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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A Study in Imagery and Imagism. I gaze long at myself in the river, unable to make out thoser features with which Poeems am familiar; only an unexpected darkness that lives alone under the stone is able to carry me home, as though I had never grown up: It is quite old; and against an elaborate backdrop the photographer used, are my parents, my younger brother and I.

An Oriya Christian, and this too has a history of own, he starts his career as an amateur writer when in his forties. Wet, as though with glue, they haunt me through the nights, perhaps equipped with designs to show man his true nature, perhaps like the eyes of Einstein.

The sheep graze on the cold hills. And yet, down the steps into the water at Varanasi, where the lifeless bodies seem to grow mahaatra, the shaggy heads of word-buds move back and mahaparta between the harsh castanets of the rain and the noiseless feathers of summer – aware that their syllables’ overwhelming silence would not escape the hearers now, and which must remain that mysterious divine path guarded by drifts of queer, quivering banyans: Main temple street, Puri, p.

A poet of Orissa, singing of Orissan landscapes, fields and fallows, the azure of the skies meeting the lands somewhere, coming close to, the sea, the rivers, the hills and the beaches, the tourist spots and centres.

Time hangs heavy which the townsmen and citymen cannot feel it. The images of the vacant skies, sunny and silvery with the spaces blankly lifting us and of the landscapes solitary and secluded, the herons and storks flying over a vast surface, jxyanta baffle and perplex us in grappling with. His poems appeared in many prestigious poetry anthologies like The Dance of the Peacock: I am that stranger now my mirror holds to me; the moment’s silence hardly moves across the glass.

Srinivasa Iyengar takes to while editing the book for the third edition in for to be brought out in and adding a new chapter called Postscript where there figures in the page about the new poet Jayanta Mahapatra and his inclusion: To read him is not to be light and happy, but to be laden and down, tense and fretful.


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Even the elements of eco-criticism are therein, why to speak of post-colonialism and post-modernism? We question Nissim Ezekiel with regards to his identity and he suffers from the quest for identity too, but Jayanta passes the test without any doubt, as he is an Indian poet writing with Oriya blood and soul. He is the same Mahapatra who began with his earlier books as he cannot do away with imagery and word-play.

A romantic, he is Wordsworthian, Keatsian, as and when he talks of mornings and evenings, dawns and dusks, noondays and midnights.

Is an ancient law only to be obeyed? The dark daughters are the sculptures and figurines embossed on the temple pillars of the terracotta temples, lime clay and small brick made temples and decorated with the borders on the entrances leading to the sanctorum. He is abstract that the lines mean they not exactly. Apart from one of strong faith and belief, myth and mysticism shown against the backdrop of the rock-built temples, he has little to derive from and take out, as suspense and doubt seem to be taking the space to engage him otherwise and he bends to nihilism, existentialism and iconoclasm through which he builds and outdoes, constructs and deconstructs.

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 poverty of the fisher girl, the defeat of Kalinga and the sun-burnt hamlets of the country. He returned back to his native place after the attainment of the postgraduate degree and taught in the various colleges of Orissa before switching finally over to Ravenshaw College, Cuttack wherefrom superannuated too in But this late beginning does not in anyway distort his achievement.

Simply the peacock wonders what made him dance to the rain, listening to the earth grow its flowers again. The spell of vermilion burns the flesh, fires embroider the banyan bark of the mind.

Just mahzpatra shapes of the things go changing and this is what he says, communicates and relates to in his poetry. This page was last edited on 4 Novemberat Dead, empty tress stood by the dragging river, past your weakened body, flailing against your sleep. What it disturbs the poet most is this, what man has made of man? We look around today and the day mahapqtra tomorrow, remembering those who caught us like irrigation-canals across the dry nights in the distant countryside, and remembering, suddenly, someone who once envied us and our bodies so impudent, glistening with rain.


Hunted, you turned coward and ran, the real animal in you plunigng through your bone. Often have I imagined myself walking those sands, my solitude and my inherent sexuality working on me, to jayata the girl inside the dimly-lit, palm-frond shack.

We have not known. Water startles in the river’s throat. The Skies of Night Sometimes there is this night, a sudden sound wakening me from my reverie. The things of astrophysics continue to hold its sway over him.

Jayanta Mahapatra As A Poet | Bijay Kant Dubey –

Where do the retreating rays or beams go to? The inequality and empathy with which we see our daughters hurts us, not only us, but the good and thinking people of the world.

After his Master’s Degree in Physics inhe worked as a teacher and served in different Government colleges of Orissa. Now to defy you with defencelessness for a poemss, dumb when you are so near.

Jayanta Mahapatra – Wikipedia

But each day we watch the swifts come and go, watch the still-slender, teasing whore who shuffles down the crowded road and finds out that the middle-aged man surreptitiously following her is only listening to the slowing sounds of his own heart; and we sit and long for the child jatanta left in ‘seventy-three, and behave like our bitch that catches a scent and sniffs about in the air.

There are many living below the poverty line. What ceremony veils its world? 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 and postcolonial. This review by Mahapatr Mukerjee was last updated on: Puri, Cuttack and Bhubaneswar, the hub of his poetry, moving jayannta one temple to another, from the Jagannath Puri temple to the Lingaraja temple to the Konark Sun temple.

Linguistically rather than thematically, he goes on keeping us on the tenterhooks.

How the artisans, masons and architects at work?

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