Poetry never stays static. It is not in the poet’s nature to remain fixated on a singular subject. Therefore, the themes, contexts, and flows of poetry continuously evolve over time. This change is visible in various forms—structure, diction, sentence construction, rhythm, metaphors, imagery, and, above all, subject matter. Let us explore how the themes of Bengali poetry have transformed across the ages.

The earliest trace of Bengali poetry can be found in the Charyapada, a collection of mystical songs composed by Buddhist Siddhacharyas. These verses reflect the socio-natural landscape of contemporary Bengal and reveal a stratified society entrenched in the varnashrama system. In the medieval era, we encounter Vaishnava literature and Mangalkavya. The former represents lyrical poetry focusing on Radha and Krishna’s emotional narratives, while Mangalkavya glorifies deities and recounts how their worship was established on earth. These works also outline the joys and sorrows of life, poverty, and the emotional canvas of the era. This essay focuses on the transformation in the themes of Bengali poetry over the last few centuries, especially in contemporary times. One might ask: does poetry really have “themes,” and do those themes change? Is poetry not simply a written articulation of feeling? While many would agree, I argue that there must be a process—a journey—towards that emotion. Poetry is not merely a declaration of sentiment; it is a responsibility to embed itself in the reader’s mind and consciousness. This is precisely what distinguishes poetry from philosophy.

To understand what we mean by “themes in poetry,” let us reflect on Sukanta Bhattacharya’s iconic poem Chharpatra. Why was it not named Parichaypatra (Identity Card) instead? Because Sukanta was not just introducing the newborn child; he was questioning whether this poverty-stricken child would ever find a rightful place in a habitable world. The child would likely grow up homeless, hungry, neglected. It is for this child that the poet addresses the sun with hope and urgency.

Why use such a simple, textbook example?

1. Almost every Bengali has read this poem, making it accessible for all readers.
   
2. The poem represents a particular epoch.
   
3. It introduces two core discussions: the depiction of reality in poetry and the role of time.
   

This brings us to another question: is storytelling in poetry essential? Many modern poets would recoil at the idea. And yet, Tagore told stories in his poems. Take Hothat Dekha (A Sudden Encounter). Though narrative in tone, it delivers a profound emotion that readers reach only by patiently journeying through the poem—“The stars of the night lie buried in daylight.” Here, time is an inherent element—the poem was written in the mid-1930s. Compare this with Jesus of Kolkata by Nirendranath Chakraborty, written in the latter half of the 20th century:

“The hawker, shopkeeper, buyer, all stood still, / like a painting on an artist’s easel, / watching a completely naked child, / wobble from one end of the street to the other.”

Two observations arise here:

1. The compression of time—the poem captures a fleeting moment, unlike the extended timeline in Hothat Dekha, perhaps reflecting the rush of modern life.
   
2. The image—a freeze-frame of Kolkata’s chaotic urban life.
   

Modern poets have often abandoned storytelling. Instead of narratives, poetry now often presents fragmented moments or disjointed observations. Jibanananda Das’s Ghora (Horse) exemplifies this—a seamless collage of surreal scenes. The poem opens with:

“We have not died yet—yet scenes keep being born.”

As if death were the only portal through which images could emerge. It ends with horses grazing under moonlight in a quiet stable, hinting at the timeless pulse that permeates all his poetry—linking human consciousness from the Neolithic age to the modern era.

The clash between humanism and mechanisation, the despair of war, and the poet’s inner turmoil dominate works like Saatti Tarar Timire by Nabarun Bhattacharya. Yet, beneath the apparent pessimism lies a glimmer of positive thought. Upon researching, I found that in the late first half of the 20th century, poetry began turning away from storytelling. Still, early modern poems retained subtle narrative structures. Gradually, they veered towards abstraction. Sunil Gangopadhyay wrote in his memoir Ardhek Jibon (Half a Life):

“As poetry moved away, it became entirely abstract and contextless.”

While poets like Rabindranath, Nazrul, Shamsur Rahman, and Sunil created vivid imagery that resonated with readers, others—Jibanananda, Shakti Chattopadhyay, Asad Chowdhury, Nasir Ahmed, Sohrab Pasha, Kamal Abdul Naser Chowdhury, Nirmalendu Goon, Abdul Mannan Syed—employed abstract imagery that captivated as well.

