August 2008 Immies

July 2008 Immies

March 6, Friday 2009

Words are living things only if we believe in them. Words are living things with a voice of their own only if we believe in them. Words are going to be living things if only we lived them before letting them out of ourselves. Words are us only we inhale them in us and let them out carrying ourselves with them.

Thus, these words, written here, are true and they have voices to each of them only you will have to imagine them.

Yet, imagination can only take you to a sense of these voices and they still won't come to life till they are uttered out with full and complete faith in their beauty. Therefore, if you think of yourself a word, without a voice that word is non existent and nothing or no one will ever respond to that word.

If you were a word be the symphony of it and with a voice sing them into an aria of yourself and the Universe will sing with you. If not. Nothing. Nothing. Never. I leave you a word and be it: be its voice: the aria.

March 5, Thursday 2009

A Sonnet

You like the pain that one quite could not point at
You who never arrived nor left but time only calls
Your letters and sounds and their linguistic solitude
You who never sung life in words with your sounds

Like the autumn sky you remained the winter away
Adistant from spring and away from summer’s rise
You who called on with no response yet the Universe
Sung you out rung you out and took your voice over

Speaking of you away’s landscape where played on
Sibelius all dreamscape sonatas that I could not touch
Still it is you who crafted out my darkness with lights

Like occasional lightning shone on the solid darkness
So I took my lone strides walked on in the dark though
My words are you-fragranced I remained in the dark

Go Up
 

March 4, Wednesday 2009

Today a few more poems from O Rain La Rain for I am not feeling much in a state to talk. Thus, let I will let these poems speak to you. A word.

Before the Tired Eyes

Making it all up as I went along
How lifeless the window looks
Out into the vastness of the past
How thin the air feeds lights lack

How hollow the breast is where
There is nothing but silence torn
Silence of words not spoken nor
Tasted in touch or reach the dawn

How thin and empty the space is
Where only pictorial imagination
Ruefully rolls on valley-down full
Speed rolling down all salt waters

The harshness of the present and
All that it has fathomed in to form
A future filled in empty past and
And bare barren songless solitude

All that is made up is all that I have
The made up reality that does not
Speak but a hollow thin expression
Marks the blurs before the tired eyes

Go Up


The Word Before and After

I make a word and break it
Before it was a bud after it's a bloom

Before it carried only prospect of a fragrance
Now it is a widening vibration-ocean invisibly spreading

Before it was a country now it holds and unfolds the Universe
Before it was Palestine and Israel now she is a Jerusalem rose

Than it was nothing but now it is all empty and it opens a New Empty
Before it was a drought now it is all savannah green silver rain singing

Go Up


Rhythm That Cries with Joys

And when it rains it is only silence
That falls in blank as empty drops
Bare and torn elements of a solid
Negation pulsates out into the air

This rain this silence is stone heavy
It bears nothing of what is olive rain
It does not unfold any moist spread
Of a rhythm that cries with joys joys


Echoes Only


This shape of time I can not figure out
Whose time is it that strangles the heart
Of both silence and the word into water
What is this time that is eternally thirsty

And all comes and goes desert dry fire
But this time still drinks water of ocean
Ocean it is that multiplies into wayward
Clouds a hazed horizon only echoes only

Go Up

Only Words Worlds of You

I open my hand stretched on
As though it is made of lights
As though it could eat away
Infinite miles only to reach

This space where you bloom
Alone tall and tangibly touch
The earth and inhale this air
Inside worlds open of dreams

Only if my hands were made
Of lights they would spell you
Through your radiance-glows
And in your shadows a moist

But I only can extend my hand
And only can stretch and only
I can only roam in a land made
Of only words worlds of you

Go Up

Your Lip-buds Opening

A waterfall-touch of you
And this fire is fed quiet
I am on a desert chasing
Ceaselessly time’s mirage

A time where bent rusty
Irons breaking onwards
Deeper in all spheres and
Everywhere this lull-sands

Allwhere this nothing-ends
Words are all sewaging on
Beasts are out of the cages
And the zoo is now cyanide

Only this waterfall-touch of
You and this prospect of the
Words turning into blooms
Into your lip-buds openings

Only this is solidity’s home
Only this is where home is of
My sustenance a faith of you
Your lip-bud-words waterfalls

