miércoles, 19 de octubre de 2016

NIRMALENDU GOON [19.320]


Nirmalendu Goon

Nirmalendu Goon (nacido en 1945) es uno de los más populares poetas de Bangladesh, conocido por su accesible verso. Nació en Kashbon en Barhatta en Netrokona, la India no dividida, la actual Bangladesh.

Poeta

Su primer libro de poemas fue publicado en 1970. Desde entonces ha publicado cuarenta y cinco libros de poemas y veinte colecciones de prosa. La poesía de Goon contiene duras críticas a los nuevos ricos y una descripción conmovedora de la suerte de contraste en la que viven los ciudadanos. El amor a la libertad y la fe en el ser humano también impregna muchos de sus poemas. Confeso marxista, Goon también ha escrito poemas instando a un levantamiento de los pobres contra los ricos. También ha escrito una serie de poemas de personalidades importantes, incluyendo Rabindranath, Sheikh Mujib, Lenin, Shakti Chattopadhyay y otros.

Pintor 

Dibujó la portada de su primer libro de poesía. En los últimos años empezó a pintar de manera constante. La primera exposición de sus pinturas se llevó a cabo en la sala de reuniones de la biblioteca pública, Dhaka en julio de 2009.

OBRA:

Ānandaudyāna (1995) ISBN 984-458-089-7
Bhrami deśe deśe (2004) ISBN 984-8682-90-2
Caitrera bhālobāsa (1975)
Cirakālera bām̐śi (1986)
Dhābamāna hariṇera dyuti (1992)
Dūra ha duḥśāsana (1983)
Gadyasamagra (1997) ISBN 984-412-041-1 (v. 1)
Gīnasabārgera saṅge (1994)
Kābyasamagra (1992-1993)
Muthophone'r Kabbo (2003) ISBN 984-410-324-X
Nā premika, nā biplabi (1972)
Nāma diẏechi bhālobāsa (1998)
Nirañjanera pr̥thibi (1986)
Nirbācita (2000) ISBN 984-437-116-3
Nirguṇera jārṇāla (1987)
Nirmalendu Guṇera premera kabita (1987)
Nirmalendu Guṇera rājanaitika kabitā (1989)
Pañcāśa sahasra barsha (1995) ISBN 984-458-100-1
Premāṃśura rakta cāi (1970)
Priẏa nārī hārāno kabitā (1996)
Pr̥thibījoṛā gāna (1982)
Racanā 2000 (2001) ISBN 984-8245-62-6
Raktajharā Nabhembara 1975 (1997) ISBN 984-458-121-4
Śaktismr̥ti o anyānya (1997)
Selected poems of Nirmalendu Goon (2001) ISBN 984-07-4125-X
Śiẏare Bāṃlādeśa (1998) ISBN 984-458-146-X
Tāra āge cāi samājatantra (1979)
Yakhana āmi bukera pān̐jara khule dān̐rāi (1989)


De la mano de la traductora María Barrera nos adentramos en la poesía de Bangladesh. Ella nos presenta una breve nota sobre tres de los más representativos autores de aquel país: 

El rostro de Nirmalendu Goon es inmediatamente reconocible para todo aquel que guste de la poesía en bengalí. Lo dice ya la entrada a él consagrada en Wikipedia: “uno de los poetas más populares de Bangladesh”. Lo que calla ese acápite es que, para llegar a tal sitial en un país obsesionado con la poesía, es necesario emerger muy netamente de entre una sustancial y numerosa competencia.

Goon lo ha logrado cultivando su interés lírico por décadas, de un modo persistente y exclusivo. Es bien conocido que lo abandonó todo para proseguir la carrera de poeta. El evocarlo implica, por tanto, pensar en una cierta bohemia, originada al mismo tiempo por la precariedad propia a tal vocación y por una inherente empatía con lo heterodoxo y libre. Famoso por ese carácter, Goon eligió vivir de acuerdo a sus propios, personalísimos términos.

Autor de decenas de colecciones de poemas, pintor de mérito indiscutible, Goon se destaca por su voluntad – expresada en su obra tanto visual como lírica – de comunicarse con su público del modo más directo posible. Sus versos tocan a menudo experiencias ordinarias, de las que la visión del poeta decanta los detalles más inesperados y elocuentes. El suyo es un acervo pleno de sorpresas, un caudaloso río de versos acorde al espíritu de su tierra natal.

 http://circulodepoesia.com/2016/10/poetas-de-bangladesh/




El poeta y el río

El pesar es un río, henchido de aguas
El cielo es el poeta, cara a cara,
Una verdad, ningún poeta es feliz.
Cuando un poeta predica a un río,
El río le enseña a perderlo todo.




Las canciones de Tagore, una vez más

Incluso cuando nadie las canta, se las escucha y canta.
Por una eternidad, las he estado escuchando –
Y, sin embargo, no puedo todavía
Entender de dónde toman vuelo,
Ni dónde toman tierra.
En verdad, nadie lo entiende.

