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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Jayanta Mahapatra

Your madness catches me: In the poem, Temple, he carries the same age-old story of jaganta. My love for you is a selfish love, wing of decit. And no one’s back here, no one I can recognize, and from my side I see nothing.

A poet of Orissa, Oriya history, art, culture and thematics, he writes with Cuttack, Bhubaneswar, Puri and Konark as the hub of his poetry which he keeps rounding about, referring in a multiple way. In several of the 44 lyrics in Waiting, Jayanta seems half-unconsciously to recapitulate Vedic times and themes, for he too is Man watching Nature within and without.

Suddenly, around poens in the darkness of evening. For the foreign audience, not the Indian readers, some say it, he has written his poetry as had been famous before or in contact with them even before being recognized jayants.

In many of his poems, there lie in references to the lingam-yoni motif. A ludo or chess player of words, he gives a tougher fight in coming to terms with him; his poetic words, sentences and stanzas and those stanzas are the stanzas of nothingness, existentialism, what it seems to be is not and what it seems not is to be. To paint the image against the backdrop of bright poemz shadowed lights is the flair of the writer. He has played with words linguistically and the jargon of words prevailing upon.

We keep calm; the voices move. As a poet he is historical and the history, art and culture of Orissa have influenced him greatly and he just represents them.


And the wind, that had made simple revelation in the leaves, plays upon the ascetic-faced vision of waters; and without thinking something makes me keep close to the walls as though I was afraid of that justice in the shadows. The good wife lies in my bed through the long afternoon; dreaming still, unexhausted by the deep roar of funeral pyres. The temple points to unending rhythm. He is there to present and picture life and the world as they are rather than to be remorseful.

I know I am powerless to reveal myself. From time to time my father comes at me with outstretched arms of judgement and I answer from no clear place I jayaanta in. The newspaper items dealing with hunger, poverty, rape and death take the canvas away from him and he seeks to dabble in ink with a very heavy heart of his rarely to be found.

Who needs the future? Dawn at puri p.

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We wish we knew you more. The rock edicts at the foot of the Dhauli hills tell of many a thing in the form of his decrees. But the 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 poet of the country, he tells of the mud-housed and straw-thatched hamlets mahaoatra thorps scattered across a vast stretch of land.

Yeats Selected Poetry, edited with an introduction and notes by A. And at the streets end the crowds thronging the temple door: He is first and foremost an Oriya rather than an Indian.

His wordy lyricism combined with Indian themes put him in a league of his own. And yet, down the steps into the water at Varanasi, where the lifeless bodies seem to grow human, the shaggy heads of word-buds move back and forth between the harsh castanets of the rain and mahapafra 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: There is still much to learn from his memoirs, sketches and reflections; essays, papers and acceptance speeches; tours, travels, visits, sojourns and literary friendships.


We do not know as to how to re-designate and rechristen him by calling a modern or a post-modern, a colonialist or a post-colonialist. At last I turn to you, feeling absurdly naked. Mahaptara Ganga Dynasty kings and the Kalinga Empire we have forgotten them, just the history of Delhi cannot be the history of India.

Maybe it that the writer of Christabe l Coleridge is before us or that of The Listeners and Martha poems, who is none but Walter de la Mare. A poet of the place, he is Lawrentine as for his references to Cuttack, Puri and Bhubaneswar and Hardyian too as they have mahhapatra to Nottinghamshire and Essex. He is a poet of Orissa and the things Orissan; Oirya towns, cities, villages, hamlets, orchards, bowers, jungles, hills, rivers, lakes and temples, the picnic and travel spots and destinations, sea beaches, bird sanctuaries and natural habitats.

Of that Love (Jayanta Mahapatra)

Thinking to escape his beliefs I go to meet the spectre of belief, a looming shadow the colour of mud, watery and immense as the Ganga. 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.

I heard him say: Archived from the original on 26 October Abstract thought, blank mood, vacant thinking, pervade the poetic spirit of the poet, the colours of loneliness that he sees and feels, the toy clockwork of poetry, what makes one wait, a brief history of losses never to be written, obscure face, the blue sky hanging above his palms, shadows can never open their mouths are the things of his reckoning.

Did you see your own death?

In a wind that carries the smoke and the fear, the slow, doubled voice of wings we are always afraid to hear. What does my world say?