Literary Vibes - Edition XXIII
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the Twenty Third edition of LiteraryVibes.
This week we are happy to welcome Miss Amakwe Chidera Destiny, a very young poet from Nigeria, to the family of LiteraryVibes. All of fourteen years of age, Amakwe possesses a sensitive heart and an expressive mind. Let us wish this talented school student blossoms into an accomplished poet, writer and playwright and achieves great literary heights in years to come.
I just returned from a three months' stay in U.S. As with all my previous visits to the West, I am saddened by the lost opportunities of our country. Returning from a perfectly disciplined country of fulfilled potential to a land of utter chaos can be frustrating, to say the least. May be I will write a short travelogue for the readers soon.
Wish you happy reading. Please forward the link to all your friends and contacts. And do send your poems and stories to LiteraryVibes at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
FRIEND (To wife)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Let’s play a hand of rummy,
staking whatever left in our hearts;
you bet tour pride, I my ego;
shuffle and deal the inept cards
the way that defeats us both,
sinking us to impossible togetherness;
saunter, and stop at a hurtling tea-cart,
share a cup, half and half,
slurping the brew, sip by sip;
but share our stories in full,
not even leaving the insidious,
loud as the annoying residue;
let the memories pause;
we drudge ahead, questions many -
the answer is one;
let’s cry for all we have missed,
laugh over the few wins, rue the slips
that matter, also the immaterial ones.
Make my day this evening,
the day passing etherized,
a tired dog’s hangdog tail;
let me die a death in you;
unsung, unheard a mimosa,
timidly rising in your humus.
AHALYA
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Broken teeth and blood
roll into spit-balls,
more potent than canon-balls.
Breasts are not dairy,
nor the thighs brothels.
Mirrors don’t duplicate harems.
Joss sticks can lie.
Stink speaks aloud for itself;
the vinegar of lust, of flesh.
Can sharks be taken to bed?
If thighs bleed in glory,
can’t throats for a cause?
A mace rises in her left,
a lance in the right hand,
but a curse holds her back;
reluctantly turning into a stone,
she squeamishly submits
for a Ram’s despicable touch.
PERIWINKLE (For our Peter Pan)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Barren fallow earth,
dumped rubble and ruins,
cacti ridden dry stony soil
oozing thick bitter sap;
the bread basket for tough men,
rocky dough, harsh to palate;
crunching teeth, gritty at throat.
They subsist in hills, sand, snow,
- call them the military men, militants;
could be fifth columnist, gorillas;
flip a coin – turn up martyrs, rebels,
Robin Hood, Desert Fox Rommel.
Hold breath, on that craggy soil
blooms jolly a supple periwinkle,
a relief in the absence
of Krishna’s Kadamba.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
THE BOUNTY (AISHWARYA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
It wouldn’t be so strange,
had he changed his ways
after coming to wealth;
or had he been irregular
in visiting temples,
neglecting the salvation of his soul.
What bothered us really –
he being jolly well happy,
planning to buy a flat at Rishikesh.
One of us grumbled, “Tell me,
what makes him so upbeat
without a bother in the world
when his son sits idle
after completing his education,
his wife lies sickbed,
not a proper roof on his head.
What emboldens him
to buy a flat at Rishikesh?
Has he found a treasure trove?”
The same riddle was baffling all;
we cornered him on our way home
from office, but he remained nonplused
to our strange questions,
even didn’t retort to our
insolence, our worst jibes.
The most insistent among us
kept persisting, “Tell us dude,
what makes you so cool?
Have you inherited rich legacy,
a pot of Amrit, share from a big loot,
or a touch-stone to make gold?”
He still didn’t respond.
We sensed in his silence
a city of mirages
buried in our own hearts,
and in a corner of it
lying our cloaked avarice
to be rich and famous.
Our realization
was harsher than the sun,
brighter than the sublime lamps
of evening oblation
floating down the holy Ganges,
visible from the Rishikesh flat.
THE FLUTE (BANSHI)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I don’t know
where has Vinodini,
the enchantress,
been taken away.
By the time I returned,
she was gone;
her clothes drying on cloth-lines
in the sun, heightened her absence
in their empty shadows,
as well a pariah crow in the foliage
gouging out the eyes of a dead bird,
and the bereft house gaping ajar
behind its door.
Am I so naïve not to know
where has Vinodini been taken,
who did abduct her !
Where was I
when the jungle caught fire,
did I not hear a muted cry
like the breaking of a bangle
in the dark,
didn’t a choked sob
in the wind alert me?
Didn’t the corpse,
lying on the road
blocking my path of return,
belong to Vinodini?
Never did we exchange
a word,
except that I played flute
for her joy.
That was perhaps our way
of keeping the desolation at bay.
The flute feels so helpless
to have lost her
to wind or fire;
it rues over being a piece
of hollow bamboo.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
DRAGONFLY
Geetha Nair G
When you tied me down,
I perched willing,
My wings glowing,
But soon knew
Thrall was grilling;
You made me lift
Pebbles twice my weight;
It spewed a pain,
This toil so new.
Iridescent wings
Folded to my sides;
I crawled over cliffs,
Higher, still higher,
Picking up stones
Till those lustrous wings
Lost their fire.
Now I no longer
Wish to be free
I shall lift for you
Whatever they say;
A boulder a day;
Whatever they say.
Only stay with me,
Do not go;
Let it not break,
This golden chain
You tied me with
Ages long ago.
(From her forthcoming collection: Dragonflies Draw Flame.)
UBER BOY
Geetha Nair G
I was bowling along the main road that Saturday evening. My wife had asked to be picked up from her sister’s place at 3 pm and taken to watch the latest Mohanlal starrer at the Mall. I had fallen asleep after the fine lunch she had laid out for me before she left. It wouldn’t do to incur her displeasure; Gayathri was on the whole a sweet woman but missing a bit of the demi-god’s movie would transform her into a demi-demon!
