Joy Goswami is an Indian poet. Goswami writes in Bengali and is widely considered as one of the most important Bengali poets of his generation.
Joy was born in Kolkata. His family moved to Ranaghat, West Bengal shortly after and he has lived there ever since. Goswami was introduced to and encouraged with respect to poetry by his father, a well-known political worker in the area. He lost his father at the age of six, after which the family was sustained by his mother, a teacher. She died in 1984. Goswami's formal education stopped early, in grade eleven. By this time he was already writing poetry. After a long period of writing in little magazines and ... more »
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Joy Goswami Poems
Suspicion comes and sits on his shoulder one morning, Slowly with long, thin beak, it cleans his ear
A Bathroom Fairytale
Lay yourself down, when you wish to be born lay yourself down in a grassy field meadow pasture lay yourself down and say Ma Baba Ma Baba Soon your body will become this tiny in the morning Office-goers will see on the grass drops of dew
If You Must Ask Me
If you ask me, 'what have you done with your life' then I must tell you...
Don’t Wait for Your Lover Any Longer
Dusk has fallen. Go home. Don’t wait any more. Trees, flats, trees, signboard, trees In between the slate sky
Rain-drenched Winds in my Sleep
When did light string me to sleep’s dark branches, O Tamal, When did peacocks enter night's township go from door to door peddling songs!
Poem From Another Land
By deeper water, upon greener rock, I had pitched my tent And washed away with care the colour of my scream Your bone and stone ornaments dried on wet rock And Night would spread its blue-black skin upon the water
Things Recalled at Night
All that rainfall Laid out in the rainfall, all those dead bodies Beating at the dead bodies, all that wind Trembling with the wind but not billowing out, all those
An Evening of Rain
An eye had wandered, to another’s beloved, her leg. When, carelessly, her sari lifted just a little - Outside, the rain comes down. A lantern’s been lowered underneath the table, in the dark
This One Noon
This noon I do not sleep, I do not wake, I do not die, I do not live Time enters the room through the window, until this noon I did not know my hand, my own thin hand is a lyre
Dead peacock in the dream The moonlight fell upon his body Cactus in the veranda Room besides the roof
In the Evening Sadness Comes...
In the evening sadness comes and stands by the door, his face Is hidden, from the dying sun he took some colors and painted his body The sadness comes in the evening, I stretched my hand and he caught my wrist, in an iron-hard clasp
Ash moves in the room, printed in darkness Paper, book, cover, painting, the call of dead birds--- Ashes moving in the room, what is suppressed in the room One trunk of stories wants to rise up from the floor
A name I’ve written on a blade of grass On the date my mother breathed her last.
The Burning Bird Drops
Sizzling sound in the water My sleep broken A billion years of sleep
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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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)
Suspicion comes and sits on his shoulder one morning,
Slowly with long, thin beak, it cleans his ear,
When his eye closed with pleasure--- suspicion--- with a tweet entered
into the hollow of his ear,
and he did not notice.
Since then always the sound of the bird beating its wings in his skull,
When he tried to hear someone instead he heard that sound,
When he looked in someone's eye he always saw the eye of the bird,
Waking up every morning he cut off one friendship,
In the night when he lay beside his sleeping wife, checking his own body
He wants to examine ...