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Bijay Kant Dubey
Bijay Kant Dubey Chandrakona Town / India, Male, 51
Profession :
College Principal
Education :
B.A., M.A. in Eng, Pol.Sc. & Hist., Ph.D.

About Me : My Resume Bijay Kant Dubey (11.10.1965- ) Bijay Kant Dubey who was born in erstwhile undivided Bihar at Lohardih village by the banks... more »

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Bijay Kant Dubey's last comments on poems and poets

  • POEM: A River by A. K. Ramanujan (12/2/2016 12:00:00 PM)

    A River is one of those poems of A.K.Ramanujan which remind us of hashya, vyangya and vakrokti, satire, irony and doublespeak and the oblique approach as the chief forte of the poet which he handled so deftly and excelled in too as the master artist of the genre. Ramanujan as a poet is one of the satirico-ironical trend of writing and he loved to play with words and wits. An expatriate academician, he used to teach in the States and that too in the South Asian language and culture department dealing with the Dravidic languages and language patterns. A poet, translator, linguist, folklorist and a critic, Ramanujan had been not only amusing and entertaining, but critical too. To criticize and comment had been his job. Just like Birbal and Gopal Bhand he tried to regale us, but not in a laughing manner, but by being ironical and critical enough. Ashtabakra’s statements matched those of his or of Khana’s vachans.
    To him, poetry is in ironies, witty handlngs and intrigues. The present poem A River is not exactly a romantic picture of the river Vaikai which flows through Madurai, the temple town, but a real picture of it when it dries duing the summer.
    The present poem is but a Tamil poem by a Tamilian as it recreates the ancinetness of Madurai and the classical poetry written by the Sangam literary meets and confluences dating back to centuries gone by. But here classicism of the Tamil poets and texts is no the matter of discussion. Just by referring to Madurai, the temple town, he tells the tales of the Vaigai river, more specially during the floodtime when the water levels cross over the danger level and the villages get swept. But there is none to tell the pains caused by the excessive waters swirling, devouring and inundating.
    The poet pictures the dry bridge during the dry season with the gates visible to anyone and clogged with the straw and woman hair. One can see the bridge repaired. But the patch works carried out seem to be like the sleepy crocodiles.
    But during the flood time water levels rise up to and the people start talking about the waters rising, taking on the bathing ghats and the cobbled steps. The new poets too like to visualize in such a way the older ones have gone by.

  • POEM: A River by A. K. Ramanujan (12/1/2016 11:17:00 PM)

    A River as a poem turns him into a hashya-vyankar using vakrokti as his poetical stuff; a master craftsman of the oblique approach, wit, humour and irony and he knows how to handle and improvise doublespeak, taunt and jibe to suit his creative purposes, but is ironical, crafty and coquettish too, sarcastic and sardonic..Through the river, he expresses his love of Tamil culture and tradition ad commemorates it through his verse. Under the blessing of Murugan he starts the poem referring to Madurai, the Vaigai river and its banks standing in evidence of the great Tamil literary conferences and confluences, he thinks of his stature dwarfed under the shadow of the great ancient Tamil poets. Whatever be that, A River is poem of Madurai, the temple town, the Vaigai river, the Sangam literature and the Pandya kings apart from other dynastic contributions.

  • POEM: Dawn At Puri by Jayanta Mahapatra (9/2/2016 10:04:00 PM)

    The structure of Dawn At Puri is that of the three-line format and he has followed it unto the last. A small poem it transmutes and transforms many a thing. The first three lines of the first stanza speak about three things distinctly, the first about the crows crowing which but a common ornithological scenery here in India., the second line about the holy ling on the sands which was but once as living man and the third about heat and dust, hunger and poverty doing the rounds all over, a vast country to feed and clothe is the greatest problem, a country reeling under illiteracy, ignorance, backwardness, superstition, inaction and fatalism. Indian poverty described uniquely by the crows, astrologers, palmists, pundits and the middle men, the dana-doers and the dana-takers.
    Though the poet does not say it, but it contains several layers of hidden meaning. Who can but say it that burning on the holy sands of Puri complex will have the privilege of crossing by the Gateway of Heaven? It is difficult to arrange for the makeshift logs for an outsider.
    The second stanza is a line and count of the widows, Indian widows waiting to enter the Great Temple, perhaps with Jai Jagannath, Krishna Murari. The contrast is, what they to get? What for to pray to as there is nothing left in their lives?
    The stanza is about the austere, waterless eyes of the widows who are so distraught and destitute after the death of their husband that these appear to be caught into the fishing nets by the dawn's shining strands of faith.
    The fourth about the frail dawn light catching the leprous shells scrambled together, just as a nameless mass. Here we are dumb-struck to comment anything. Poetry turns useless here. Similarly piety too. Religion is not in rituals; pontifical shows. Where is God? Here doubt thrashes faith for being hypocritical and egoistic. Service to man is service to God.
    The fifth stanza is a scenery of a dead body burning on the sea beach and the light lighting up it all. And suddenly breaks in the solitary sullen pyre out of his hide burning somewhere or far, telling of the last rituals being done, the body being cremated around the halo lit around with the flames feeding upon on the holy sands of the Puri temple. With it, the poet gets remembered of the wish of his ageing mother. The aging mother of the poet too feels it so.
    The sixth one is all bout the same wish of his old mother twisting certainly like light on the shifting sands. But light is light, frail and dazzling, shaky and shifting so are the sands so is faith, what to rely upon/ Faith too changes and takes sides with, cannot be relied upon. There is nothing in this world certain and taken for granted. Everything is but in a flux, ever-changing, ever-shifting.

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