There was this crazy two-wheeler dancing in front of me. The fellow wouldn’t let me pass. I muttered several four letter words addressed to him. On his green back was emblazoned the legend; those two four- letter words - Uber Eats. A double expletive. These days, the city was filled with these daredevil riders; they were a threat to themselves and to others. Curses fell steadily on them.
Our game of pass- me- if- you- can went on for another minute. Suddenly, he swerved and toppled over. I parked and hastened to where he had fallen. Some three or four pedestrians had already lifted him; he seemed unhurt. I wasn’t that sure about the food he was carrying. I was on the point of giving him a chunk of my mind when he raised his helmet with a glad cry of recognition.
“Ajay Sir!” he exclaimed.
It was Jishnu, a student I had taught more than six years ago. This revelation cut off a sizeable part of the chunk I had planned to give him. He was eager to talk but I gave him my new mobile number and zoomed away. First things first. Wife before student; duty before self.
I teach English in an aided college in the city. I had taken long leave for five years to harvest gold in the UAE and had come back this June to rejoin my college, older, wiser and richer. For years before I left, I had devoted several of my weekends to handling contact classes for students who had opted for the distance education mode of our University. I had found these occasional classes deeply satisfying. The students who came were earnest.They had to make do with whatever they gained in these few classes and so they valued them. And us.
They were drawn from all walks of life; there was always a big bunch of primary school teachers with eyes set on moving up in their profession, drivers, tailors, carpenters, plumbers, sales boys, sales girls and retired men and women who came out of genuine interest in English literature . Once, a student surprised me by giving the correct meaning of the word “pharmacopoeia” which had cropped up in an essay. When I expressed admiration for his vocabulary, he informed me smilingly that he was a pharmacist who loved literature. I can never forget the very young man who was escorted by an armed guard from the jail. I learned that, some years back, the young man had thrown a big stone at an aggressive neighbour. The stone had killed the neighbour. The young man was serving his term. The guard would sit at the back of the classroom, pick his teeth, gaze out of the window and try hard not to fall asleep. That was in my classes. A friend of mine who also handled this batch complained to me that the guard ‘s eyes were indecent.”Did you think, dear, that he would be interested in Brecht and Derrida ? ” I replied and was pleased to see her blush. She was a very attractive young lady.
In every batch, there would be a few who were more earnest, more devoted to their aim than the rest. These would come to us in private and request extra teaching at our home.
Jishnu had been part of one such little group. I was always happy to help such students. So, on several Sunday mornings, they would sit around the dining table, listen, scribble notes and ask doubts. Gayathri would serve them her smiles, crisp vadas and tangy chutney. There were two boys and two girls in Jishnu’s group. Pretty Susha, a nursery school teacher, Alex who worked in a hotel and Sulekha who was still a job-seeker, were the other three.
Jishnu came from an economically challenged family. He had a mother and two younger brothers. He had done well at school but had dropped out after a year of college. Soon afterwards, his father had died in an accident. That changed him. On week days he worked as a salesboy in a shoe store. His mother had found a job as an ayah at the school where Susha taught. Now, he wanted to complete his UG course, get a higher degree and become a teacher. I admired his determination. I wish I could say the same about his hair. It reminded me of a brush held aloft, the kind used to clean toilets. This edifice was coloured purple and red to add to his allure. But It seemed to be working; it was difficult to miss the sheep’s eyes that Susha kept making at him. Two years later, Jishnu had passed his undergraduate course very creditably. He came to thank me and to tell me he was enrolling for the post graduate course at the same institute of distance education.
We lost contact soon after this. Gayathri and I left for the Land of Black Gold; life there was very different, very busy.
Throughout the movie, my mind kept darting to Jishnu. What had happened to him ? Why hadn’t he realised his ambition of that better-paid, steady job? Had he fallen into bad company again as he did in his first year of college?
We got back home by 9 o’clock. An hour later, he called. “Sir, I shall visit you tomorrow. I have three more orders to deliver now.” The phone went dead before I could give more than an assent.
On Sunday morning, he was at my door. His hair was now differently styled. He looked handsome. After the usual preliminaries, I looked straight at him and asked ,”Jishnu, why are you a Uber Eats boy ? What of your post graduation? Your plans? What went wrong?”
He answered my questions in the order I had thrown at him.
“Ajay Sir,” he began, ‘Uber pays well. I earn far more than I did when I was in that wretched shoe shop..My mother was ill for a long time and had to quit that ayah’s job she had. I completed my PG. With a first class.”
I beamed at that and he acknowledged the beam with a counter one. Gayathri had just come with two cups of steaming coffee. She sat down to listen to the rest of Jishnu’s narrative. He continued with a smile, “I have been writing NET steadily but haven’t netted it as yet.”He knew my fondness for puns.
His plan of doing a degree in Education could not materialise. B.Ed courses in distance mode are not recognised in Kerala; he could not afford to quit working and do the two-year regular course. That was when Susha-yes, Susha- suggested that he should enroll for Ph.D. It sounded a little daring but she had assured him that he could conquer that peak. It was almost guaranteed- unlike clearing the National Eligibility Test. A doctorate would pave the way for a college lecturer’s post- his dream job. Though full-time, it would leave him time to work. Though he would be tied down most of the day, he could work in the mornings, evenings and nights. Fortunately, he won a scholarship for indigent students that assured him ten thousand rupees every month during the period of his research. But that was far too little for his family’s needs.
Then, Uber Eats swept the city like a tsunami. Alex gave him the idea of becoming a delivery boy for them.
“Do they pay well?” broke in Gayathri.
“It’s on a commission basis, Madam,” he replied.
“ We are permitted up to 20 deliveries per day. We try to achieve that target; that is why you find us rushing along the roads. We get a pretty packet at the end of the week.”
“If you are not in hospital by then.”I commented drily.
“O we have accident insurance!” he replied, smiling. .”Then, there are the tips. Some customers are generous with tips. To some others, the word is Greek,” he commented with a grin.
“What is Susha doing now?” asked Gayathri.
