Talk on digital journalism
Amit Baruah, Resident Editor of The Hindu is going to deliver a lecture on "Outmoded or Valid? Centres and Margins in the Age of Digital Journalism" at the Vivekananda Kendra Auditorium, Uzanbazar, Guwahati on Sunday, October 18. Samudra Gupta Kashyap will moderate the programme. The programme is being organised by Munin Barkotoki Memorial Trust Centenary Celebration Committee.
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The Munin Barkotoki Memorial Trust organises a two-day seminar tited "Munin Barkotoki's Failed Dream? Literary Criticism in Northeast India" on January 31 and February 1. The event will be held at Bishnu Nirmala Bhawan, Latasil, Guwahati. Several prominent writers including Karabi Deka Hazarika, Diptiranjan Pattanaik, Nagen Saikia are expected to take part in the event.
First Act
(Bhawani is aged 22. Husband Shambhunath is 30. Daughter Senehi is 3 years old. It is nine in the morning. The inner room. Bhawani is lying down on the bed. Shambhu stands nearby.)
Shambhu: But won’t you get up today? Its nine already. Time for me to go to Court. But I see no provisions for breakfast?
(ooh! aah! Bhawani groans.) What happened? Why do you groan?
(Bhawani groans further) Why don’t you say anything? what’s happened?
Bhawani: What has happened, nothing. Who takes a note if I live or die? Everyone’s concerned simply with eating...eating. ooh! Oh Father! aah--!
Shambhu: What? Is it fever? Let...
Mustards in full bloom are a succour to the weary eye…
You know, on his beautiful evening, Majuli is swathed in green ink--floating in the swirls of Aapong, the young S.D.O. made vain attempts at scooping out a few flakes of verse.
But then, its true—presently, Majuli is a riot of myriad shades of green.
That patch of mustard on my left is yet to blossom. facing me, the paddy fields that stretch out to the horizon, are luxuriantly green too.
I have indeed come to Majuli in a pleasant clime. It was here that I got acquainted with Pranay Dutta, the young S.D.O. of Majuli. Presently lodged in the Government Circuit House, Dutta helped me finish my work well ahead of...
I have often seen your car speed away, especially on holidays-- shredding the city’s melancholic dusk… or some stifling evening. Your glitzy cars sprinkle on the passers-by the fragrance of being ‘freshly bought'...
Sometimes I grow perplexed counting your cars. So many of them… so many colours, models, shapes, sizes , curves; different companies, different names. Cars—royale, official, personal…
If the interiors of a car is elegant like somebody’s drawing-room, that of another is intricate… for you at least it is. Still, you are accustomed to them all. If one has a classical recital playing on its radio, another has a cricket...
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquility, so said William Wordsworth.
It is “…a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary”. (Khalil Gibran)
It is “… a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away” (Carl Sandburg).
Subsequent generations might have argued, agreed or differed from these statements, yet the space that poetry has absorbed over time remains the same. To put it simply, poetry might be spoken of as an outpouring of ones innermost feelings, and impressions of life and the world — channelized through the thought-processes of the poet. It is fluid,...
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