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H. Auden Wadih Saadeh Walid Al-sheikh Walid Khazendar Wallace Stevens Walt Whitman William Deresiewicz Zakaria Mohammed Things Recalled at Night Joy Goswami (India) 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 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! ******* A poem for the iron falcon Joy Goswami But this won't shake me out of slumber, dear iron falcon, howsoever much you try To drill in your beak, into my skull howsoever much you perch on both my shoulders, one foot on each, and the talons sticking out of them But that won't stop me from dreaming, dear iron falcon, my Eyes are not within your reach, you have power over my fingers my ribcage And my spine, you control the way I sit, stand, blow my nose and hiccup, you have power Over my pillows, big and small, and my pots and pans My clothes, doors and windows, my drums and bells You have power over my private orchestra, and yet My mind has gone away, drop exceeding drop, it has Taken on the speed of light, there's nothing much you can do about it dear iron Falcon… howsoever much… you try To drill in your beak into my skull, the matter inside will never melt Dense, black and steaming hot Your lips will fail, they'll bend and twist, dear iron falcon, with your Thousand contraptions clanging inside you, and a thousand television sets crashing A thousand aircraft groaning as they take off and land a collision, compensations Joining hands, murders and planting spies, but there's nothing much they can do about this, those spies, raw and seasoned, those spies Wearing a child's face, dear iron falcon, right here… With this ocean of flames in front of me, and its fiery droplets rising through the haze, the sun Floating away, it drops like a dead star, and This vast ocean, made up of many-hued suns And me slipping out through a gap, somewhere, coming out into the open Through the other end To find an enormous heart, right there before me with all its life, throbbing… My eyes go down into it like a flying machine Shooting messages Shooting messages from far away From the farthest places From my previous life In the meantime, you may do as you wish with this body of mine dear iron falcon I can't be bothered any more… Translated from the Bengali by Chitralekha Basu http://www.littlemag.com/listen/joygoswami.html Joy Goswami (b.1954) One of the finest Bengali poets of recent times, Joy Goswami shot to fame in the seventies. He was born on November 10, 1954 in Calcutta. He is an innovator, bringing new styles and techniques to Bengali prose and poetry. His poems are marked by a unique style and a fierce sense of privacy. Through a strong sensory approach, he creates and recreates images as if making his own body the carrier of his poetic realizations. Time and again he has returned to his favourite subjects of nature, time, and universe. Myriad shades and depth of emotions in flow of words like a stream characterize his poems Pratnajiba, Aleya hrada, Unmadera pathakrama. Yara brshtite bhije chilo is his experimentation with the prose poem. Joy Goswami is the recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award, 2000 for his anthology Pagali tomara sange. The Library of Congress has fourteen titles by him.