Go Up

Be Be and Hurry On

If I were not
While I am
The duality
Of is and is not
Resides in one
Single breath

A breath inward
Opens high-tide-blooms
A breath evaporates
In fires of flows
Disappearing like
The sky into nothingness

If I were not
Like the breath
And I was like the breath
Between is and is not
Shapes the oracle
Be be be and hurry on

Go Up

Words Worlds Full of Silence

A dawn at the garden door
Softly opens the emptiness
So low and bare a raw pool
Reflects back what it finds on

And the cold of its spread
A left over purple scarf in
The cold on the care of ice
Over a Siberian white plane

No sound opens any word
No word finds way home
Homeless sounds homeless
Words worlds full of silence

There in the sands of them
Something beyond hold or
Grasp lingers on desperate
Words worlds full of silence

Go Up

 

March 2, Monday 2009

Today, I leave some poems, from my collection, being written on as of now, O Rain La Rain and leave you a word: hold it.

O Rain La Rain

O rain la rain la rain
La rain des savannah
Silver plenty a pearl
O rain la rain la rain

Over the splintered hearth earth
Over the torn-heated burnt earth
Over the dire dust and dirt earth
Over the water-hunger dark earth
Over the moist-lack fire fire earth
Over the lack-green pulsating grey
O rain o rain o rain o rain la rain
O rain la rain la rain la rain la rain
La rain o rain o rain of nine worlds

O rain la rain la rain
La rain des horizon
Dark-heat silver flow
O rain la rain la rain

Over the thirsty dusty rusty broken skins
Over the scenes pained in breaking brown
Over the dried out river beds and springs
Over the dusty droughty dusty dusty spells
Over the empty filled in with empty skies
Over the empty filled over with empty lakes
Over the raging caged in heated fires’ spread
Over the soul all atomised soil dust crying out
La rain o rain o rain of nine worlds unfold on


O rain la rain la rain la la la la la la
La rain des savannah la la la la la la
Silver plenty a pearl ra la ra la la la
O rain la rain la rain la rain la la rain

Go Up


Mina Rakastan Sinua

Mina rakastan sinua it is you I sing
Sinua it is you that I sing I sing you
You a pebble on the glistening beach
You a strand of light on velvet dark
My shore of Naz my shore of songs
Mina rakastan sinua I sing my songs

Go Up

Maynay Toomko Peeyar Keeya

Life or jeebon or zhivago or the beat
Whatever I call you you do know to
Respond to me in so many a tongues
They want not me to sing out a song

For your hearing me out of joys joys
For they do not understand you or I
For I’ve been in love with you all my
Life: Maynay toomko peeyar keeya

They want me to give them things
To sell and to mess and to break in
All that I could give them back is my
Songs of you and I that we sung out

And we say mina rakastan sinua
Maynay toomo peeyar keeya
Amee toomaakay bhaalobaashee
I only love you and nothing but you

But they can not sell it nor can they
Break it this love of you and I and
They want to now break us you in
Me and I in you but I sing on you

For I have always loved you on life
Life or jeebon or zhivago or the beat
I have always let you sing me and
You have let me make you my song

Maynay toomko peeyar keeya
Amee toomaakay bhaalobaashee
Mina rakastan sinua sinua sinua
Kara kerensa karansa my a'th kar

Toomee amaar maya maya maya
Kara kerensa karansa my a'th kar
Mina rakastan sinua sinua sinua
Love thee I I do love you I do do

But they want to sell out cell in all
And seal on all that we are of our
Own lights songs and their seasons
But they can never do touch or reach

For they do not know the magic of
What it is that makes the lights sing
Makes the rivers rise and reach up
But you do and I do and we sing on

Toomee amaar maya maya maya
Kara kerensa karansa my a'th kar
Mina rakastan sinua sinua sinua
Love thee I I do love you I do do
 

Touch Fire On

Touch fire on
Touch on fire
There on this spread

Slow low a butter-fire
Touch on fire touch
Torch out the dark a fire-spread

Go Up
 

March 1, Sunday 2009

Fiver years ago, today, Poets' Letter made its first appearance before the world. Today it celebrates its Pentade, its 5th Anniversary. A Pentade is coined to call  a five year period of time as half of a decade but as a unit of five. And a Pentade unlike any other metal related celebrations like golden, diamond etc, should be called a Pearl Celebration.

