Golaka behari Acharya
I have been a shy ruralite.Since birth the eyes of a goat led to the slaughter house haunts me.Similarly all woes. I also look into my dermatis and introspect.Find life too painful. The only way to live well is to share others' worries & concern.I have one anthology of poems Agadha Adhaka Mora (The Unbuilt Half Of Mine) .I love to live in others' love and affection.Please keep in touch with me.My ... more »
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Golaka behari Acharya Poems
Built myself in the bricks of Robert Frost so much sculpture so much finery
A Demon Or A God
Wherever the body is ‘I’ get up hidden run, fly or float somewhere other I am.
Butterfly To Caterpillar
The reverse you are. At eighty or with wife or grandchildren youth hides in the umbra a blurred image
Even when she is even when she is not; wind blows softly leaves look greener
The drumstick hangs the calf pushes its head into the fence the bleeding scratch runs.
The odour persists tireness numbs eyelids bow, I feel poor.
As I start the semi brave wishes get wings the cello, the flute—all brighten; I think so I am.
In The Darkness
In the darkness a mango falls an owl hoots wind blows and you smile.
Silence after a murder no kith and keen nearby
Torso Of A Puppet
Light shakes as a branch tilts in the wind life runs
A tree stands there. What’s its name? A bald tree stands there birds come, sit, twitter
Surrounding is sharper a knife than diseases society; more fierce a bullet than my deserted love;
The Same Kalahandi
The same scene the same rain the same night.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
in the bricks of Robert Frost
so much sculpture
so much finery
but the artisan in me failed.
Did the Artisan failed in me.
The old lady
widowed at ninety
loves her husband
loves her life
loves her bangles too.
None can say her insane.
wanted to be a blade of grass
couldn’t be a dropp of dew
a Konark is in me
I am in the unbuilt part too.
Monks and myths chant
that Artisan’s name
who makes not
what I love
what He thinks
and what He is not.