“She is a lucky girl; she got into the government service as a teacher. She completed her B.Ed and M.A. So she will move up soon,” was his reply. He was beaming again and I had difficulty restraining the question that jumped into my mind.
Jishnu set down his empty coffee cup.
“You make the best coffee in the world, Madam” he said.
“So, how is your research progressing?” I asked. I was wondering how he would manage to write even a chapter of the formidable thesis; research scholar by day, Uber boy by night.
Then, like a little Sorcar, he dug into his jeans pocket, came up with a crumpled envelope and flourished it before our eyes.
“This is the invitation to my Ph.D. Open Defence. It is next Thursday. Please do come, both of you.”
I got up and took the envelope from him. Then I embraced him. He left with averted eyes. I think there were tears in his eyes as well.
That night I lay awake, thinking of Jishnu. I knew only too well how much effort was needed to create a reasonably good Ph.D. thesis. I could only marvel at him and his toil. Unbidden, a line from a poem I had taught with reverence many a time rose to my mind.
“Thousands… speed and post o’er land and ocean without rest.” That was Milton’s picture of the angels of God doing His bidding. I could see the blue sky filled with gliding, swan-like angels, the night sky luminous with their shimmering wings.
I thought of them - all those boys zooming all over the city, early in the morning to late at night, braving sun and rain to fill their bellies or to fulfill their ambitions.
I sent up a silent prayer for them.
Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English, settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems, "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com
SORRY, SHAKESPEARE!
Sreekumar K.
There was an odd issue which had been troubling me for days. I brought it up during my causal discussions with people who were aware of Shakespearean literature, though not in depth.
Today, strangely, Debora, a Grade IX student brought it up. I instantly gave her my best compliments. What she asked me was why Shakespeare is considered such a great writer though his stories are all very silly.
It still takes a child to comment on the nudity of kings.
First I told her that he should not be blamed for his stories since almost all his stories came from other people. He is not called the thief of thieves for nothing. A plagiarist, a born kleptomaniac on whose nature nurture will not stick!
But why? The answer lies in his last play The Tempest. His own story in more than one way. But, what story are we talking about here! There isn’t any.
So, creating a plot was not one of his talents.
But, a man who began his career as a hostler outside theatres could have trained himself to create any number of winding plots instead of borrowing silly plots from anyone, like a desperate Bassanio repeatedly borrowing money from Antonio. And the plots he borrowed were so popular that it was hard to say who told the story first.
But then, we say that he was a hostler near the theatres for some time. But no one is sure. No one is sure where he was for long years. So much is simply missing from his life like a maths table we learned too early in life. We can make up for what we have lost.
OK, his tales were not his. But his wisdom is wonderful. We can quote endless examples from him.
You mean from him or his books.
From his books, but is there a difference?
Yes, it is not like quoting from Dickens or Shelley. When we quote Shakespeare, we are only quoting what he made his characters say. And none of his characters are angels. So, be warned. Quotations from Shakespeare are not like maxims you can live by. See what those characters did in life or what others did to them. So, there goes the Shakespeare who lives in quotations like Dr. Jonson predicted.
So, was he just a popular money-spinning playwright, pleading guilty about beautifying himself from feathers from the other playwrights?
No, far from that.
The fact is if we call Shakespeare a writer, we should find another term for those who just write and if we don’t want to change that, then we should find another name for Shakespeare’s profession. Such is his greatness.
He is the most misunderstood of all the writers in the world. Not because his language is archaic but we are all pretentious. We don’t take literature as seriously as it has to be taken. Our tastes are so low that we would sit and watch any opera had we not been watched by others. This is where Shakespearean tales are a boon. We can enjoy all those silly stories and not feel guilty
.
We enjoy those stories and we take them to class and the children too are enchanted by the melodrama. Since neither they nor we read enough, it never occurs to us that most writers come up with better plots and Shakespeare could not have hoped to win even the school drama writing competition with that kind of stories. A man signs his own death warrant when he borrows money. His friend wins a rich lady by lottery for which she offers him illegal help and with the same inclination to do illegal acts she later saves her husband’s friend misrepresenting her gender and presenting herself as a lawyer though she would have thought a ‘plaintiff is a common quarrel’ (plain.. tiff) ( from The Twisted Tales of Shakespeare by Richard Armour). The argument she comes up with is not even worth mentioning here. How can this be a classic story? It is not.
To cut it short, Shakespeare had higher aims than making an extra ducat by being a playwright. Each of his plays is meant to teach us something. Like his art which conceals his artfulness, he hid his tracks completely. In The Merchant of Venice, he wanted to tell us that appearance is deceptive or that one should not judge a book by its cover. On the cover, it says The Merchant of Venice, but it is hardly about the merchant. Portia is the protagonist and Bassanio is no merchant. Antonio does not lead the story; he only signs his death warrant and waits to be ripe to fall off. Taming of the Shrew, considered to be a true anti-feminist play has spiritual aspirations if we are shrewd enough to see it all. He has brought us the medicine because he knew we are all sick. He was only 31 when he wrote Romeo and Juliet, the story of which he got from a three thousand line long poem. What he says about Juliet’s parents is something none of the other writers would dare to say even today. Jacques, in As You Like It, looks at a fool with wonder and whispers to himself: Motley is the only wear. In this brief blurting out, Shakespeare has revealed his view of life. He has given those words to a philosopher, no wonder. The hero’s mouth is not worth it. Life is so meaningless that the only way to live it meaningfully is to live like a fool. Charles Chaplin’s Tramp and Samuel Beckett’s Gogo are celebrations of this idea. And they are not the only ones who took this seriously.
We should take a good look at someone like T S Elliot or James Joyce and then see how great critics find even him not as good as Shakespeare. It is then that we realize the level of loving wrong we do to Shakespeare. It is then that we find we are not equipped to gauge the greatness of this writer. We are small-time astronomers who look up and wonder at the stars on the firmament while rocket scientists are arranging guided tours to Mars. While we are waiting to wise up to appreciate the real excellence of Shakespeare, let us not belittle him by measuring him with such small yardsticks.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
WILD FLOWERS
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Don’t look for my chapter
in the Complete
Textbook on flowers.