Todos escuchan, pero nadie comprende.
Algunos cantan, otros asienten,
Algunos permanecen asombrados, como fríos peñascos.
Amo las canciones de Rabindra. No puedo evitarlo.
Sus melodías borran el odio que llevo dentro.

Incluso cuando nadie las canta, se las escucha y canta.
Se detienen quizás, en algún lugar lejano,
Pero mi mente nunca se detiene, mi corazón nunca descansa.
Parecería que una canción me entregase a la otra
Flotando blandamente en el espacio.
Es esa la canción más importante:
Aquella que no precede ninguna otra.




Contradicción

Nací en un melancólico monzón,
Pero mi estación favorita es la primavera.

Nací en un amanecer lluvioso de Ashar,
Pero amo los atardeceres de Chaitra.

Nací al romper del día,
Pero amo el sublime silencio de la media noche

Nací en un pueblo de densas arboledas,
Pero amo la sofocante Dacca sin árboles.

Lloré cuando nací.
Hoy río ante todo lo que observo.

Me volví diminuto en la necesidad del nacer,
Tórnome ahora cada vez más grande en respuesta a la muerte.





Because A Poem Will Be Written

'Cause a poem will be written, with eager excitement
Lacks and lacks of excited anxious eager rebelious audiences are waiting
Till dawn on the beach of the park that turned into an ocean of crowd-
'When is the poet arriving?' 'When is the poet arriving?' 

This childrens' park was not there then,
This tree, flower adorned park was not there then,
This sleepy colourless afternoon was not there then |
Then how was the afternoon then? 
Then how was, the childrens' park, bench-tree flower garden
Covered, this field, the heart of Dhaka? 
I know, black hand was raised to erase the memory of that day |
So I see today in this poetless desolate plain
Poet against poet,
Field against field,
Afternoon against afternoon,
Park against park,
March against march .... |

O! unborn children, O! poet of future,
While swinging on the colourful cradle of childrens' park
You will know one day everything - I'm, for you
Leaving the story of that great afternoon |
Neither the park, nor the flower garden - nothing was there,
Only as the sky still today touching the horizon
Was there wide grass-filled field, green and greenish
The green of our freedom-filled heart mingled with
The green of this wide field |

Red-band around their head and wrist, they came rushing to this field,
The iron labouror from factories,
Plough and yoke on their shoulders, The naked farmers came in swarms, 
The fiery youths came snatching the arms of police,
Death in their fist, dream in their eyes, the middle-class came,
Lower middle-class, sad clerks, women, aged, prostitute, vagabond, and
The children, as you are, the leaf collecting children, in groups |

A poem will be recited, is that the reason for anxious waiting by mass |
'When is the poet arriving?' 'When is the poet arriving?' 

After hundred struggles of hundred years, in a Rabindranath-like proud step
The poet at last stood on the people's platform |
Then in a twinkling, in a flush water flooded the boat,
Swing in the heart,
Tide in the crowd ocean, all doors are open -
Who will stop his fiery speech?
Trembling the platform of mass-fire, the poet recited the immortal poem:
'The struggle this time is for freedom,
The struggle this time is for independence |'

From then on the word 'independence' is ours |

[Translated by Dr. Masum Z. Hasan] 




Maybe I'M No Human 

Maybe I’m no human, humans are different; 
They can walk, they can sit, and they can wander room to room
They are different; they are afraid of death, scared of snakes.
Maybe I’m no human. Then how can snakes raise no fear within me? 
How can I go standing alone all day long like a tree? 
How can I sing no song watching a movie? 
How can I go without drinking wine with ice? 
How can I pass a night without closing my eyes? 
Indeed I feel strange when I think about
The way I go alive from morning to eve., 
From eve to night.
When I’m alive, 
I feel strange.
When I write, 
I feel strange.
When I paint, 
I feel strange.

Maybe I’m no human; 
If I were a human, 
I’d have a pair of shoes of my own, 
I’d have a home of my own, 
I’d have a room of my own, 
I’d get warmed in the embrace of my wife at night.
On the top of my belly my child would play, 
my child would paint.

Maybe I’m no human; 
Were I a human, 
Why do I laugh
When I see the sky empty like my heart? 

Maybe I’m no human
Humans are different; 
They have hands, they have nose, 
They have eyes like yours
Which can refract the reality
The way prisms refract light.

Were I a human, 
I’d have scars of love on my thigh, 
I’d have the sign of anger on my eye, 
I’d have a mother, 
I’d have a father, 
I’d have a sister, 
I’d have a wife who'd love me, 
I’d have fear of accidents or a sudden death.

Maybe I’m no human; If I were a human, 
I could not write poems to you, 
I could not pass a night without you.
Humans are different; they are afraid of death, 
They are afraid of snakes, 
They flee away when they see snakes; 
Whereas instead fleeing away, mistaking them as my friends
I approach them, embrace them.

Translation by S M Maniruzzaman 




What Sin Would Redeem Me 

I have never tasted the fruit
of the forbidden tree,
I have been waiting. waiting.
like the sea that waits for the river,
or the river for the surging tide,
in the remote hope
that a feeling would curt up
from within the rocks
and set my heart ablaze with passion.

