Two Translations from Jibanananda

Horses

We still are not dead- yet, ceaselessly, vistas are
born:
Mohin's horses graze upon moonlit autumn fields,
Like prehistoric horses- still grazing, grass-greedy
Upon the grotesque dynamo of this earth,
Stable scents drift in, in the crowded night-wind;
Sad hay sounds fall on the steel machines;
Tea-cups, like sleeping kittens-devoured
by leprous dogs
Go frozen in the restaurant over there
The paraffin lamp goes out in the stable
blown out by time's quietus
Touching the moonlight of the horses' neolithic
quiet.

Enthroned

'Rather write a poem yourself-'
I offered, smiling ruefully; the shadow-man did not
answer;
I realized- no poet he, but enthroned posturing:
Manuscripts, commentaries, footnotes, ink and pen
Make up his royal seat- no poet- undecayingly,
imperishably
Professorial; toothless- eyes impotent mucous
filled;
Wages a thousand a month - another thousand and
a half
Come from scavenging the flesh, worms of dead
poets;
Even though such poets had wanted the strange
comfort
Of hunger love fire - had surfed in shark filled
waves.

© Arka Mukhopadhyay, 2006