Why write poem with a pen?
Tokon Thakoor

I prefer writing letters with a pen.
If my letter is written for the mist, whose is that, the autumn or the winter?
Is it the mist of the morning or of the evening?
Perhaps I will write autumn, but will cross it out to write winter,
If written with a pen, the autumn will peek out a little
even after it’s been crossed out.
Perhaps I will write evening, will cross it out to write all night long,
But evening will sustain all night long even it’s been crossed out.

I will write morning to the mist, the morning will eventually fade out into the sun

When letter is written with a pen, even the cross marks grow up to be an art.
Say, I write, you are the student of mathematics, then cross it out and rewrite,
You are the student of K P Bose walking towards the mathematic dept.;
In the end, cross even that and rewrite, you are Ms mist
You are the poetry note book of the young poet, lying in the bed,
You even recite the poems when the clouds come down near the pillow you are lying on.

I prefer writing poems with a pen, though that might cause a lot of cross marks
Perhaps that crossed out poem otters the words of love, but, say, I write, of hidden, now
The love keeps on glittering from its hidden den, even though I have crossed it out,
And thus remains the inevitability of writing things with a pen

After this, when I write a novel I will do it with a machine,
But a letter, or a poem will always
Be written with a pen
With the hope of crossing them out,
A high dose of hatred, and cross it out to write
A high dose of adore…

অনুবাদ: মিলটন মোললা

Tokon Thakoor
I was born by a road where red flowers bloom the year around. And these flowers turn into little piece of verses as soon as I pluck them off. Poems of Tokon Thakoor are nothing more but a metamorphosis of these little merriments, one may redeem.
I was enrolled in a school where you test your competence for the construction of lines-colors-perspective and order. Where paintings are made, sculptures built. Tokon thakoor had to pass through such a discipline only to cross over the university line.
In summary, he has gone obsessed in the making of films. At present, he is just another passionate laborer engrossed in reprinting himself on celluloid the audio visual impression of his own breathe. Hence, he is on a train of bangle poetry, the window pane revealing the village outside. There is a camera settled on the meadow to capture the moments. Everything and all is now turning into a cinema, this autobiography of Tokon Thakoor