You just missed me
in its most extensive section,
The preface.
Inviting colours like
beguiling plump cheeks
of babies, ever familiar
but never losing its allure.
No element of surprise
but hard to guess
what to expect next.
Blending with the background
like long shadows
in a lazy afternoon,
long enough to loose all shape,
but not the substance.
Fragrance fading into the air
like fuzzy faces of
characters in the dream.
You feel, you almost know them,
yet struggle to place them.
Exotic names elude me.
I settle for fancy ones; like
buttercup or dandelion.
Flower shows evade me.
ForI am too unruly for them.
Gardener’s designs escape me.
But helping hands,invisible
though, never desert me.
Thank God, need no
gardener’s charter.
Wild in name,
but gentle at heart.
Eager to make peace
with the weary.
Never overbearing.
All I ask for:
Stop by to spend
some time with me.
For, sheer bounty of
my offering demands
that its appreciation
can’t be hurried!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Alt+Ctrl+Enter
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
Every day is a mystery for Parkinson's disease patients, so also every day is an experiment .The signs and symptoms vary every day ,never constant .If today is high blood pressure tomorrow it may be low .But I observed one thing which is constant, comes on every night and that is "I see star studded sky every night when I get up between 1 to 4am for going around the corner."
Hallucinations, I know, but no cure .If you change/stop the medication Parkinson becomes worse .My principle for Panacea of all the effects/side effects of Parkinson is sleep and start a day fresh.
[Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin]
STARRY LOVE
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Why thou wink at me
Night after night,
Stars of heavenly meadows,
Thou daughters of old moon,
Are thou in love with me?
Your gleaming look I adore
Following me to the nooks
And your care for me
Makes me feel wanted.
When thou light the heavens
By night, remember,
You lighten my life too.
Little jewels that adorn
The dark robe, carry me away,
If you love me so,
To your pastures
To sparkle among you.
Fairy creatures be careful
Let thine mother not know
About our affection.
But she already doubts me
When I stand hours
Gazing at you.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
PAIN
Ananya Priyadarshini
"Open your mouth and lift your tongue up."
Jiten did just as Suman said. Suman placed two little, orange colored pills beneath his tongue.
"What are you doing? You're no doctor! What if those medicines...", Asmit shouted.
"Suman, leave him to his fate and let's leave. Let alone manners, these dumbass guys don't even know of obligation", Preeti said, annoyed with Asmit's rants.
"First-aid, dear fellows. You don't need a medical degree to administer them", Suman took turns to look at Preeti and Asmit as she said.
Ten minutes and Jiten didn't throw up even for once!
"Better?", Suman asked and Jiten nodded.
"Good. Take few sips", Suman offered water. Jiten, who had vomited seven times over the span of an hour before taking those orange pills, didn't puke out the water. Convinced, Suman gave him another pill to swallow and instructed the office peon to switch off the lights of his cubicle. She herself adjusted Jiten's chair so he could rest well and left along with every other staff gathered there.
"The doctor has been sent a call, Madam. Why did you have to...", Manish tried to look extremely concerned.
"That's because it's Mumbai and there's a storm going on outside. No doctor is going to arrive before three hours, at the least. And if you 'patiently' wait for the same, you'll have to shift an unconscious Jiten to hospital. Do you want that?", Suman was calm, yet headstrong.
"If anything goes wrong, then....", It was Vijay's threatening voice.
"Then call the police. Even they ain't going to arrive before three hours", Suman threw a carefree smile and the newspaper towards the boys.
'HEAVY RAINS IN MUMBAI; ALL EMERGENCY SERVICES DISRUPTED DUE TO TRAFFIC JAM'- The headline read.
By lunch hour, Jiten looked like it wasn't him who was rolling on the ground with wincing eyes, holding his head in hands.
"How are you, bro?", Vijay asked.
"Suman has given great efforts to cure your sickness, dude.", Manish told.
"Are you in a state to have lunch or would you take a day off?", Asmit asked.
"No.. no.. I'm totally fine. Those pills worked! I can carry on with the project but only after having lunch", Jiten calmed his concerned colleagues and headed straight to Suman in the cafeteria of the office.
"Hey! Thanks...", He had just begun when Suman cut him in the middle.
"So, fine you're! Good. Do a thing. Visit a doctor after office and get the tests he prescribes, done."
"Yes, I'll. But how did you manage it?"
"I suspect it's migraine. I managed you with my own medicines. I'm a migraine patient since last eight years."
"Oh...", Jiten paused for a while before he said, "sorry for that day. Actually..."
"Ah, you don't have to be."
"But you did so much for me despite..."
"That's because I understand the pain you were going through. And you did what you did that day because you've no idea how my pain felt. It's okay."
"No. It's not. I need to apologise..."
"You need to understand, without really experiencing that there are pains which you've never experienced and neither will you ever experience. But, that doesn't make them less intense. Take care."
Suman was gone, leaving behind a nostalgic Jiten in the cafeteria.
**************************
"So, madam is having a ladies problem!", Jiten and his buddies almost made an announcement as Suman returned from the washroom. The office peon, whom she had asked to fetch her some sanitary napkins and medicines for cramp relief, had broken the news to Jiten and Co. with a victorious smile.
"Madam is having cramps and maybe, mood swings. So madam hasn't done a thing productive since morning", Asmit, who had lost his promotion to Suman recently, took his grudge out. Suman was sick since morning with the early arrival of her menses. Her stomach was churning and backbone felt like it'll soon break into pieces. Her legs were burning, making it difficult for her to go to the medical store herself.
"Wow! Now Madam has a good reason to produce if today's presentation doesn't go well!", Manish mocked.
"What's wrong with these women? Why can't they stay at home or keep their trash with them when they expect to bleed? They'll create a scene and grab some attention", Suman was standing right before Vijay after he'd done speaking.
