Five poems by Biswamit Dwibedy

 

Master Alone

Feeding on the bread of stars, at footlights of the ardent lover 
Their relationship, now reduced to a metaphor, a cluster of knowledge 
that turns perception to the proof as one searches for it. 

Units of measurement become frames to reveal the radiant serpent
                ever-changing in the night sky. 

This freedom is the result of that recognition. 

“And so I descended from the sky and awakened you,”

			                         said the bejeweled animal 
to the simpler earth choked by muddy fragments. 

And lines of landscapes appear choked when 
expressions of the face cease to manifest 

“two hands only intertwine by the extension of their shadows”

as the shape of the word “anonymous” 
because it is incomplete		
           a sequence turns to an extension  
	            seen in the nature of blood. 

And the frequency in question
Is the proof allowed 
to find no utterance.

 

 

 

Enclaves

Exclusive to the veins that make the curl of a leaf  
Monsoon becomes an arrangement of planes 	 
only his photography captures. 
        
	    And as the dictionary is unable to defend its fragmentary nature 
  			            we adjust the sun 
for we are in relation 		to our reading
a book of themes and sensibilities  
resting over the surface of a pond 	
an afternoon considers darker occasions
                 between inwardness 
				                              & intimacy  
The melodic interrogation of the extreme

 

 

 

Secretes

A few other devotees came to see and pay respectful homage to the Master, whose teachings were by then unagreeable with Samaj authorities. He came from a noble family noted for its piety and other spiritual qualities. One of his remote ancestors was an intimate companion of Sri Chaitanya. Thus the blood of a great lover (of God) flowed in his veins. A love that had been merely waiting to manifest itself in all its sweetness 
and irresistibly attracted by the intoxicated path. 

		I thought it must have been my way to the prime grove, but what can I do, I am lost! I looked to see what the matter was and I found that a water-snake had seized the bullfrog. The snake was an unripe teacher, who had to go through this agony because his love had no poison. 

The bullfrog’s defense mechanism, however, is instinctive. 
The teeth of the snake are curved inwards.  One touch can cast a spell. 
		The bullfrog’s lungs might deflate after death, but he’s really trying to draw a map of this swamp with the edges of his breath. And as a result the snake suffers too. And speaking of food, the devotees devoured his words. The Master was now speaking in such a beautiful voice 

	Not lecturing for lecture’s sake but talking about his realization. Everyone says whoever goes to him does not return to the world. Living in the world may have a little blemish, but this does not bother Him, floating in the water,
a tasty morsel				     				             He shares with the others.

 

 

 

Scene Ten

			          What’s seen
		          is a screen
	          and messages don’t seem to cross the threshold
			           but go back to hope 

the reaching for an infinity that began at the navel. Along the spine are six lotuses. They open inwards. And in that light you couldn’t tell if he had his veneer swathed or had instead withdrawn, like light inside a lantern through which we see this image of the fourth plane with twelve petals & the fifth plane with sixteen petals which eases the great pain in anyone. Then comes the lotus with two petals. 

You may think you have touched the light but in reality you cannot because of the barrier of the glass. It should reflect our unwavering thoughts. The glass covering the lantern is the obstacle making it so. This again lies in the mind. Like sentences not yet produced. With each utterance forward the space of knowledge changes its contours, until it becomes a swarm washing over the queer edges of whose body becomes the message itself.

 

 

 

Scene Eleven

It was Sunday morning, April 8, 1883. The Master looking like a boy was seated in his room at
 
shrine                                                                                    Swar. And near him was another boy. 

And several other devotees gathered by and by.  Replied, “Friend, you have painted your eyes with the dissonant zeal for that state of other passions.  Many lay people even know the minute details of a frog. 

	    The Master said: “The poison of the frog’s head gets absorbed around the eyes, causing them to grow dark and beautiful.” But this was only possible in Bengal, and only back then, owing to the biology of those times. He also believed there was something in the air that night that makes you forget the world. Chaitnya deva had this piece of wood from the sacred grove 	& the ocean floor moved
 
to the glories of the dark longing you see in an aspirant on the path of devotion. Often used to bring the inner organs into control. You breathe in one image and breathe out a different night
 
	    For this is how sensual pleasures appear more and more tasteless as love grows 		& consequently this shrine of the body; it has no need for so many lights                    	just illuminate it with the lamp of wisdom. It is the maya that deludes.
 
 “The mind soaked in worldliness is such a damp match stick.”
 
                          Worldly people are like silk-worms under the control of the cocoon.

		So how must one light the lamp of knowledge in one’s heart?
 					     It is said in a song: “The landscape will tell you what to do."

 

 

 


Biswamit Dwibedy is the author of Ozalid (1913 Press, 2010), Eirik’s Ocean (Portable Press, 2016) and Ancient Guest (HarperCollins, 2017). In 2014, he guest-edited a dossier of contemporary Indian poetry for Aufgabe 13, published by Litmus Press. He is a co-editor of 1913 Journal and was a judge for the Best Translated Book Award in 2015. In India, he edits Anew Print, a small-press focused on translations from India, and is the Director of the Anew Writing Program, a low-residency, creative writing program–the first of its kind in India. He has an MFA in writing from Bard College and teaches in Bangalore at the Srishti Institute of Art, Design, and Technology.