“Every moon has its share of nightmares”

Selected Poems by Kiriti Sengupta
Published by Transcendent Zero Press (Houston, TX)
Hardback | Page: 228 | INR 750 
August 2025
ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1946460660

Poet, translator, editor and publisher, Kiriti Sengupta dons many hats. Poetry, for him, “…does not change anything, nor does it initiate a change either … Poetry makes you think … makes you revisit your concerns”. Recipient of the 2018 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize and 2024 Nilim Kumar National Honour, Sengupta’s poetic flair has drawn the attention of the world. In Selected Poems Dustin Pickering presents carefully chosen pieces from Sengupta’s published works spanning over twelve years (2013 to 2025). Why write poetry?  Sengupta feels that poetry helps him to reflect, contemplate. That is the most refreshing aspect of his art. The reader sees the world as it is, without the veneer of exoticism or nostalgia. It does not seek out a world beneath or beyond but perceives the romanticism of life in its all its bare agony, finds colour in its insipidity. His art is “..the regular leftovers of grim humours” aware that “…every moon has its share of nightmares” (‘Anyday’). His contemporary take on traditional themes, pensive flights into the world of the old with childlike wonder that interrogates blind faith, provides “food for life” (‘Promising Griefs’). He is not uncritical of customs, but life has taught him that they “…are like meditation— / Worthy of unhurried contemplation” (‘Tradition’).

The sensuousness of life, the sap that runs through the plant, “…the shoot is long and thick / Smoother skin palpating beneath/No study of the plants but humans….”  is the crux of Sengupta’s poetic strain. Mingled with a deep sense of sanctity “…the body temple”, the poet unfolds to the reader, the unheard music of the senses, “…in all works imperishable / I listen to the unheard” (‘Reversal-Reverse All’). Seeking the esoteric in the negligible, the silver streak of peace in the pathos life, Sengupta’s poetry has to be read and re-read for the subtler sounds to ease into our inner ear, “Crucifixion is Christ-filled. / As I remember, / my mind turns candle-lit” (‘Namesake’). 

Though most of the poems reveal Sengupta’s sensitive and sensual explorations into human consciousness permeated with a sense of Coleridge-an wonder, one could argue too about the evolution of the poet, such as an inward turn with a spiritual flavour since the publication of Healing Waters Floating Lamps. The water of the Ganges in Varanasi does not extinguish the fire of man’s prayers. The lamps remain afloat transporting the ephemeral human aspiration to the eternal divine, 

Terse, always in motion yet still at its heart, his verses describe a tactile world that plunge us into the depth of silence, “My lips are thin with no traces of colour, but water” (‘Fish-Lip’). The imagery of water as of the earth and vegetation are prominent themes that merge the individual with the vastness of cosmic existence. ‘Kajal-Deeghi’ describes a leisurely evening by the pond, “…water here didn’t look black, nor would I call it green. / The lake seemed deep”. The poet’s mind associates the ambiguity of the scenery with the mystery of Banalata Sen, Jibananda Das’s evocative feminine figure which epitomises the surreal existential crises of the individual vis-a-vis the unknown, “Those eyes — the water in the lake — / they house, and reflect.” 

The best lines of Sengupta’s collection are those that evoke this mysterious quality of human experience, scattered through the blank verses, as well as the prose poems. While describing the immersion of the idol of Goddess Durga in the Ganges and mirrored in the water of the household pot (a ritual in Bengal), the poet is left in awe of life, of good and evil, “Immersion via the mirror — goodbye to the goddess, but the lion keeps awake with closed eyes. His eyes are terrific — mesmerizing, or giving all as I surrender.” (‘Clues to Name’).

The prose poems begin to appear from the 2016 collection The Earthen Flute where the poet appears more mature, sure of his art. ‘Time and Tide’ unfolds like a short story, poetry is hidden in the sleight of an eye. Only one initiated into the cultural nuances of Bengal would understand the poetic injustice of life. The perfect cook fails to make a simple omelette, for widows in Bengal were forbidden from touching non-vegetarian food. The poet, like the cook, is still a creature of customs, shaped by life. Can art be far behind?