"Scenes can't be created without ample audience, Vijay. And all thanks to idle minds like you that an issue as pity as a woman getting her periods in the office, caught so many eyes. Looks like all of you've bunked your biology classes back in school."
Meanwhile, the peon handed her to the things she had asked for. Suman opened the package, took out the napkin packet, tore it open and held a pad in hands.
"This is the 'trash' I'd asked the peon to get for me!", Suman was holding the pad right before the men's eyes. "Had enough or you want to see me put this on as well? Get a life just, get a life!", she almost screamed and left as four of them stood there with their mouths open.
That afternoon, her presentation.went great and got her a lot of appreciation, though.
****************
Jiten and all his mates were waiting for Suman at the parking lot.
"Hey, Suman! We are sorry. Actually, you were right. We don't have much idea about that thing and maybe, we shouldn't have spoken mean things that day. Sorry to have humiliated you", They took turns to utter each sentence.
Suman heard them out, thoroughly. She took her helmet off but kept sitting on scooty.
"Firstly, please don't foster the misconception that you 'humiliated' me. It's natural, as natural as flu. I don't get why I should be humiliated. Secondly, that day your ignorance spoke for you more than your male ego. So, be a little empathetic next time onwards. Thirdly, Jiten, do keep some 'trash' with you always. Migraine attacks don't come with a prior notice, unlike periods!", Suman winked and sped away.
The four were still standing, with their mouths wide open.
Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).
Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.
YOUR SUBLIME PRESENCE (TAME ACHHA BOLI)
RUNU MAHANTY
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Your sublime presence
my seasons celebrate,
but I miss you, your quiet company,
a lotus missing its water world.
God, scriptures, and venerations
lose their significance;
I hardly suffer from
any rift in lute walks of life.
Nightmares disappear
from my sleep, my cool
is not encroached upon by rage,
the alluvium has not gone barren.
Your muted presence creates an aura,
love doesn’t ferment, indifference at bay,
ordinary acts look gloriously tinted,
even the dark wears a dazzle.
It gives me an upsurge of joy,
a school child’s at the ringing
of the school’s last bell; my love for you
doesn’t char, rather burnishes my innards.
Even the inert dolls
play in obedience for my joy,
the flowers appear to bloom
for my basket only.
Come dear, step into my boudoir,
let us adorn the night with stars,
let our love, persistent and demanding,
bring smiles, not sighs of regret.
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
A MOTHER'S LAMENT
Latha Prem Sakhya
How can I weep for you
Oh! you cruel beast
Even as you lie life less before me?
I am ashamed I bore you
My womb feels no more sacrosanct
True love is divine, it forgives.
It never envisages murder of the loved.
Oh! Why, why did you do it?
What devil influenced you to such cruelty?
To pour petrol over the one
you adored
To watch her burn ruthlessly.
Didn't you know that she was wedded?
That she had, depending on her children three.
Then, why did you kill her you beast?
The tears I shed is for myself-
An unfortunate mother to bear the brunt
Your monstrous act has bequeathed me.
I don't have Gandhari's heart.
I am glad you are no more
No more need I see you
And curse you day and night
Or see the wrath or hear the curse
Others throw on you for your bestial act.
( A mother's thoughts when her son turns into a murderer killing an innocent woman by stabbing her and lighting her body with petrol. The son later dies succumbing to the burns incurred in the attempt. Something that happened recently in Kerala. And this poem is my response to the incident.)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
I AM THE RAINBOW YOU CAN'T SEE
Sowbhagya Varma
I am a rainbow that you can't see,
Amongst you all, and yet unseen.
When in public,
I become the invisible me.
For the society just hates me!
Some say, I bring luck
But the majority say, I'm “bad luck”
They move away in my presence,
And I feel petrified.
I become the attention grabber!
But then, I never asked for it!
I become the subject of everyone's humour
But then, I never understood why!
Who am I?
I ask myself, and realize
The world 'sees' only two
But I don't belong in none.
Something else,
Something different,
Something… in between...
And so, I'm treated ‘different’,
And so, I'm seen as 'different'!
But why?
Can't you accept us, like we learned to accept ourselves?
Can't you see us as just human beings in this world?
I too have a mind,
That wanders into the world of imaginations.
I too have dreams,
to fulfil in this lifetime.
I too have a purpose,
That needs to be found and fulfilled.
I too deserve love and care,
to feel alive in this callous world.
Filled in me are the colours of a rainbow.
My hues wait eagerly,
To take its stage.
For only if you accept me,
Could I give it some shape.
I am the rainbow, society tries to hide
I am the rainbow, society refuses see
But I am a rainbow, who cannot be bound in shape
For I am a rainbow, who writes in all its hues!
Although I write black on white,
You will see nearly every colour you could ever conceive.
They are the colours of ‘My’ Life
Impatient to spread their light
In every colour between the black and the white!
That could be experienced between birth and death!
Ms. Sowbhagya Varma is a student of All Saints'College Trivandrum pursuing her Bachelor of Arts in English Literature. She loves reading and writing poetry and takes inspiration for her works from her surroundings. She hopes to bring change in the world around through her writing.
NOSTALGIA
Dr. Jinju S.
I walk over a sepia
sea of memories:
Crisp, serrated,
crunching under my step,
Dropping from scrawny boughs
straggling to the sky.
The evening wears a tiara
of flaming gulmohurs,
Trailing behind her a train
of scarlet clouds--
like a bleeding corpse.
Stonewashed sights
and scents of yore,
pelt as if a hailstorm
in a heath,
And clamber over
my languid heart
like a termite hill
smothering a dead log.
Memories that charm
like candlelight wooing
gossamer moths:
Kiss, burn and die.
Soaked to the skin
in the deluge that pours
from trees lacing fingers
against a deepening night,
from sun-bleached stone benches
stained with curries and love,
cobbled pathways that meander
through the heart's dark woods,
All beliefs dissolve into illusions
in one's rear view mirror.
Board this plane at your own risk:
Get airdropped midway
into a minefield of pain
smouldering
in the furnace of Time.