So Poets' Letter celebrates its Pentade Pearl year this year.

And for this we have published a Pentade Pearl Celebration Issue.

This is the Editorial Poem

I Give You Pentade: Editorial Poem

A Pentade
Half a decade of time’s silting on a rose-rise
Distilling on the essences of our definitions
Pentade time’s tangible a pen in your hand

I give you Pentade
A pen held between your thumb and pointer
A silverine ray of light a spread of your smile
Write away your beats bones marks and sparks

Pentade
Poets’ Letter’s ellspread that always sung you
Despite the seize paper cuts scaffoldings rising
To risk to raise you moonrises and dawnblooms

I give you Pentade
You in plentitude of a song in a Laranskan Plane
My face on Earth a glistening enigma in the eyes
On my back the Sun a constant sung lightplosion

Pentade
I who is but liberty’s notes and standard’s silk
At least that’s where the flours dough me out
But it is you in the Laranskan Plane that I sing

I give you Pentade
Despite the seize paper cuts scaffoldings rising
To risk to raise you moonrises and dawnblooms
Do sing imsidina songs and say I imsimaiz yona

Copyrights @ Munayem Mayenin 2009

Poets’ Letter: Year VI: Issue I: March Issue: Year MMIX

Editorial Poem: March 2009

Featured Poets of the Month
|Maggie Butt|Cyndi Dawson|

Five
From Five Years of Poets' Letter Five Poems to say: Poets' Letter

Katherine Michaud: Year I

Philip Ruthen: Year II

Malgorzata Kitowski: Year III

Briony Dennis: Year IV

Claire Askew: Year V

Out of 5 Years: Poetry Blog

Poetry In Motion? By Sarah Louise Parry

Poet of the Month
Carolyn Waudby

March Poet in Residence at Poets' Letter
Aiko Harman

Furthermore
Noel Canin

Purely Poetry
A Special Pick from the Five Years of Purely
Mary Ann Lily: I’ll Be In February Issue 2008

Some Facebook Groups You Would be Interested

Musician of the Month
Lara St. John: Violinist

Films
Kate Elizabeth Wins Wins Winslett

|The Name of the Poet| Isabel Galleymore|April Issue 2008

Walk the Museum Mile

Poetry Collection of the Month
Jetty View Holding by Philip Ruthen

The World in Monochromes at SOAS

Poet of the Month
Agnes Meadows

Events: |Naomi Woddis with Speakeasy 02/03/09 |Agnes Meadows with Loose Muse 11/03/09 and Angel Poetry 12/03/09|Emma Robertson with Littlest Birds 23/03/09|Utter Poetry and more

Blackheath Wealth: Blackheath Hall in March

April Poet in Residence 2008
Lucy Baker

Novel Corner: Read the 1st Chapter of Heritage of Secrets, a novel by Aoife Mannix

From the Print Magazine Short Stories
A Pair of Wings: Rebecca Atherton for Youth Lit Magazine

From the Print Magazine Short Stories
Clarenden: Sharon Harriott

|Submission Calls|Submissions Sought for London Poetry Pearl|Niuley Pleasance Dot Stories Anthology 2009|Seeks Submissions Imsonium Novels Anthology 2009 Seeks Submissions|

World Music
French Music
|Nolwenn Leroy|Emilie Simon|

The Artist of the Month
Kate Raggett

Author of the Month
Rabina Khan

Films
The European Independent Film Festival 2009

Arts
Royal Watercolour Society Annual Spring Exhibition
Glasgow Art Fair 2009: 23-26 April
East London Housing Association Poplar HARCA Partners with East London's Art Community

Music
Taylor Swift: Fearless

Books
Thomas Traherne and His Writings: Denise Inge
World Book Day 2009

Poetry More
Laura Bartholomew|Bryan Oliver|Philip Ruthen|Juli Jeana|

London Book Fair 2009

The Novel of the Month
Heritage of Secrets: Aoife Mannix

Website of the Month
Katri Ylander: Onko Vielä Aikaa?

Theatre
|Scratched Out, The Urban Musical at Oval House|Rokeya's Dream at Brady Centre|

Dulwich Festival 2009:Fri 8th - Sun 17th May 2009

Poetry Street Invites

What About Michael's Resignation?

