Iowa Writes
JOY GOSWAMI Things Recalled at Night Translated from Bengali by Prasenjit Gupta
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 encompassing shrouds Thrusting their muzzles in, tugging at the cloth, all those night-time dogs Shouting, driving the dogs away, all those attendants Half-naked, squatting attendants Laid down beside the attendants, all those wooden staves Those clay pipes not burning, in the rain Those not-burning pyres Spaced apart, all those not-burning pyres
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 encompassing shrouds Thrusting their muzzles in, tugging at the cloth, all those night-time dogs Shouting, driving the dogs away, all those attendants Half-naked, squatting attendants Laid down beside the attendants, all those wooden staves Those clay pipes not burning, in the rain Those not-burning pyres Spaced apart, all those not-burning pyres Behind the pyres, the ragged river-bank And on all those ragged edges, risen from the water, All their mothers sit Their heads covered with uncolored cloth Risen up from the water after long years, climbed down from the rain, All their mothers sit like small white bundles So that at burning time They can be close to their sons— At burning time when the dead will remember a wife left behind An only daughter who ran away with her lover Unresolved property and a friend's treachery The dead man will remember the first day at school and Unseen for so long, unresisted, the cause of his own death When he tries, flustered, to sit up on the pyre one last time And the attendant's stave strikes hard, breaking him, laying him out— Then she can touch that fire-burnt skull With her age-old kitchen-weary pot-scrubbing shriveled hand And, spreading the end of her sari over those molten eyes, the widow can say Don't fret, baba, my son, here I am, here, I'm your mother, here, right at your side!
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About Iowa Writes
Since 2006, Iowa Writes has featured the work of Iowa-identified writers (whether they have Iowa roots or live here now) and work published by Iowa journals and publishers on The Daily Palette. Iowa Writes features poetry, fiction, or nonfiction twice a week on the Palette.
In November of 2008, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) designated Iowa City, Iowa, the world's third City of Literature, making the community part of the UNESCO Creative Cities Network.
Iowa City has joined Edinburgh, Scotland and Melbourne, Australia as UNESCO Cities of Literature.
Find out more about submitting by contacting iowa-writes@uiowa.edu
JOY GOSWAMI Joy Goswami is regarded as one of the finest poets in the "post-Jibananda Das era" of Bengali poetry. He is the author of twenty-five collections of poetry, ten novels (one of which is in verse), and a book of critical essays. In 2001 he participated in the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Prasenjit Gupta, a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, is the author of A Brown Man and Other Stories (Rupa, 2002). He lived in Iowa City and worked at the UI Press for twelve years, then joined the Foreign Service and is currently serving in Chennai, India. The original poem appeared in the collection of poems paataar poshhaak, first published in 1997. The translation was first published on Parabaas.com, the leading web site devoted to Bengali literature in Bengali and translation. |
This page was first displayed on August 31, 2006
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