Jibanananda Das was a Bengali poet, writer, novelist and essayist. Dimly recognized during his lifetime, today Das is acknowledged as the premier poet of post-Tegorian literature in India and Bangladesh. He is considered as Bengal’s “greatest” modern poet and “best loved” poet too, his poems being regarded as "part of the Bengali consciousness on the both side of border" between India and Bangladesh. For the poets in the latter half of the twentieth century Das “has practically come to take place of Tagore . Das’s oeuvre is eclectic and resists classification under any single heading or school.
Das wrote ceaselessly but as he was an introvert and the “most alone of ... more »
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Jibanananda Das Poems
It has been a thousand years since I started trekking the earth A huge travel in night’s darkness from the Ceylonese waters to the Malayan sea I have been there too: the fading world of Vimbisara and Asoka
Ah kite, golden-winged kite, don’t cry any more this noon of moist clouds, as you hover around the Dhanshniri river Your whimper reminds of her eyes dim as pale cane-fruit! A pretty princess she has drifted afar,
Once in a starry night sprawling on the cloud's edge It occurred: am I a soul—or merely a ghostly spirit? Under the moonlight of a desolate sea I discern
Here lies Sarojini; I don't know if she is lying here! Enough she had slept; — then one day she left for a far-away cloud. Has Sarojini travelled that far, where - darkness over - a new horizon wakes up under the focus of light?
To Her Steady Lover
There is no meaning in living—I don't say this. There is meaning for some, may be for all—may be a perfect meaning. Yet I hear the white sound of wind-driven birds In the water of the distant seas
One Day Eight Years Ago
It was heard: to the post-mortem cell he had been taken; last night—in the darkness of Falgoon-night When the five-night-old moon went down—
All day I inevitably encounter a cat here and there In the shadow of trees or out in the sun, around the pile of fallen leaves; I catch sight of him, deeply engrossed like a bee,
Day-break and Six Bombers: 1942
I discern a few birds somewhere outside on grass, dew drops dry-up in the sun rays a few people—around their corn-field, lonely like human beings
This autumn night the tale of Subinoy Mustafi crosses my mind. This all-knowing young man had the amazing power of making the cat and the mouse held between its jaws laugh all at once. The white cat playfully biting on the mouse or the anxious mouse being torn into pieces
The Song of Life
Lying upon the stretcher perhaps fog clogs your eyes Don't worry, death is not another unjust light; How come then so many people embrace death, craving a torch like flying ants?
Along the Tram Line
I walk along the tram line: night now deep I hear the teasing of some life of the past: ‘You are like a broken tram— there is no depot, you don’t need wage
If I got an Eternal Life
If I got an eternal life - and then alone go on walking the paths of the world: I shall see green grasses spring up and yellow leaves dropp off - watch the sky clearing as it dawns - and at the dusk, a streak of
I Have Seen Bengal’s Face
I have seen Bengal’s face, that is why I do not seek Beauty of the earth any more:
The Great Twilight
The wheel-cart idly rolls laden with golden straw —the late-noon sunshine fades The birds: black, blue and brown—flap their wings in the cellar of the corn field
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(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)
It has been a thousand years since I started trekking the earth
A huge travel in night’s darkness from the Ceylonese waters
to the Malayan sea
I have been there too: the fading world of Vimbisara and Asoka
Even further—the forgotten city of Vidarva,
Today I am a weary soul although the ocean of life around continues to foam,
Except for a few soothing moments with Natore’s Banalata Sen.
Her hair as if the dark night of long lost Vidisha,
Her face reminiscent of the fine works of Sravasti,
When I saw her in the shadow it seemed
as if a ship-wrecked mariner ...