Thank you.

Poets’ Letter Team

|Π.Λ:Poets’ Letter:Π.Λ|Poetry|Performance Poetry|Fiction|Non Fiction| Stories|Literature|Philosophy|Writing|Arts|Theatre|Poetre|Music|Politics|

http://www.poetsletter.com

Take care

February 25, Wednesday 2009

To contact the author, please, write to: mm at munayemmayenin dot co dot uk

Throughout these immies  he/she, him/her, his/hers, himself/herself would be replaced as follows: He/She= shim Him/Her=shimz  His/hers=shims Himself/Herself=shimself    One= one is used once in a sentence then replaced by shim and oneself be shimself

I Give You Emmatries

Emmatries: poetry that seeks the truth and sings the beauty regardless of which way it seeks it or approaches it or sings it. From the beginning or from the end, it still sings the magic and its magnificence of life and this astounding Universe where this spectacle of life unfolds unfolding us with her. Emmatries are poetry of a new world, a new language, a new magnetism of life and its expressive exuberance. Emmatries invites the readers to abandon the known world and venture bravely into a new world that already exists in the mind, soul and body of the reader in terms of shimz dreams and the way they enrich shimz life and its living. Emmatries crafts with the diamond cuts into life and tries to sculpt out emmaphires; at least, that's what it tries to do and aspires towards. Emmatries are the business of making life sing emmaphires that this market not only does not know but also can not ever sell. Here, I Give You Emmatries.


New Phoenix Gold

Let’s break the earth to golden dust
And add the cement of water in it
And dough we make of new gold

Of new gold make we dough and
In it of the cement water add and
To golden dust the earth let’s break

And let’s clay out new phoenix-gold
And blow in life that you and I hold
And they rise-fly like motion-waves

Like motion-waves rise-fly they and
Hold I and you that in life blow and
Phoenix-gold new clay out let’s and

There they fly in new flights and sing
They do new Sibelius in anew notes
And scales and scores and anew new

New anew and scores and scales and
In notes anew Sibelius new do they
Sing and in new flights fly they there

Go Up

Another way of Saying I Love You


I love thee thee love I
I thee love love thee I
Ell and ella ella and ell
Love I thee thee I love

All thy rises and falls
Falls and rises they all
I do love thy soul soul
Soul soul thy love do I

Not like this at all then
Let me sing you new
A song thee not I love

Love I not thee a song
New you sing me let
Then all at this like not

Thee I love not but what
I not do and do is all you
And there is you in I

I in you is there and
You all is do and do not I
But what not love I thee

Go Up

This Magic I Give You: You Give I This Magic

Tell the tree to rise downward
The roots must seek to grow
Must they hold the whole earth

Earth the whole hold must they
To grow must seek: the roots
Downward to rise the tree: tell

Tell the tree to rise upward
The branches must seek to grow
Must they hold the Universe

The Universe hold they must
To grow seek must the branches
Upward to rise the tree: tell

So that it is not in a pot down
Or up and it goes all clasping in
Tell the tree it must be a spring

A spring be must it the tree:tell
Clasping in all goes it and up or
Down in a pot or not it is that so

Copyrights @ Munayem Mayenin, London, United Kingdom

Go Up

February 22, Sunday 2009

Today I publish here a tribute to one of the best minds Bangla has ever produced: Michael Madhusudan Dutta. This is for the English Speaking World.

But today's piece, here:

“Shine out, my sudden angel,
Break fear with breast and brow,
I take you now for always
For always is always now.”
Philip Larkin

This now, this here, this instance that is unfolding in this very single breath is the unfolding of that what we call always. What is always but a faith, a conviction that this instance is going to repeat itself in the manner we know time to be. But time never does repeat itself. The river never repeats itself. The River flows on its current and the current comes and goes followed by new current. Be the ‘now’ and be the ‘song’ and therefore, be the ‘always’.

