the poets bear all such pain.Either Christianity or Hinduism or even in any other religion we are stapled together to break when a little thing happens.Don't you agree?Golaka

Everywhere

Where is life if not here!

Her silvery skin spreads
with the morning sun
I inhell the scent of her nubile youth
in air
night falls like a cascade
of the braid of hair
she smiles on every flower.

History says
she is in every age;
she is,was not,is not,was.
No need to get and touch.
Reality invites her to my dream
and
dream is an entrance to my tomb.

Oh! I am happy everywhere
Was she or not
Is she or not
will she be or not .
I found her,find her,will find her

Butterfly To Caterpillar

The reverse you are.
At eighty or with wife or grandchildren
youth hides in the umbra
a blurred image
shakes hand with the fallen leaf
a retired general
stars and guns are off.
How many times I fondled you
kissed theflowers
followed the flies
caressed the heaps
clasped the thighs
defined love differently.
Feminism haunts here
independence for all I cry aloud
reciprocation is the recipe of love--
all but me was an animal.
I brood like a caterpillar
the elevation of my soul.
Sin or sanctity covers the cabin
I am in it .
That's all.
At eighty that's all.

A Different Song

Somewhere the ruffled wind sings a lullaby
whoelse will
when the hiss of death audible
from below the tree of govt.
The sky covers him from the paws of winter.
Barren was his wife
who gifted loneliness and went.
His swollen feet love the earth ,
hug it closely always .
He calculates his age more often,
sleeps to wake and listen to all those

Abracadabra

Sometimes I feel where I am

sometimes I fail.I love the leaves

I love you.The dark cloud touches me

the pale smoke too.Death

stands in front of me.

The swollen feet of Suka Dehuri

covers my thought.I forget all

as fire in the loins glow.

My ‘complex’ withers

when I stand before you

and you undress or silently allow me.

The sun is dear  but the moon no less.

You are near but life no less.

Death everywhere and life nearby.

Baliyatra

There at Cuttack the Baliyatra runs.Millions of people  join it to see and enjoy.Everyone is with a purpose of his own.Sometimes good sometimes evil.Thousands of policemen and officials are unnecessarily entrusted to manage this.There is always the possibility of some problem in it.Then why do people develop such craze to go there.I am amazed we invite problems for nothing.

The Map

I drew a map of my childhood

another of my adolescence, then

my youth and the next. One day ,

sitting alone I tried to compare all .

Found one picture constant in them

like the plateau or rain fed area

or  the contours.

The LOVE,LOVE,LOVE.

I tore those to pieces then

threw them to the ocean of death

but

found myself

totally drenched.

Oh! yes I am.

Rural Rivalry

Keshadurapal;Keonjhar;Odisha-26-11-2010-The temporary film hall built at the Baliyatra field has been burnt by a few nasty inhuman people of the locality.however at night at 2 o'clock it was found burning in a rash when others were watching a theater nearby.however the film show was over by then otherwise large many people would have been dead.It is seer rivalry that made some hooligans intolerant of others income and planned this plight.Of course it is because of this I never like to go to any fair.these type of fairs causing crowd should not be facilitated nowadays as there are large markets around the corner to buy whatever someone likes.

Death of Democracy in the Assembly

The Assembly especially the Assembly of Odisha has been busy in killing the democratic set up of the state.There has been no wise discussion as far as my knowledge is concerned there. Caricatures,mimicries,hullabullas are  the recurrent activities there. Huge  wastage of money is  going on there. It is not the symptom of good democracy.

In The Darkness

 In the darkness a mango falls

 an owl hoots

 wind blows and you smile.

In the darkness news comes

 a naxal fires

 a flower withers,he chooses words.

In the darkness silence churns

 a God transforms

a heaven makes and my hair falls.

A Demon or a God

Wherever the body is

 ‘I’ get up hiddenly

 run, fly or float

somewhere other I am.

From inside the knot;

 the neck spits at a giraffe

eyes telescope

greed zooms in

 I suck a lot many things

 you never see; can’t see at all.

Envy the neighbour

 kill the Alexanders

rape the virgins or a Cleophile

 and philosophise

shinning like the sun.

Where you’re; there my body is

where you’re;I am not there;

I sit somewhere

 like a God

away from all.

I stand somewhere

 like a demon

away from all.

Silence

Silence after a murder

no kith and keen nearby

 buzz of the flies  around

heart throbs, mouth agape

I cry, bleat, hoot.

They take the shape of an amoeba

 and 

 shape or no shape

 the amoeba is all but a poem.

Death At Harichandanpur

Harichandanpur;Keonjhar;Odisha;India-23-11-2010--Harichandanpur has been largely infected by the robbers and wood mafias whom the govt is searching in the name of Naxalites.They create all hazard and all problem. But this time the boy Biswojit Barik has been killed not by them.An innocent boy of +3.2nd yr sc with two first class certificates--very regular in the class-- has been thrown into the pond after being murdered.What animality still persists in man! Either for love or for politics he has become a victim of this animality. Probably political interference hinders the process of inspection.However the college will suffer a lot. Next year students from outside the locality will never come to this college.I am really sad for the boy. And my feeling is that lowering the age of voters to eighteen-- from this angle-- has never been good.Some created the vote bank and the colleges have been suffering.Hell to this kind of democracy.