I am a poet, a poet! Lines of poetry map my entire dwelling,
Day and night, the stars of dreams ignite like brave soldiers inside my heart.
All the beauty of the Earth plays all around me.
The eyes of nature, like the marsh-marigold, halt my journey.
Yellow flowers, like signal lamps, guide the path of my wandering thoughts.
The hibiscus, the palash, and the shimul hold a vibrant red.
This colour acts as an index of justice and injustice, guiding the lines of my thoughts.
Therefore, I walk with clusters of words, like a cautious traveler.
The blue horizon shows me an endless path.
So, day and night, I immerse myself in imagery.
Like a sculptor creating an idol, I sketch the chariot of life.
I am a poet, Kalyan Chakraborty—the blazing flame of youth,
My written words are scented like the blooming flowers of spring.
Amidst Hawking’s black hole, I search for burning gunpowder.
Venturing into the fathomless depths of the ocean to find gems, I find the exuberance of life.
On the wings of birds, I see the golden lines of sunlight gleaming brightly.
The mark of greed stains the knife; the eyes are like mystical stars.
Across my heart, the red and green flag flutters proudly.
Sometimes I see a woman as a living lamp of rigorous labour,
Her enchanting voice echoes from wing to wing like a butterfly.
When she lifts the adored treasure of her bosom to give nourishment,
It feels as though the worshiped goddess of heaven manifests on this earth as a mother.
She becomes an eternal image of a mother on my canvas.
Women are goddesses of heaven; thus, they are worshiped in the homes of men.
Encircling the male heart, she builds a dwelling place.
Sometimes, as a maiden, she plays with the concept of creation.
Sometimes, like the breeze, she breathes life into the heart and body.
But when a woman takes a fierce form like a storm in the month of Baishakh,
The dark imagery of Goddess Chamunda manifests in the body of my words.
I have known a woman—the magical, deer-like woman,
Who bankrupts the heart and bankrupts it further in the fire of love.
In this way, pouring water at the root of creation and sowing the seed,
When she brings home the harvest of winter, the constellation of Ursa Major ignites in her eyes.
Thus, words and songs flow like spring water surrounding women.
Thoughtful nature never reveals beforehand which path it will lead her down.
Therefore, I shape so many words, so many songs, with the body of language at the break of dawn.
I am a poet, Kalyan Chakraborty—the blazing flame of youth,
My written words are scented like the blooming flowers of spring.
I am immortal; my birth dates back to the primitive man.
I am the man named Manu; lifelong celibacy was my spiritual pursuit.
Yet, I desire for poetry to be created; let there always be the cultivation of poetry.
Shatarupa has thus come and brightened my homeland like a cockscomb flower.
I am the self-born Time, which is why I have left thousands of years behind.
Jayadeva, Bankim, Madhusudan, and Ishwarchandra—like flower petals,
They have bloomed a beautifully imagined, fragrance-filled garden.
Rabindranath hums like a honeybee across the entire garden.
Listening to his songs, the heart becomes captivated in a spiritually pure lake.
There, the Rebel Poet arrives, sounding the war drums with a smile amidst the waves of his wild hair.
I am caught in Jibanananda’s pendulum of the surreal and the mundane, losing myself move by move like a chess piece.
Therefore, I am a poet—an independent soldier,
I do not belong to the continuum of past and future; mine is a unique, wondrous existence.
If anyone wishes to search for me, they must look across the hearts of all poets.
The nectar that arose during the churning of the ocean made the gods immortal.
I am the chief priest of that churning ritual.
By the power of Vedic mantras, I have adorned the sacred thread upon my body.
Therefore, I begin the utterance of Shabda Brahma (the divine sound).
That Supreme Divine, by its own virtue, gives birth to the body of poetry,
And I am its ordained creator.
The brush in my hand holds the hand of God to shape words
Then, once life is infused, it sparkles like a diamond.
In this way, raising a longing for light, it touches the path of darkness.
Darkness fades away, light smiles, and moves into the household.
Finding a bed there, it indulges in passionate desire.
Thereafter, only the sound of heavy breathing is heard.
I am a poet, Kalyan Chakraborty—the blazing flame of youth,
My written words are scented like the blooming flowers of spring.
I am a poet who worships beauty; my gaze stretches to the distant horizon.
Tearing through the chest of the Sahara, my desired flower blooms in the scorching sand.
The Gobi Desert becomes covered in green foliage.
My imagined water-lily floats upon the restless waves of the ocean.
The lotus sways back and forth to the rhythm of the waves.
Looking at it, it feels like the appeal of love surrounding a maiden’s first youth.
The wind sways the flowering body.
The bumblebee hums and sings a song.
After pollination, it kisses the sculpted chin and chest again.
Amidst the smile of the stars, the ocean continues to smile.
And the lotus, smilingly, loses itself in passionate desire.
Then, a cluster of blue arrives to decorate the Earth.
Where love and separation blend together to become one.
The sun that I see when dawn breaks—I call it close to me.
In embrace after embrace, I scorch myself.
In the love of the crimson sun, life exhausts itself this way.
Yet, it leaves behind dewdrops like pearls upon the grass.
Sometimes I think of myself as a restless Baul.
Cultivating Haritaki according to my own whims.
Mixing Amlakhi and Bahera,
I create the Triphala, and in quiet solitude, I drink this nectar.
I am a poet, Kalyan Chakraborty—the blazing flame of youth,
Written within my heart, like the blooming flowers of spring.
I know this spring will not last forever.
Infirmity, disease, and death will stand at my door with their ferocity.
I know I will be crushed under the weight of teeth as massive as elephant tusks.
My poetry will then sit with a melancholy gaze, like a widowed woman.
Ruminating over the past.
Where is my birthplace, the fields of Shikerpur?
The evening banks of the Sandhya River, the Natmandir of Tarabari?
The festival of Shiva Ratri?
Where is Amulya Master, Chunilal Dutta
Atul Das, Ram Prasad Ganguly—
My respected teachers, my revered mentors?
They too will become history, and I will become history.
Only the notebook of poetry will remain behind.
On some winter morning,
Touched by the hand of a young girl from the next generation,
Finding the quest for light once more, this notebook of poetry will come alive.
Every line of verse will advance toward that heart along the path of its destiny.
Then, reincarnated like a person who remembers past lives, in every home of Bengal,
A new letter will be born again from the heart of poetry.
Like a firefly glowing and fading all night long,
Amidst such sights, all these words are written.
Perhaps, like the tuberose, it will completely exhaust itself to spread fragrance.
In the sky of some quiet evening.
Hearing the call of the Azaan, the devotees will walk to the prayer hall.
While the temple bells will ring out moment by moment to announce their presence.
I am immortal, imperishable, and inexhaustible.
If this eternal soul ever meets her—
With that young girl,
In the sky of some evening,
By the side of the large pond at the Tagore estate.
On that day, death will face defeat.
Life will return with a crimson light, coming back to manifest itself.
Before this humble poet.
And then, death will claim it once more.
The notebooks of poetry will mingle with the dust-covered body.
At the end of the months of Kartik and Agrahayan, in the winter dawn of Poush,
The dense shadow of fog will perhaps obscure the path ahead.
In this way, receiving the cruel end of the century,
My desired, winding path will come to a close.
I am a poet, Kalyan Chakraborty—the blazing flame of youth,
My written words are scented like the blooming flowers of spring.