 

A Tribute to Michael Madhusudan Dutta

Michael Madhusudan Dutta for the English Speaking World

1824-1873

Born: January 25

Died: June 29

First Wife: Rebecca Mactavys

Second Wife: Henrietta Sophia Emilia White

“In reading my poem, you must look - 1st to its imagery; 2nd to the language in which those images and thoughts are expressed; 3rd to the individual flow of each verse.” M. M. Dutta

Michael Madhusudan Dutta was a great genius of a Bangaali poet whose seat ought to be among the great writers and poets of the world in the Eternal Assembly Hall of Fame of World Poetry, Literature and Letters. He who lived life to the full and given the world so much; he who lived his entire life full of struggles, obstacles, hardships, hurts and pains and yet, resolutely refused to burn slow, low and obedient.

He has given the world so much in so many a ways from his ever flowing creativity whereby he came up with diamonds and emeralds from whatever he touched where others found only silicons of sands ( not silicon of sand).

He who lived un-understood, misunderstood and pseudo-understood by his own people and received a contemptible treatment, an arrogant and cruel dislike for “abandoning Bangla” and for the so called “betrayal of his own roots” by becoming an “English” and worse still, by converting to Christianity. Bangla found it hard to “forgive” him; not that he would want that “forgiveness” if she still finds that there is something to forgive.  

And for the “crimes” that he was viewed to have committed for simply writing in English England returned him with the same contempt and cruelty. Well, to be honest, people, minds like Michael Madhusudan Dutta are always destined to be homeless for they lose their home by being born as who and what they are and since that homelessness is the proof to the greater world that he was not an everyday Jack or Joy for the rest of the world to take the same view towards him. So he was neither at home in Bangla nor was he in England nor in France, for that matter. He had a home in the world for which he was centuries too young; for that world had yet to be born to accommodate someone like Michael Madhusudan Dutta. The Bangla Renaissance created Dutta for a world that had not yet existed, since the world he lived in yet had not had a renaissance of its own to give birth to a new world to accommodate him or his soul in it, as of than.

Though to be fair, the enlightened part of Bangla always loved him and always dreamed that he would one day be as much loved, read and celebrated as Virgil or Homer or poets of that stature. All great poets and writers that mattered to Bangla Literature including Tagore always paid their homage to Dutta for they knew what elements went to make something as astounding as Michael Madhusudan Dutta.

I remember, after all these years, at an oral test, at university, I was asked a peculiar question (to which none of my classmates could elaborate on as they did not get the question). The professor, sitting in a panel of four professors, asked: Could you tell us, in your own opinion, as to what the distance is, between Kazi Nazrul Islam and Tagore and, between Michael Madhusudan Dutta and Tagore?

I remember answering: The distance between Kazi Nazrul Islam and Tagore is measurable and the distance between Michael Madhusudan Dutta and Tagore is simply immeasurable.

This is how I still view Michael Madhusudan Dutta and always will.

This is my tribute to this genius of a poet, to this lion hearted man, to this beyond-his-time visionary, to this high-plane dreamer, to this awesome humanist who was produced by the Beautiful Bengal ( I mean both West Bengal and Bangladesh together): it is said: She always thought it today what India thought the day after. To support this view I would go as far as to say this: it was Michael Madhusudan Dutta who had written about the future fall and departure of the British Colonial Rulers in his The Fall of Meghonad at a time when no one could imagine a day when the British would leave Bengal or India. The epic battle to which rise Ravana, the King and Meghonad was an allusion to the future that Michael Madhusudan Dutta had seen coming, far ahead of the time when it really would, for the renaissance-sung soul in him cried for liberty, so does his Ravana! And oh, how he stood, fighting for his country, his beloved land of birth that stood surrounded by the enemies who wanted to destroy all that he had called home all his life; for him, for his family and for his fellow country people. Oh, how Ravana stood and fought! How Meghonad stood and fought, though, being betrayed by his own uncle, he fell; but fall he did of an epic hero.  

A few notes before I go any further about the spellings of names that I am going to use in this piece. 

Bengal is not the name of the place now divided into Bangladesh and West Bengal (part of India). The name of this beautiful place is Bangla which became anglicised as Bengali. Bangla is widely believed to have derived from the words “bongo” and “al” forming “bongal” from where it evolved to become Bangla. 

Bangla means both the land and the language of the land of Bangla.  

I would use Bangla for the land (to include both Bangladesh and West Bengal without any political inferences or implications or suggestions of that kind) and for the language; Bangaali for the name of the people which became anglicised as Bengali (both the language and the people). 

