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Sumita Chakraborty reads her poem "Windows".


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My name is Sumita Chakraborty and I'm reading a poem called "Windows".  I wrote this poem after the death of my sister in 2014 and it's with little disconnected fragments of some translations of some of (?~0:14) French poetry.  


how much    loss
gains suddenly an emphasiss  
and    brilliant sadness

             far from that which lives and turns

of our vain comings and goings wilt and gnaw

        beat them,                              punish
them for having said and always said

tear out, finally,    our spells

          one life pours and grows impatient
for another life 

    and the lovers, look on them there,
    immobile and frail
    pinned like the butterflies
    for the beauty of their wings

               too great in the outdoors

like the lyre, you should be
rendered a constellation

like the scales or the lyre
an almost-name of the ages' absences

     should I defend myself
am I not intact

one who loves is never         beautiful


all hazards are abolished
          at the middle of ove
with a little bit of space around it
where we are the masters

changeable like the sea

ice, sudden, where our face is mirrored

taste of freedom compromised
by the presence of fate

                                             for whom would I wait

with this heart all full which loss completes

will I be found when the night abounds
given over to you, inexhaustible

climb!  turn far and away

that you can give the                  excess which arrests me

                                                             the sky, immense example
                         of depth and height

                                 make of the air a round arena

effort circumscribes
                 our life enormous

                 stretched toward the night


                                  set     out in type on the page

                                           a little


          like the greyhounds
                                                 arranging their legs

the sense of our rites



                              who rushes, who tilts, who remains
after the abandonment of the night

                                  starry     avaricious

all the grand unbroken numbers
that the night will multiply

                                                           new celestial youth

                the matutinal sky

buckles       close

                under the guise of tenderness

                time    uses his jacket

inconsolable space

               turned me into wind, 

               placed me in the river

             leaves    fled...

                              I had drunk

             all of my abyss

             one must not tire
             and eat with one's eyes

                                     vision watered
             profusely a      garden of images

             each bird whose flight crosses
             my expanse

             nothing but looking sees like life to me

nothing but looking seems like life

while the prunes ripen
o my eyes, eaters of roses
you will drink the moon

                                 I consent
and I consent                         force

       o                                    force
does not frighten me anymore, because it cradles me

     in the morning, small wild
                         become almost a mouth
                       all     worn and bloodless

Be, stars, the rhymes
found at the ends of end

                          say  enough