Literary Vibes - Edition XXVI
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the Twenty Sixth edition of LiteraryVibes.
We have come to you again with many more excellent poems and stories in the present edition. Hope you will enjoy them.
This time we miss the poem and short story of Prof. Geetha Nair who has been a constant fixture in all our editions right from the early days of LiteraryVibes. Our heart goes out to her on the tragic loss of her beloved husband Mr. H. Muralidharan earlier this week. A great human being, a friend to all, an epitome of joviality, he was a brave soldier who fought an adverse health condition valiantly till the last day with an incredible wil power. We pray to God to rest his soul in peace and to give strength to the bereaved family to bear the loss.
Wish you a 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
BEAUTIFUL CREATURES
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Lush green, twinkle-eyed;
an indifferent sun
caught in unprepared drops on leaves
before the latter do a Newtonian fall.
They have no roofs over their heads;
are separated from peers by fields,
roads, rivers, and houses.
They shiver in freezing cold nights,
except of course, some nights
a late slice of the moon
comes calling like consolation
along with mousy clouds
carrying a dim lantern,
their lame excuse
for long hours of absence,
as bad as a tease.
It however packs more frost
into their freezing veins,
into their miserable foliage
until the new-sun breaks loose in the east.
Blinking, they look at one another,
hanker after holding hands
of beloveds, whispering into their ears
sweet nothings in the festive morning.
They badly miss nuzzling noses,
locking lips; pushing and rubbing against
mates; their bane - they are rooted.
Frolicking grass hoppers make jealous;
their twiggy branches itch with pleasure
when hardworking ants
briskly hasten about their blossoms.
But shivers of fear pass from one
to others, looking down
at a shirtless man
moving around with an axe
cradled in his scrawny arms.
Sighs of relief
blow from branch to branch,
from leaf to leaf,
when the fateful axe-wielder
chooses its target,
a decrepit and dying old timer.
Hacked off, its only live branch
is kept aside,
perhaps, to be planted later.
The rest gets
axed and chopped,
ready to feed the family stove.
Their eyes well up with happy tears
to see the dry splinters feeding
the wood-cutter’s kitchen stove
where his wife is cooking
the family’s frugal meal
to fill her own shrunken belly,
her scrawny man’s as well,
and their two skinny kids’.
Now, the new-sun seems a bore;
the sporadic nights’ lantern-moon,
a distant memory, as well as
the threadbare winter frost
as whispers merrily buzz around -
the sole live branch of the aged relative
is being planted in woodcutter’s yard.
They bless the scrawny man’s family.
UNANCHORED ANGELS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Their seasons are dreary:
considered inauspicious they languish.
Neglect nurtures the drooping shrubs
with unkempt topiary, and shriveling figs.
Good that the vampires are at bay
away from figs and honeysuckles.
Drifting gold-diggers,
the birds and bees,
in search of nectar, nests, and hives,
search their nooks and dents,
barks and pits, or the habitat
of the softest downy moss;
bring the tadpoles of their dreams,
that lose way into puddles,
the simmering melt in eager ditches;
but life refuses to stir,
joy of playing with live toys
recede to a distant dreams.
Among maggots, fungi, and parasites
the orchids and lotuses grow. Grow
the benign rose and excited hibiscus.
They bother not for thorns or the underbelly;
sing lullabies for the dandelions
that fly away leaving empty pods behind
for unknown fulfillments
like soft murmur of the leaf-fall.
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
AN ARJUNA ON HIS REMORSEFUL CHARIOT (ABASADARA RATHARE JANE ARJUNA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
With welled up eyes
remorseful Arjuna
on his battle chariot
fails to understand
the bloodthirsty red flag
fluttering on his enemy chariot.
Killer instinct kills,
arrows and swords are excuses,
blood is its spurring element;
why then the killer arrows
hesitate to leave his bow?
May be they don’t discern
a foe from a family
both bleed the same blood.
He sees himself
as the prince of absurd,
wearing a crown of vainglory,
soaked in blood
of his family turned foe.
He looks at the battle field
and his deluded self
from perspectives of a dead eye
staring from a chopped off head
lying on the battle ground -
“Neither the dumb sword,
nor the unfeeling arrows
suffer from any guilt;
but in guilt’s soil
repentance strikes deep roots;
no logic, no excuses ever redeem it.
(He commiserates with wife -)
O’ exalted Drupad princess,
why do you ask me
for your enemy’s blood
as the cost of your love?
Why should we settle
our ego with blood?
Would you want
your legendary beauty
go down in history,
dipped in blood?”
HAULED OVER THE BED OF SELF-PITY (NIJA DANSHANARA SHEJARE NIJE)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A stagnated living
makes life unbearable.
It ought to be exciting.
Last night I underwent
the fire-rite
that burnished my essence
in auburn-gold.
Why does then
the experience rankle
with poisonous vibes,
with tasteless vulgarity?