Irony and satire reveal the paradoxical nature of the Indian consumer. At once imbued in the sanctity of customs, the consumerist society has given a twist to tradition, “Not a gimmick, but Yoga is now / at its creative best. / Patanjali must be happier / I bet” (‘Cryptic Idioms’). Sengupta’s humour can be piquant and poetry is not only about contemplation of the world beyond or within, but also having a laugh at the everyday banality of life. By juxtaposing the sacrosanct, the idealised figures of history with the quirky chaos of present-day life, Sengupta interrogates the relation of today’s reality with the past, “In Radha’s name, your love has condensed. The peacock’s tail leaves a mark on Radha’s forehead. Will you blame the traffic every time you arrive late?” (‘Seventh Heaven’). 

Along with references to his Bengali literary heritage (Tagore, Jibanananda Das and others) as well as the flavours of local cuisine (‘Masala Muri’), festivals (‘Game’), Sengupta’s creation is also nurtured by the pan-Indian culture of the Gita, the epics (‘Urvashi’, ‘Padmavati’), and does not flinch to decry the cruelties committed in the name of faith (‘Violence’, ‘Orison’, or ‘Fellowship’).  The poet is also a product of history, a certain faith and culture and Sengupta embraces his identity and moves beyond it. In The Earthen Flute, ‘Let the Flowers Bloom’ recounts the story of a Bangladeshi Muslim boy orphaned at an early age, renamed as “Robi” (a Hindu).  A magical tabeez (prayer-filled amulet) gifted by a fakir (a mendicant) transforms his life. “No magic, just pure trust soaked in innocence” feels the poet, changes the little boy’s sorrowful life into “…the hut…flooded with sunlight streaming through the broken roof ”. It is the lack of trust that has pauperised us, divided a nation from another. 

Situated in the mechanised world of the “now”, his verses constantly remind us that the lenses of our photographic imagination can only capture one aspect of a gigantic palpitating civilisation. Thus, with the crispness of a modernist regard which bares reality to the bone, his poetry takes flight into realms of the symbolic. The best poems are metaphoric, the poems of revolt (‘Fellowship’). The ones where ideological concerns prevail over felt experiences such as ‘Y-Gene’, ‘When God is Woman’, ‘Womb’, ‘Demonstration’, weigh down the poetic quality of the collection. 

As this book makes the reader travel between poems ranging over a decade, Dustin Pickering’s choice and the chronological sequence help trace the evolution of the poet. The aspiration and the agony of the creator are scattered through the series. The most inspired verses that etch their colour and music into our hearts, “Tiny droplets envelop my feet/ and permeate the toes” or “No sorrows, nor a hint of delight; a wonderful world opens up deep inside”, echo in the crevices of our solitude which longs for poetry. Mundane objects of the physical world become symbolic milestones of an inner journey. In ‘Unravel’ the classroom becomes the playfield of creation. The Master, is also the Lord of the inner world, ‘Reach the void and see the cage’ says he to the pupil poet unravelling the true path of knowledge. Even in a bird, the poet perceives a “yogi” (‘Eyes of a Yogi’), the smell of ghee prepared by the mother uplifts the poet to both piety and playfulness associated with Lord Krishna (‘Clarity’). Water is also the amniotic fluid where life germinates and by which it is sustained (‘Namesake’). The throes of birth and death, fleeting signs of love and the lavish beauty of life that surrounds us: “flowers nestle the landscape / springtide” (‘haiku’), constitute the very fabric of this collection. 

Sengupta refuses to categorise and thus reduce the wholeness of feelings, thoughts, sensations to a single name, “Tiny droplets envelop my feet / and permeate the toes. / I don’t call it a feeling, / I will name it / my experience” (‘Experience Personified’). Most of the pieces in this collection are to be read thus — as an experience. What the reader confronts is a myriad-hued immersion in life that cannot be named or reduced to specific themes but are to be rather “experienced” in their wholeness.