Suparna Ghosh is a poet and painter based in Toronto, Canada. Her words and visuals are collaged to create narratives and yarns, myths and mysteries. She has published and exhibited her works in galleries in Toronto, New York and major cities in India, and lately in juried shows at the Arts and Letters Club. She has recited her poems at several venues to the accompaniment of musical instruments, particularly the sitar. Publications and readings Prior to immigrating to Canada, she published poems in literary magazines, e.g. Thought, in India; she was profiled as a poet and painter in Youth India, a national magazine focusing on the youth.
In Toronto, Suparna Ghosh was one of the founding members of the Art Bar, initiated by poet Allan Sutterfield in a basement, and further nurtured by Allen Briesemaster. The Art Bar has now been the longest running poetry-only weekly reading series in Canada. She reads her poetry regularly at the Art Bar, the Arts and Letters Club of Toronto, and other venues, often to the accompaniment of the sitar. Suparna Ghosh has published poems in Delhi London Poetry Quarterly, a journal published in the U.K., Verse Afire, a publication of Ontario Poetry Society; Laurel Leaves, a publication of United Poets Laureate International, PoetCrit, a literary quarterly journal published in India, featuring international writers; Bridge-in-Making, a literary international magazine published in India; Bristol Banner Books Anthologies. She often incorporates her poems into her paintings. A collection of poems and sketches, Sandalwood Thoughts, was published by The Battered Silicon Dispatch Box in 2004.
Her latest book, Dots and Crosses by the same publisher, a long prose poem with sketches, and a musical CD based on the same book, were launched at the Arts and Letters Club in November 2006 and January 2009 respectively. Membership Suparna is a member of the League of Canadian Poets; Ontario Poetry Society; International Writers Association; United Poets Laureate International; the Arts and Letters Club of Toronto Art Exhibitions Suparna has held solo and group exhibition of paintings, first in cities in India, later in Toronto, New York, Seoul.
CIRCLES
Night and day,
Two solemn circles,
Black and white.
They live on.
They linger.
They do not know why.
They too live.
I suppose
Living is just a long
Unbroken habit.
EXHIBIT “A”
There the likeness ends.
Well yes, the eyes are the same
and the mouth is similar.
The face is oval too, I admit.
But that, you will have to agree,
is all the semblance there is.
Smoothen out the wrinkles please,
iron out the creases.
Dab a little glow
on the carmine lips.
And please, if you could,
subdue that spin in the dizzy eyes.
After all, you understand,
I have not been on a carrousel.
And when
you put that picture up
in the carnival hall,
do not forget to announce
to the ladies and the gentleman,
that this
is just a caricature,
not the real me.
flying
with my feet on the ground
I saw vignettes
of a thousand suns
and their beloved moons
each a few steps ahead
and a few steps behind
imparting light
and darkness
in harmony
VOYEUR
The night breathed unevenly
suffocated by the fog.
Far away in the distance,
a strange, wheezing, hissing sound
touched the rim
of a forgotten memory.
The faint rattle of tin toys,
the muffled whispers of rag dolls,
the discordant sound of a bell,
the distended shapes of a few words
that had once melted, then frozen
within the night.
A wish? A prayer?
An epitaph for a dead dream?
Two eyes peered
at the fragments
that scuttled back
into the enormous womb
of darkness.
EXHIBIT “A”
There the likeness ends.
Well yes, the eyes are the same
and the mouth is similar.
The face is oval too, I admit.
But that, you will have to agree,
is all the semblance there is.
Smoothen out the wrinkles please,
iron out the creases.
Dab a little glow
on the carmine lips.
And please, if you could,
subdue that spin in the dizzy eyes.
After all, you understand,
I have not been on a carrousel.
And when
you put that picture up
in the carnival hall,
do not forget to announce
to the ladies and the gentleman,
that this
is just a caricature,
not the real me.
WHEN
My religion
an unresolved philosophy
tantalizing the still forms
on the moving mountains.
My philosophy
a restive religion
inciting the mute beings
of the immutable seas.
My parables
wordless scriptures
on crumbling pages
reciting to the potent and the passive.
Is it time for me to die,
Or is it my moment of birth?
