Jagannath prasad das biography sample
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My World
My small world
lies suspended between
the four walls of your house.
There is no entry sign,
yet my life, leashed to it,
keeps moving endless
round and round.
From wherever I start
I reach your house,
sure as death,
as though all roads lead
to this single destination.
It’s easy to find it –
on the front lawn
winter sleeps at noon
as the spotless day
dries in the sun
like your cast-off sari.
Your pet clouds lounge
high up on the roof.
In the night,
the house is snow-clad
in mysteries.
Moonlight peeps out
through the open window,
and I know
when the other window opens,
there will be sunshine.
From my lookout
I fix my eyes on the house
and invoke you
in the ultimate measure
of my meditation.
My prayers stop at the edges
of your unmade bed,
wet memories overflow my senses;
a taste of the sea assails me;
my consciousness becomes a dream
and loses all its reason.
I see blazing heaps of sand,
and your body seething
in the sultry summer heat,
I see a storm
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Jagannath Prasad Das
This article is about the author. For the psychologist, see Jagannath Prasad Das (psychologist).
Indian (Odia) Writer
Jagannath Prasad Das | |
|---|---|
Jagannath Prasad Das | |
| Born | (1936-04-26) 26 April 1936 (age 88) Puri, Orissa Province, British India |
| Pen name | J.P., J.P.Das |
| Language | Odia, English |
| Nationality | Indian |
| Alma mater | Utkal University (1953–55), Allahabad University (1955–57) |
| Period | 1960s |
| Genre | Poetry, short Stories, plays, novels, essays, art history, translation |
| Notable works | English: Puri Paintings, Odia: Prathama Purusha, Parikrama, Desha Kala Patra, Suryasta Purbaru |
Jagannath Prasad Das (born 26 April 1936) is an Indian writer, poet, painter, playwright and novelist who writes in Odia.
Life
[edit]Starting his career with a brief teaching assignment as assistant professor in the University of Allahabad, he joined the Indian Administrative Service and had held positions in the Government of Odi
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Jagannath Prasad Das
The Best Poem Of Jagannath Prasad Das
Kalahandi
Put away the road maps now.
To go there,
you do not need
helicopters any more;
wherever there is hunger,
there Kalahandi is.
The god of rain
turned away his face.
There was not one green leaf
left on the trees for supper.
The whole village a graveyard.
Cracked ground,
drab river sand.
All the plans failed;
the poverty line
receded further.
Wherever you stare,
there Kalahandi is:
in the sunken eyes
of living skeletons,
in rags which do not
cover the frail bodies,
in the utensils
pawned off for food,
in the crumbling huts
with unthatched roofs,
in the exclusive prosperity
of having owned
two earthen pots.
Kalahandi fryst vatten there everywhere:
in the samling of famished crowds
before charity kitchens,
in market places
where children are auctioned off,
in the sighs of young girls
sold to brothels,
in the silent procession
of helpless people
leaving their hearth and home.
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