In terms of Calcutta and West Bengal, I remember writing to the than Chief Minister of West Bengal Jyoty Basu in the early nineties, inviting him to rename West Bengal as Poshchim Bangla and Calcutta as Kolkaata. They since changed the name which I am sure they had come up with themselves since people wanted them to do so for a long time. It is I who started using Bangla and Bangaali and Kolkaata ( in English) from the eighties and coined the phrases: Bisshshobangla and Bishshobangaali. So here we are going to call West Bengal as Poshchim Bangla and Calcutta Kolkaata.  

And historically speaking, the British and the British East India Company first went through the river Ganges (Gonga) and anchored in the city of Kolkaata, Poshchim Bangla and if we believe historians, the first employee of the British East India Company bought 1 Ruppee for 64 Pound Sterling on their first transaction on the Bangla soil! No wonder they had to go to Kolkaata who spoke to the soul of another great Bangaali poet, Jeebonanondo Dash (Jibanananda Das) so beautifully that he called her Kolkaata Kolloleenee: ek deen kolkaata kolloleenee hobe. 

In terms of Michael Madhusudan Dutta’s name. so many people spell him so many different ways; it’s an anarchic situation! The closest to his Bangla pronunciation would be: Maikel Modhooshoodon Dot-to or Dotto. I would stick to Michael Madhusudan Dutta as he came to be known in the west.  

Back to Michael Madhusudan Dutta: he was born in a place, called, Shagordarhi, in the district of Jassore (Joshohor), in current Bangladesh, by the river, Kopotakkhonod. He wrote a very famous sonnet, titled after the river, about the river itself. 

He gave birth to Bangla sonnets and blank verse and wrote the first Bangla epic and enriched Bangla plays and theatre enormously, particularly, he had taken Bangla farce to a plane that had not existed at that time. And, yes, he had written ample amount of letters.  

He has written in English and in Bangla. 

The Fall of Meghonad (Meghonad Bod Kabbo), (which people tend to mispronounce as Meghnad like the way they mispronounce the late Benazir Bhutto’s name as they would call her Benzir Bhutto) is his masterpiece of a work, an epic, through which the west knows him. The title of the epic in English does not reflect what the original title does in Bangla. I am going to use the title: The Fall of Meghonad. 

(Megh means: cloud/rain/thunder and nad means sound and the sound of thunder; therefore, the guy who is called Meghonad should stand as the one that sounds like thunder and this is used to describe one who is unbelievably courageous and that he is absolutely unable to understand or comprehend the concept of fear. 

And what about The Fall of Meghonad? It is worth learning a new language so to be able read The Fall of Meghonad in Bangla. I would learn any language; if it was written in Norwegian I would learn Norwagian for The Fall of Meghonad is a masterpiece of an epic that the world should read as Iliad or Odyssey or The Aeneid or The Divine Comedia or Paradise Lost or Kalevala or The Metamorphoses or The Adda or Beowulf. 

Dutta was one of the best produce of the Bangla Renaissance, a renaissance, it is argued by some as a partial one;, since they believed it had excluded the Muslim youth as they stayed away from English Education system, which I dispute as it served the historical purpose by raising the youth of Bangla towards a higher state of mind and enlightenment that they rose up to reach that lights and their lumina that were being thrown upon their bewildered eyes fed their minds and souls. Had that renaissance not taken place modern Bangla would have turned out to be a different geographic location and landscape and, Bangaalis a different kind of people than what they are. 

Dutta was the most wounded by that enlightenment and his soul broke in splinters of wonders of creative supernovas that came out with exuberant expressions of forms, images, concepts, contents and musicality, particularly, in his letters. Some people might consider his effortless, joyous, colourful, vibrant and beautiful expressiveness, so full of optimism as tangible as one’s breath, particularly, that were expressed in his letters, to be almost made up; but that is the kind of soul that Dutta was. Dutta was poetry itself, his life and his art were one that no one could understand for most people life is life and art is something in books and paintings etc, etc.  

The Kolkaata that witnessed that renaissance was a place that we would not understand today and the land from which Dutta rose up from was not the modern Bangla that we came to know. For his part, no one could understand him, apart from a handful of his friends, but it did not bother him, for, yes, he did know what he was talking about and doing about with his life and his writings. These sort of men do not get understood easily, they make understanding possible so that some day people might understand themselves through understanding life better, enjoying life better because they had lived and created for that understanding and enrichment to take place by being and staying widely un-understood and mostly and cruelly misunderstood and yet, resolutely remained confident and loyal in the faith of their conviction and resolve.  

