Jaydeep Sarangi is a bilingual poet with six collections and seasoned academic anchored in Kolkata. He is one of the Editors/translators of Surviving in My World: Growing up Dalit in Bengal. Sarangi is also involved in a translation project with International Centre for Nazrul, Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is on the editorial board of several refereed journals in different continents including Journal of Language and Cultural Education, (Slovakia),Mascara Literary Review, Transnational literature (Australia) and Contemporary Voice of Dalit (Sage publication). He is the founder Vice President, Guild of Indian English Writers Editors and Critics, Kerala and the founder Secretary of Indian Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata.. Currently, he is a senior faculty, Jogesh Chandra Chaudhuri College(Calcutta University). He can be reached at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Love and Longing at Jhargram
My days are free.
Red soil is my first love.
The sapling I planted, is a full tree
Where birds flock together, days end peacefully.
They often sing songs of the land
Its native links where I lost
My past. My ancestors breathed their last.
What is that freedom?
My forgotten chapter of memory
Sculpted on the walls of Kanakdurga temple.
My lines are straight
Arrows fixed up
Invasion from my city burden.
Pure Dulung is not muddy
No metro lines
Where lives are divided, between lives.
I’m from that forest land.
My laurels are made of leaves.
I am fast losing my green leaves
Or only coming to what is really my own.
Let Trees of Jhrargram Sing
It’s like green epidemic
Green turf, green ideas
Flowing like a rivulet
Murmuring a green song of hope.
Big Sal trees live with history
In the roots.
Red soil allure ideas
Tourists break out in numbers
All small lanes lead to a forest
Green reservoir of words.
The pitch dark sky smiles through the gates
Of leaves, wondering shadows
Ragged, rickety, forlorn
Let the moon stay for the rest of the night
Let me now love.
My molested soft senses in a city
Living in debris
One night cheap hotels,
Far away from the forest queen—Jhargram.
My friends play games, grow like leaves..
I make love with the green.
If you need a brand of active
Peace Army, I bet for poets. Poets.
Poets give law
Of the land and the seas.
Poets are humanists,
Who break walls, build up roots
In silence. Sign peace accord
With owners of law
Rulers of the code. Frontiers of
Several environmental zones.
I bet for them.
Give them a job.
They will pay you back
In words, words and volumes of words
For peace of the land and mind.
I bet for them
They can give us a green earth
Of values and morals
Poets shake hands with green grammars of the land.
Poets are like Shiva’s poison-green neck
Gather green, emit music.
They will not come.
They will not go, free bards.
I want to tell about you, my land
where I’m a guest. A visitor perhaps.
my filament burns, gives light, brown people
enlightened my wordy pool. Birds sing
songs of the past. My friends take me home
where each goat has a home, free meal.
I’m a squatter in a group of poets in Kolkata, Bangla poets.
Evening gatherings run deep in my blood
Joy makes no joy. Teesta floods blood. I write elegies.
I’m a published caretaker of senses, cheerful cries, angst and pain
Of my own . A caretaker of my feelings. Faithful.