In the darkened room a woman cannot find her reflection in the mirror. waiting as usual at the edge of sleep. In her hands she holds the oil lamp whose drunken. Jayanta Mahapatra (ଜୟନ୍ତ ମହାପାତ୍ର). Of that Love. Poems Jayanta Mahapatra began writing poems rather late in comparison with his contemporaries. But this. Post-colonial traits in Jayanta Mahapatra’s poetry. Dr. Mukul Kumar Sharma. Asst . Professor, Department of English and Humanities Jaipur Engineering College.

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Enter the email address you signed up with and we’ll email you a reset link. Why must it cut across my blood? Tonight a dark wind drops down through the congested leaves and the fidgets on the steps leading to my door: If you love your country, he said, why are you here? Again, the light shifts to the burning of the pyre on the holy sands, jayanfa smoky blaze of a solitary pyre burning on telling of a life lived or worth to be lived. Have you not heard it, dark is beautiful?

Sitting in the temple complex, He keeps thinking of the windows, The door planks, The small doorways of the rock-built temples Telling of yore And its hoary days. Jayanta is very confused in his art and craft of poetry-writing as the poems come to him as word-puzzles, cross-words and he likes to frolick with word-play.

Waiting is without any doubt a book of Orissa, Orissan history and culture. There are several poems named round the golden and breaking dawn, glistening beautifully, reddening and brightening, flashing and dazzling.

But iayanta wish of burning on the holy sands purifies it the forlorn inner will with nowhere to go and confide in, no solace or refuge to be found or given anywhere. A catalogue or bibliography of his books itself will speak of what he has as the works cited in as for our ready reference:.

Whatever be that, let us begin with Jayanta’s Waiting, a collection of poems written against a historical backdrop of penetration. The cattle coming back at twilight, drinking water from and returning back, the darkness enveloping the countryside just lie with the flickers of the oil lamp burning for sometime. Have we been able to eradicate and eliminate all poverty?

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Does he think of the past as a loss we have lived, our own? A realist he is down to realities and it can be marked in several of his poems when he speaks of the fate-lines of the girl, the ppems of the fisher girl, the defeat of Kalinga and the sun-burnt hamlets of the country.


A monsoon day fable p.

A poet so imagistic, he just keeps mahzpatra with words, frolicking with thoughts, ideas and images, coming as converted imagery, pure and distilled, but unexplainable, just as the scenes and sights continue to be, art-pieces seen on the canvas, how to describe them, how to penetrate into something very artistic?

A poet of summer, scorching heat and no respite from, he can suggest of passing the day under he shade of the mango groves.

The image of the dark daughter is so mythical, mysterious, symbolical, historical, artistic, aesthetic, archival, archaeological and museumlogical that one cannot interpret it so easily and herein lies the philosophy and sociology of his interdisciplinary poetry drawing from history, art, culture, myth, mysticism, society, science and painting or these may be the folklore sisters dancing and making Buddha follow up the middle path of life, neither too much austere nor loose, but of the middle path and let life be as such.

Physics is his subject and this oten intercepts him and he turns to it as for the utilization of the readily available stuff. Who was the last man on earth, to whom the cold cloud brought the blood to his face?

Simply the peacock wonders what made him dance to the rain, listening to the earth grow its flowers again. Bright moon still swing from the branches, the dead are flung about like stale hair, and a world schemes still; the last footsteps on the earth say nothing at all. Here in this fairy man work, the poet Mahapatra is serene, tranquil and quiet taking the flight as do the swans, herons and storks for the marshy plots, making us remember of W.

When we learned dumbly to grow, we felt of ourselves abandoned in the wilds, in things not real, full of the mysterious fog that excites the shadows of the spirit. Today infanticide, feticide, bridal torture, domestic violence and bruise seem to corrode and maraud the inner self of the womankind.

To be with him is to dip in nothingness, existentialism and skepticism.

As an jayantaa, he is Ezra Poundian, exploiting imagery and imagism and poems come to him as images and reflections and you go on seeing them rather than deriving for meaning just like a passenger peeping out jqyanta the window of the moving train bogey.


And a graceless hibiscus is swallowed by its shrub of silence. An oriole call echoes away in the sullen grayness, the book of earth throbs with the light of things.

Light and darkness are the things of his poetry.

Of that Love (Jayanta Mahapatra)

Similar is the writer of Odisha telling of Puri, Pkems and Cuttack, the hub of his poetry. A poet of relationship, with his relationship with the land of his birth and nativity, he is very, very private and personal in the use of his imagery and reflection, imagistic and linguistical which making him postmodern jahapatra postcolonial.

A conscience of years is between us. They are the art-symbols and the myth and mysticism of it with which the things of art and artifacts made and in whose absence the world may turn to a dull and dreary affair.

Poets, younger poets, from various parts of the country were coming out with their poems; suddenly, English poems were being written differently in Kerala, in the Northeast, and in poe,s own state of Orissa.

Jayanta Mahapatra

Who can say about the sunrise and the sunset as we seek to know about light and shadow? I pick up the morning newspaper and see how a nation goes on insulting mahapagra with its own web of rhetoric. Who needs the future?

Long and lean, her years were cold as rubber. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: To be a modern Indian language poet was but a difficult task rather than being an Indian English poet. Like an Indian poet, quite insecure of his rank and placement into the annals, he just chose to dabble in verse.

A Missing Person (Jayanta Mahapatra)

Who’s Who of Indian Writers”. Let old men wait in their silence, thinking of the futures of their sons. Sometimes the editors misjudge the entries and the same make a way when published elsewhere. Padma Award winners of Odisha. Themes and Imagery First ed.