Imagery need not always be visible. Sensory input—sound, taste, touch—can inspire imagery too. Even intangible forms rooted in belief or memory can evoke consciousness. This is known as synaesthesia, the “union of senses.” Poetry, by nature, welcomes experimentation—in theme, in form, in language. At every stage, conflicting ideas have coexisted. As Sunil said, “Just as abstract painting is returning to form, poetry is circling back to narrative, sometimes suggesting characters or storylines.”

This recurrent comparison with painting prompts a question: is there an inherent link between poetry and visual art? Perhaps. Painting is one of the oldest art forms—our ancestors left proof on cave walls. It is more widely discussed, likely due to its visual immediacy. Its evolution is clearer and more extensive than that of poetry. Say “Impressionism,” and Claude Monet’s works spring to mind—not poems. Yet, reading Jibanananda’s poetry often feels like viewing art—

“Soft green light like young lemon leaves fills the earth this morning;
Tender grass, fragrant as raw pomelo, is being torn gently by deer.”

These lines seem born to be painted.

Shakti Chattopadhyay’s Chhaya Maricher Bone reads like a Van Gogh canvas—intense, bold strokes, rebellious colour clashes. In his Kono Din Pabe Na Amake, the line “The flesh of chrysanthemums drips on the grass…” creates a stunning juxtaposition—delicate flowers against the rawness of flesh, a signature move separating him from contemporaries. Still, not all poets lean towards visual imagery. Tarapada Roy and Shankha Ghosh rarely do. Roy’s poem Daridra Rekha pierces with sharp sarcasm, its final line a stinging critique of pseudo-socialists. Ghosh’s Mukh Dheke Jay Bijnapone presents a harrowing picture of silence—words abandoned at street corners. So, as the 20th century drew to a close, did poets start avoiding images and stories altogether? Or did they stretch transient moments into reflective still lifes? Purnendu Patri’s Kothopokothon (1981) feels like quick brushstrokes. Joy Goswami’s Maltibala Balika Bidyalaya (1991) is overtly narrative. Yet many contemporary poems lack both image and story—fragmented, short-lived, rooted in disjointed time.

One such brief poem:

“That day I met Solitude on Suresh Banerjee Road.
I said: here’s a letter addressed to you—will you take it?
Did you take the train?
Actually, it wasn’t Solitude. Just a calm comb bought on the street,
still stuck with strands of a woman’s black hair.”

Sparse in imagery, story only implied, yet layered with memory and emotion.

I will not delve deeply into current-generation poets. But I observe that contemporary Bengali poetry seems lost—like a confused Prince waiting for a mysterious maiden to ask: “Traveller, have you lost your way?” Today’s poems appear de-linked from reality, image-light, story-absent, fleeting, and often expressionless. Brevity has become a hallmark. While finding all three elements—image, story, time—together is rare, there is clearly a shift towards postmodernism. Poetry is becoming more cerebral than emotional. Even in the volatile 1970s, poets clung to hope, resistance, struggle, and romanticism. Despite the 1980s’ social-political decay, powerful poems emerged. Many dreamer-poets have walked across Bengali poetry’s expansive horizon. But how far have we really come? Or have we regressed?

Since the 1990s, as information technology gripped the world, have new poets upheld the legacy of their predecessors, or are they dismantling poetry’s essence in the name of experimentation? Riding the horses of modernity and postmodernism, Bengali poetry often stumbles. Rabindranath’s gentle lyricism was replaced by Eurocentric, industrial rationalism—one that ignored agrarian consciousness for decades. Whether that trend continues is now a matter of critical concern. While some poets delve into urban alienation, mysticism, or sexual rawness, many seem to have lost political consciousness. This might be why today’s poems fail to attain timelessness. Most poets today are skilled craftsmen of language, but poetry must reach the reader. That remains the poet’s responsibility. One cannot forget: even the destroyer bears the duty to rebuild anew. In discussing the thematic evolution of modern Bengali poetry, I have emphasised three key elements—image, story, and time. But poetry is not confined to just these. Its scope is vast. The purpose of any essay should be to start a discussion—not declare a verdict.

And so, I say: poetry, through the ages, has moved from subject to subject, often returning to its roots. At its core, poetry is a radiant light born of the heart—teaching us to think anew. From this thinking, poems are born. And while themes evolve, the poet’s unwavering responsibility to truth and beauty remains untarnished.

Writer—Poet and Researcher