Tread with care,
lest you be blown
to smithereens.
Dr. Jinju S. is an Assistant Professor of English with the Government of Kerala. A PhD holder in English Literature from the English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad, literature has always been her first love. She finds joy and solace in poetry, which she has been dabbling with since childhood. She has been published in an international anthology of women’s writing titled Women like You and Me brought out by ATLA Publishing, a UK-based publishing house. Her poems and short stories have also appeared in literary magazines like The Taj Mahal Review, newspapers like The Hindu and The New Indian Express and been broadcast on All India Radio. Her life is an everyday struggle to juggle teaching, research, reading and writing with the most demanding and yet most rewarding journey of mothering a toddler. She loves reading, writing poetry and short fiction, playing with her son Jizan, deep conversations, travelling to new places and listening to music. Inspired by everyday life and the world around her, writing poetry is for her cathartic as well as a way to reach out to people.
MY GODDESS
Ibraheem Anas Sakaba
With no expectation
comes my expectation.
She's like water;
Running down my heated body.
Her smile drags me
To intoxication.
Her eyes speak
To my heart.
Her voice seduces my soul
to concur to the desires of heart.
Her beauty takes me,
Down the alter.
I vow
to take the vow;
"For better for worse?"
And yes! I do.
She's a flower;
None but a Rose.
How do I express how I feel?
When the sight of her
Keeps me mum.
Trapped in your love,
I'm at your mercy.
Like a rat
In a glue trap.
I would say it to the world,
Sandra is my goddess!
And only thee is worthy
Of my praise.
WHO IS THE GREATEST
Amakwe Chidera Destiny
Sometimes I ask,
Who is the greatest?
Could that be me?
Would it be my neighbour?
Who could it be!
Could it be the rich?
Could it be the poor?
What about the educated?
Or those we tag illiterates.
Alas, none befits.
He is great,
When he has humility
In practice with the sense of reality
On the footpath of divinity
And an example to the whole of humanity.
He put on the shoes of honesty
In high esteem,
He portrays self esteem.
If only we can be determined,
We can all be great!
Amakwe Chidera Destiny attends Command Day Secondary School, Asokoro, Abuja. She is from a family of six. She is a writer, poet and playwright. She aspires to become a lawyer.
VOID
Sruthy S.Menon
I was awaiting
Watching the rains
Gliding ...
my hands through the window panes.
Those crystalline droplets
Spilling...
And my eyes ,
Sparklingly -
Like fireflies
Swaying away !
Tears,
the unspoken words
from the abysmal depths of the ocean.
Unfathomable,
Unseen,
Unheard.
A void in the heart
And you , the only victim
To endure that pain.
SRUTHY. S. MENON is an Assistant Professor of English Literature at Swamy Saswathikanda college, Poothotta , Kerala. She completed her post-graduation in MA English from St.Teresas College ,Ernakulam. Her poems and articles have been published in Deccan Chronicle”. She has also written a few of her poems in anthologies such as “Amaranthine: My Poetic Abode”, a collection of English poems and quotes compiled and edited by Divya Rawat and in an Anthology titled “Nostalgia: Story of Past”, a collection of English poems, stories, quotes compiled by Khushi Verma . Her recent publication is in an anthology compiled by Miss Suman Mishra titled “Crimson, the Genius Poesy". She has also contributed her quotes in the book “1000 Women Quotes “compiled by D.Krishna Prasad.
She is the winner of several literary and non- literary awards. She is also passionate about art and painting as inspired by her mother, the winner of Kerala Lalitha Kala Akademy. Her poetry reveals the strikingly realistic and fictional nature of writing on the themes of love, rejuvenation of life in contrast with death, portraying human emotions as a juxtaposition of lightness and darkness, the use of alliteration on natural elements of nature etc. She is a blogger at Mirakee Writers community. She welcomes readers feedback in Instagram @alluring_poetess .
HEAD BOWED DOWN
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
The tiny little fingers pushing the point of pencils on their notebooks
Their eyes hazy with tears and fear for exams
Mostly unknown of the fact 'why there are exams'
Every possible ways a mother invents
Yet the tiny brains are almost drained out.
The much comfort from the pat of a father
Couldn't soothe the pain of their swollen fingers
And exhausted eyes.
Head has bowed not to revere the Almighty
But the burden of studies at such ripe stage has stooped their heads down .
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her familyVision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
THE DELUSION
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
[I]
I have carried the same morning with me
everyday wearing it like a tie pin,
Leaving home in a hurry to meet
the unsmiling faces of charts and figures.
This is the morning I caught one day
in a plate of silver
glowing in the bright sunshine,
I saw in it a thousand promises.
The morning goes with me everywhere,
As the footsteps of the day grow louder and
the afternoon marches towards evening
my morning still throbs with unexpected possibilities.
As night descends into an unsuspecting city,
my weary mind looks at the events of the day and concludes,
Neither the morning was real nor my humble home
Where I caught that pretentious morning.
[II]
I have fallen in love
With all those tunes
That speak of unsung rhapsodies
of the young at heart.
And I do love those unknown faces
Who cause a swift lightning
With a bright smile
And a twinkle in the eyes.
I am deep in love with those dreams
Who wake me up
And walk with me
To the end of the day.
And I am wedded to illusions that hold my hand
In an intimate yet vanishing touch
Reminding me of the passing shadows
from a speeding train.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
Critic's Corner
A CRITICAL LOOK AT PROF. GEETHA NAIR’S BOOK of POEMS - ‘SHORED FRAGMENTS’:
Prabhanjan K. Mishra.