Still now, not many people understand him. His works are hard for mass people to understand because of the timean geography of the language but even in his days his language was too sophisticated, too advanced, too new; in fact, I would call his Bangla a different kind of Bangla: a Dutta Bangla.  

To understand Dutta’s Bangla one would need to know Bangla to an absolute highest level that not many people could reach. 

He was born in a Hindu family from which he departed by virtue of converting to Christianity which obviously did not go well with the communities in which his family had to live and do business with and in which he was supposed to be admired and liked for his writings. It was a scandalous affair for the part of the community and even the so called middle class snobs were not happy about his affairs and took great vindictive pleasures out of hearing his discomforts but it did not bother him much.  

Dutta always did what he wanted to do. He was such a man he could stand up and walk away against the entire human race so long he was happy in knowing what he did to be the truth, whatever, it may be. He was as confident a man as he was determined. The more obstacles came his way the more determined he got to stay focussed in his goals and nothing could dissuade him. He was the kind of rich man and artist who refused to be poor simply for the fact that the world was too poor and could not afford him the understanding he seeks and calls them towards. 

Thus, life was not easy for him. He was born to a relatively well to do family whereby his father was a lawyer and made decent enough a fortune to spoil him for Dutta had never lived in poverty so long he was on the chariot of his father. It was rumoured that Dutta never counted money when paying people for whatever reasons. He did not give a damn about money, that’s for sure. However, he was forced to live in poverty and struggled badly all his life after he had converted to Christianity and followed on his dream of becoming a great poet; starting his English writing career.

He studied at Hindu College and Bishop’s College. He finally came to the “Albion’s shore”, to the home of the people who spoke to his soul, the English poets including Lord Byron and the like. But it was not much of a home coming that he had been dreaming about for such a long long epic time that he realised soon enough after landing here in London to study law at the Lincoln’s Inn to become a Lawyer which he did become eventually.

Therefore, barely surviving the experience, managed to complete his Bar to be a Lawyer he escaped from England to France which did not offer him much welcome either. He returned to Bangla and devoted himself to his writing.

In addition to many Indian Sub Continental languages Dutta had workable knowledge and understanding of a number of European languages including Italian and French and was fluent in a lot of them. He knew Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Hebrew.

Dutta married Rebecca Mactavys after his conversion to Christianity and with whom he had four children.

He married ( his second marriage) Henrietta Sophia Emilia White who was French; the marriage that lasted all his life. From their marriage Dutta and Henrietta had three children: two sons, a daughter.

I very much hope that this tribute works as an invitation and call for all my English speaking friends and colleagues to read this great poet’s works.

Munayem Mayenin

Always at Laranska

London

English Works:

The Captive Lady: 1849

Visions of the Past: 1849

Other Works

A Huge Wealth of English Letters

Bangla Works

Epics

Meghonad Bodh Kabbo

Tilottoma Shambhob Kabbo

Brajangana Kabbo

Plays

Shormista

Krishna Kumari

Maya Kanon

Farce

Ekei ki Boley Shobbhota

Boorho Shaliker Gharhey Ro

English Translation Works

Homer's Iliad, titled Hector Bodh

A Bangla Play by Dinobandhu Mitra: Nil Darpan (The Blue Mirror: The Indigo Farming) which Dutta translated in English.

Leander Paes, Tennis Player: direct descendant of Dutta

Some Great Bangaalis for the World

Rabindranath Tagore 

Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar

Raja Ram Mohan Roy

Bankim Chandra Chatterjee

Sharat Chandra Chatterjee

Manik Banerjee

Kazi Nazrul Islam

 And My Favourite whom I call: The Pancha Pandavas of Bangla Poetry

Jibanananda Das

Buddhadev Bose

Sudhindranath Datta

Bishnu Dey

Amiya Chakravarty

For more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Madhusudan_Dutt

P.S:

Anyone can reproduce this article anywhere in the world so long they credit the author and at least, let him know of the fact that it was used.

Materials published here are copyrighted to Munayem Mayenin and are subject UK, European and International copyrights laws.