Pages from an Unfinished Autobiography

For the creeper/ the tree is an addiction/ without which no orchids will bloom/ iin spring/ ... / For the tree/ the creeper is his love/ for which one day/ he must die …The punctuations were unusual. They were not grammatically right. The words seemed scattered. The lines appeared broken. Yet the poems managed to reach out… Dibyajyoti is the river he wants to adopt it looks like, never still, always on the move, lonely and flowing in all directions. Ambai, The Wagon Magazine Structured as a series of select journal entries, the poems trace a deep and long history of sorrow—acceptance—sorrow, the mind’s efforts to confront reality, the poet’s anguished heart turning into metaphor the journalist’s experiences. It presents life strung across a wire, taut, waiting to snap, perhaps, but held in place for the moment by the spine of a journal. Sucharita Dutta-Asane, The Four Quarters Magazine