To introduce the poems and the poet persona in general, one feels, one word ‘sudden’ can be the defining tone of the book. The poems, almost each of them, are unexpected scene-stealers. The poet persona has rendered her work in a youthful voice, transforming her experiences - lived, learnt, heard, and observed - into a poetic vista. The voice is daring, clear, and lively. It keeps shuttling between cerebral and mundane spaces with a trapeze artiste’s ease, and in some poems between the spiritual and the earthy. In ‘OWL’ and ‘STRANGE SEASHORE’ she invents a world of her own choice, metaphoric and with a touch of irony. The lines in OWL are relevant… “Were you born this way/ Or did stripped trees/ And dread breeze/ Turn your night to painful day… (?)” In ‘STRANGE SEASHORE’ the lines… “Silence./ The sea waits on the crest/ Of an unbroken wave” are memorable and symbolic. On the other hand in ‘A SCHOOLBOY SPEAKS’ and ‘TRAINS’ she returns to realism but holds her readers spellbound by her crafts(wo)manship. In ‘A SCHOOLBOY SPEAKS’, that is about the devastating flood in Kerala, last August, she reports –“…When our house caved in/ I was outdoors, running after Bruno….He escaped, though/… They haven’t found my body as yet.” and in ‘TRAINS’ her lines go magically wide-eyed like a child’s… “And then, the other black creature/ Belching smoke/ Who rattled us through the night/ As I lay, as I lay on the wide berth/ Sleepless; clanks, swung lanterns,/ A scene from Crucifixion….”
The voice is new, an erudite tongue, never tongue-tied, and very little firework. The reader lives vicariously what the poet persona has lived through in her poems. She appears to shape her worldview in her own terms and as aptly stated by her mentor T.P. Srinivasan in the book’s blurb, “..For her all emotions are legitimate…” In many of her poems, as I will quote select lines from them before the readers in the following paragraphs, she speaks of an inner world and bares an interactive mind in constant conflict with herself. She seems to be in ongoing friction with her own demons.
It wouldn’t be out of place or rude to say that the poet has her share of clay feet like any literary mortal. In many a poem her voice falters and the fault lines are visible. She is skipping something - could be inadvertent slips - the poet hardly uses symbols, motifs, myths, and legends of her soil. While writing in a foreign tongue, she forgets her nativity, her local flora and fauna, her land’s pickles and recipe, and her people’s poverty and misery. She also skips her country’s multi-faith tapestry – except a few references in ‘TRAIN’ and “MY KITCHEN’. In these poems scanty references are noticed to Kerala’s landscape and recipe; also a veiled allusion to blue Lord Krishna’s sixteen thousand strong female fan following and his eight married consorts are hinted in ‘EXAMINATION’ and ‘SUPREME COMMANDER’.
From here I go to discussing select poems that fascinate me and hold me spellbound and a few that behave like her Judas, apparently endearing to her but to an extent serve as her Achilles Heel.
‘I WAS LULLABIED WITH YOU’, a poem wrote as preface, strums heart’s strings delicately, a cute tribute to her parents, ‘her gifted cradle’ and to poetry, ‘her muse’. She writes endearingly “And now when the heart is weary and the lines are drawn/ You have come back as if you were never gone/ Touch me/ bless me.” And to her muse that stood by her since childhood she writes, “I tripped in trochee,/ Spoke in simile,/ Cried in rhyme”, and pays her highest tribute “…First love. Last love./ Poetry.”
‘MUSE-INGS’, in my view, pitches a few most daring emotions, “No gigolo/ to summon when one aches” and exhibits the intense inner conflict, “To rape in wine/ And cast out next morn:// The muse will shut the door on you/ And grant you blank sheets to rue”. The poem in a complex game serves three fundamentals of an interactive mind – desire, guilt, and the sublime.
In “HIS HOLINESS”, the spirit and flesh, the myth and solidity of present time terra firma intermingle into a whorl, and confront one another as well. The poem is a microcosm of inner struggle. The poem deals holiness with a rationalist’s casualness, touching disdain, “The unseen guest at every meal?/ The unseen fella under the bed?” The two question marks speak volumes. The first line underscores God as the provider and the icon-elect for the diners’ thanksgiving, and He is hailed but with a pinch of salt. The other line blames God as the guilt factor, the unwanted moralizer, or a grumbler in a couple’s most intimate moments, act of their innocent lovemaking. And His holy logic is questioned uncharitably in the poem by addressing him casually as “Fella”, bringing down the Holy Ghost to the level of a grumpy grumbler. Even in the poem’s world of dichotomy, the holy act of Magdalene, wiping Christ’s wet feet with her tresses, is considered not so holy, but ordinary, “…I would do that for you;/ To those feet clad in quo vadis……Only, my hair is short,/ And will not grow.”
‘NOT YET, NOT YET’ is a different cup of tea, may be a teacup hiding brimming and frothing wine. She uses the confession of Saint Augustine “Make me continent and chaste, my Lord; but not yet, not yet.” This may fit as the most fundamental template that moulds humans; everyone wishes to touch the sublime heights by discipline but not yet, not yet. The poem sings “…torrid poets ejaculate on A4 sheets/ And earnest critics split the cumin seed/ ….. Do I see you smile a benign smile?/ Do I hear an indulgent murmur/ ‘Not yet, not yet…’?” Even the saint of continence keeps waiting for another time, perhaps more propitious, as ‘excess and abandon’, and ‘disorder’ seem to be fond to the heart now and here, and they rule the roost. The poem projects poets and critics as the most confused lots and never ready to rise above their personal conceit… and verbosity…at least “not yet.. not yet”.
‘ROSEAPPLES’, one of the collection’s bests, stands tall for its metaphors, irony, and double-edge. The poem bares the unholy truth of the so-called holy institutions, the double standard of celibate life, the duplicity of monks and nuns, irrespective of faith or creed. It exposes the unnatural muzzling of the God’s best gifts, the innocent joys of life, by man-made mandates. “In our blossoming days/ When wimples withered us with a look/…. How awe surrounded them/ Our beloved nuns/…Those syrupy tales we gulped down/ of sacrifices, virtue rewarded, of pie-in-the-sky/……. The strange men they warned us about/ With their secret skewering weapons,/ Their stairs of sex never climbed/ Yet spoken delicately about/ Touching dish exotic with a squeamish finger…”, the metaphoric lines reveal the human’s indefatigable desire, even the brides of God are not being immune to the nature’s diktat.