I have never been to a brothel,
nor ever wallowed in that forbidden pleasure,
I have been waiting, waiting -
I like the revolution that brews and simmers
and waits impatiently for the climactic hour,
or like the heaving bosom of a young maiden
awaiting her first love.

I have never slept with any pleasure girl
in the hope
that love, like the sea monster
churning the sea in a violent mating duel,
would teach me the art.

Tell me, O wise soul, please do,
what sin would redeem me.

[Translated by M. Harunur Rashi] 




Firear 

There is a big crowd at the Police Station.
Suspicious soldiers in the city are taking away all firearms.
Frightened citizens, in accordance with military
directives, are depositing their shotguns,
rifles, pistols and cartridges like promised offerings
at some holy shrine. On the table
lay the saint's hand like a flower.

Only I disobeying the military directive,
turned a mild rebel. I am openly returning
to my room, and yet with me rests
a terrible firearm like the heart.
I didn't surrender it.

[Translated by Kabir Chowdhury] 





This Day I Haven'T Come To Shed Bloo 

Like all of you present here I love roses a lot
While crossing the Race Course field yesterday
One of the roses blooming there
Said to me; "Make your verse sing of Sheikh Mujib"
I'm here to sing of him

A bloodstained brick that had
Fallen from the Shahid Minar told me yesterday
"Make your verse sing of Sheikh Mujib"
I'm here to sing of him.

Like everyone present here I love to see Palash trees blooming
While crossing the Sangbad's office yesterday
A newly bloomed palash whispered in my ear
"Make your verse sing of Sheikh Mujib"
I'm here to sing of him.

The water sprinkling from Shahbagh Avenue's fountain
Cried out to me
"Make your verse sing of Sheikh Mujib"
I'm here to sing of him.

Like all of you here I am partial to dreaming and to love
An intrepid dream that came to me last night told me
"Make your verse sing of Sheikh Mujib"
I'm here to sing of him.

Let all of you heartbroken people assembled on this spring day
Let all the still, dried up, unsuspecting,
Not-yet-blossomed Krishnachura sprigs listen intently
Let the dark cuckoo that will perch on the tree
In the darkening light know I have kissed holy soil
Under my feet this day.
I'll be faithful to the pledge
I have made to the Palash this day
I'll be faithful to the pledge
I've made to my vision
I haven't come here to shed blood this day
I've come here only to sing of my love for him.

[Translated by Fakrul Alam ] 





You Are Leaving 

You are leaving: the steamboat starts off undulating the river
Amidst the clamour of engine
From behind the cloud of smokes
Beauty of your weary face gleams
I don't remember from when I am watching your going away.
You're leaving: there is no end to your leaving away
It has been long since you started leaving
There is no end to it, no end by any means.

A few words with the winds, a few words with the rains
Then I spot you again as I turn to the Dhaleswari; 
As if your sailing starts off afresh. You're leaving:
The launch starts off undulating the waters
Your weary fading face flashes tearing the black smokes
Exactly like your leaving for the first time.
You're leaving: with two winkless eyes
I keep on gazing in the direction of your way.

You're leaving: the river ripples with whimper
You're leaving: the wind whiffs of death
You're leaving: my existence sways. The steamboat starts off
The turbine picks up speed shaking up my soul's propeller.
Your vanishing face flashes tearing through the moving cloud of smokes
As if you're drowning and floating up
Nothing can complete your departure.
You're going for 3000 days, you're going and going.


2

You're leaving; the sky collapses on the moonlight of the wavy river
Your sailboat, like a black goose,
making way through the kāsh grove,
grazing the sugarcane fields,
proceeds at the beckon of an unknown universe. As you go away
the sky breaks down like a sky. O waves,
O all devouring river, O unfeeling dark boat, whom
you're carrying away atop, she was none to me - why then
The evening sky falls down on the moonlit waters? 
Falling down into the deep of water, only because you're leaving away? 


3

You're packing up: bulbs knock off the lamp posts
Intense darkness of earth's womb descends encompassing the whole town
As if a crafty magician has spread his black scarf over this township
There is no music except for the saddening chorus of a few crickets
There is no jingle; no artistry of life, there's no soulful animation.
Rendering this locality blind, you're moving to a distant city.
Collecting in my eyes some dreamy light from that city
I wonder at your destination, skyward. You're leaving:
Noah's flood erupts in your departing eyes, spectacles. You're leaving:
a melancholic beagle stirs up a storm in the inside Ashoke garden
You're going away
Leaving behind a wretched forlorn city of dead.


4

Clouds of sorrow collect in the restless eyes
I can't look at your face.
I look around to steal a glance at you.
The rains drench the aerodrome: my eyes tend to mingle with water
I can't look up and meet your eyes.


5

You're going away, my poems are lying alone
Laden with the grief of a shot down lion.
You're leaving: some words waver in tears.

[Translated by Faizul Latif Chowdhury] 



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