Then the poems brings forth its main course “Their hair so strictly coiffed, never kissed;/ All they had missed/ We waited for!/ And felt an enormous pity/ As we ripened into maturity.” The virgins, or the nuns of the Holy See are also humans with normal desires but are restrained by artificial discipline and fear. Their free thought and feelings find the release in a skewed negative way through scaring their pupils against sex but to no effect.
In a devastating irony the poem brings home its hardcore dessert “Our roseapple trees blossomed bright/….. What of theirs? Did their icy roseapple trees/ Stretching arms to heaven/ With promise of fruit to come/ Ever bloom?” The lines are revealing, poignant, and need no further elaboration.
‘A FABLE OF OUR TIMES’, on the face, is an animal story, a fable spoken in a poem-format, but at its core lies another version of ‘The beauty and the beast’, but with an uncanny twist; and makes it different from the benchmark fairytale. The difference is a stamp of masochism, a ‘fatal attraction’; the lines - “His eyes are gold/ His teeth are fierce/ And he is wild” – are redolent with the hurt that is welcomed, cherished, and idolized by the protagonist. The poem climbs step by step, from adoration to a sort of Devil worship, the delicate beauty enjoying when, in fact, she is abused, savaged, and mauled by the beast, “Bastet ! loving goddess/ Make me learn/ That his bite/ Is better than his bark/ Before I am torn to pieces/ And flung into the dark”; a violent besottedness but not unnatural, nor also rare.
‘MY KITCHEN’, another lovely poem, goes back and forth between facts and fantasy, between food-feast spread in the real-time kitchen and a feast across the luscious vista of the body boasting of more delicious cuisine. The kitchen is well-stocked, though indicating scanty use, visible from cobwebs and the unwashed stains of age. So invitation is to sample from one or the other; either from the pell-mell dishes in the kitchen’s pots and pans; or the body’s sprawl across carrot nose, onion eyes, and buttery skin.
To me, treating body as a kitchen is a violent cover up for a rebellious mind, the rebel in any thinking woman in a carnivorous society that treats a woman like another dish to quench its more intense hunger. Metaphors, symbolic as well as direct, abound and a whole history of feminist rebellion is spoken in a short manifesto.
‘CONJUGAL HARMONY’ is another unique little poem, beautiful and intriguing, speaks volumes on the theory of ‘love’, in an unusual story than ordinarily met with. A challenge to the grey matter, let’s read it together –
“I worry about your meal time in real earnest;
Upset at your fatigue, I implore rest;
Your medicine I say, have you had it today?
A staid old couple.
We speculate on old age homes for imminent use;
On who will die first – you try a ruse –
Will you manage my legacy if I go first?
And relish the awaited, anguished burst.
Reading these lines who would think it true
That not once have I made your bed
Let alone slept in it with you.”
‘Love’ is not all about getting into bed together, but more. It is more about caring and concern, besides staying physically connected. ‘Love’ transcends age, beauty, sickness, and home; and gets deeply involved even in a sweet ruse played by beloveds on one another. The pretences and cruel jokes for heck of exciting the beloved, or pulling her leg, is an adorable game, as spoken in lines, “Will you manage my legacy if I go first?/And relish the awaited anguished burst.” It is perhaps, the book’s only love poem and this poet is capable of carrying this ‘much used and abused emotion in poetry and life’ without using the normal tools like lips, tears, longing, panting, sighs, breasts, and loins; so restraint, yet so involved and intense.
The last three lines speak of an irony, self-inflicted. The reflection is bent inwards, and the protagonist expresses a doubt if not going to bed with the beloved could be a questionable position in the sacred emotion called ‘love’.
Let’s look at the poet’s weaknesses and the poems where she could have soared to higher altitudes. The poems, such as ‘THE WASTE LAND – AN INTRODUCTION’, ‘STARSCRIPT’, ‘TO SHAHARIYAR’, ‘ICARUS’, and ‘COURIERED’ seem obscure and lost in word-forests, the poet’s fragments of creation drifting in search of a shore. The poems have firework, rather in a higher ratio than in her lucid poems. They lisp with strong and strange metaphors that do not dovetail effectively to stand the poet’s very strong voice in other poems, quite a few of which have been discussed in some details in the earlier paragraphs and others left to the reader’s personal enjoyment, carte blanche.
"SHORED FRAGMENTS ", is a collection of poems by Geetha Nair G. published by EXPRESS PUBLISHERS, Palghat, in January, 2019.
One of the poems in this anthology, "A Schoolboy Speaks," won her an award at the Eighth Rabindranath Tagore International Poetry Competition, 2019, conducted by POIESIS.
Her poems have been anthologised in collections like BALLADS AND BARDS ,STARS SKY AND POIESIS, THE CURRENT and in online publications like Our Poetry Archive.
Her next anthology of poems, "Dragonflies Draw Flame" is on the anvil.
Excerpts from reviews:
1.Each poem seems to bring out more poems from within it, as shoots from the node of a leaf of the Plant of Life. Her poems are a rare breed with confident felicity of expression and formidable regenerative power.
-Gopikrishnan Kottoor: Poet, Dramatist, Novelist.
2. All that she has learned,read, taught, remain as shored fragments within thoughts, a fertile base for the creative process. Her love for the language pulses through each line, in the way she plays with words, their sounds, echoes, ethos.
Many poems revolve around the home, the kitchen, the inner dilemmas in marriage, being a poet and the mother of a poet, etc. But again, none of them are what you expect, they twist and turn and take you on unexpected journeys, which is the signature of this feisty poet who infuses a love of life, literature, the whole grandeur of the process of living, loving, nurturing.
-Sulochana Ram Mohan, Creative writer and critic.
3. The 36 fragments of life she shares are a microcosm of the world she has observed with sympathy and painted in delicate and subdued colours... .Geetha compares her poetic efforts to lifting of pebbles by dragonflies, but it looks more like a magician juggling diverse objects to mesmerise us.
- T. P. Srinivasan, IFS (retd)
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