Nothing has changed,
am I not back to square one,
hauling myself again
over my bed of self-pity?
One ought to try adventures –
I prowl alone in dark nights,
knife in hand,
hugging deserted corners;
chase the scurrying leaves
shed in autumn
along windy streets
on sunny days
by the side of my shadow.
Nothing worked.
The boredom killed
hunger and thirst.
Like a decapitated head
I drift desultorily
without a purpose,
without a perspective.
Life doesn’t seem worth living.
At the end nothing would survive,
neither I nor my quintessence,
I may leave a memory
of my life’s ordinary
rite of passage
at the best.
Let me try other possibilities –
enquire with earlier strugglers,
the seekers of the El Dorado.
Like them I gather
the wins and loss in life,
leave those tidbits for posterity
untouched.
May they be
tasteless, vulnerable witnesses!
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)”
AUTUMN ROMANCE: A SWEET AND SOUR FEAST (SHARAT RUTU)
Hrushikesh Mallick
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
In a white sari, a basket
of white gardenias in hand,
she manifests in our middle;
startles us with gasps,
our tears and sultry sweat’s sting
vaporize with her balmy touch.
But across the clear sky
the rainless white puffs float away
indifferently, leaving the earth dry,
reminiscent of the past drought years
that had dashed dreams and hopes.
An incremental peeking moon,
blocked by feathery cotton clouds,
smarts like a scabs with old hurtful memory.
She spreads her motley sari-pallu
like joyous vibes with a sad undertone.
Paddy matures in fields, the farmer
plans for a bountiful harvest.
The weeds rampant in recent rains,
happily devour the boundary fences.
Mud settles in rivers, the water is back
to its pristine sparkle. For no specific reason,
the heart feels lonely, missing the beloved
and the cherished hours in her company.
Long white-stalked feathery Kasatandi,
the bride of Autumn, blushes red
in the setting sun; how different is she
from the hand of an assassin
that never gets rid of blood.
Where have gone the nest-returning birds?
Shiuli in bloom wafts her sweetness around,
palmsful of it brought home by my little girl
on a torn page from her notebook, exude
a lingering fragrance. The balmy weather
has spurred the underworld bandicoots
to unleash their arsenal of terror.
In autumn’s sunny weather,
a circus is visiting our village;
its floodlights make a halo over our heads
nestling in the rising smoke from kitchens.
Poor farmers wash-clean their worn Sunday best
and get ready for visiting the circus.
Let’s hope, the blessed season would add years
to life of the great humanist Mother Teresa,
bring twinkles to eyes of the living legend Mandela,
and soothe all with its honey-touch year after year.
Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)
THE EARTHQUAKE
Bibhu Padhi
The morning it arrived,
we looked at our costly watches
and wondered at the rare miscalculation
of the town’s efficient astrologer.
We traced its humble origin
to acts of murder committed
a long time ago.
We said: “There’re still
other worlds, other spaces,
where human beings can find
sufficient room for all the many sins
of the body and the soul.”
We felt the subtle vibration
of God’s anger at our
poor little doorsteps.
In a fit of human rage, we promised
to build houses that will keep their cool
during unsympathetic weather.
We came out of our homes
and saw the planets giving birth
to other, larger planets.
We said: “After this invasion of faith,
mankind shall learn to stand
erect and upright again;
once again God shall ascend
our badly-lit altars
and allow us to pray.”
That evening, while we were trying
to gather up our shattered faith,
we saw the stars and the moon in tears.
We sat down and prayed
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi have published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
INSIGHT
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
The bark on the Oak
looks smooth from far.
On getting close,
it’s far from smooth.
Coarser than
a crocodile’s coat,
with jagged fissures
and rugged edges.
Like my friend:
Behind the mild mien,
presented to people,
I can see the
flights of temper
and bouts of sulking.
Looking closer, I was grabbed
by the stick insect lodged
on the tree, in perfect camouflage.
I know this terrain really well,
it whispers to me:
Better than myself.
As well as I know my friend,
I mused.
The disbelief on my face,
made it to go on:
I often mistake my own joints
and limbs for
it’s ridges and furrows.
Left me wondering,
whose moods are these really,
which I see in my friend?
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England, a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London. Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya welcomes readers' feedback on his article at ajayaup@aol.com
COW ITCH TO PORT ST JOHN’S CREEPER
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
Hummingbird vine flowers
True to its name
Pink trumpet vine.
Battered by heavy down pour
lashed by “cats and dogs”shower
Ignroed during continuous rain
Ugly it became
And bore “cow itch”the name
Felt pity
What a condition
Of a “living”.
So critical !
Needs PCCU(Photo and Camera Care Unit)
Specialiased management.
In recovery mode.
Clicked and shared to “PicsArt”
Cropped the ugliness,
Applied compatible back ground shade
To inject fresh life.
Adjusted brightness, contrast,
Clarity, saturation and hue.
And the grasping “living”
Well resuscitated,well invigoured
Well freshened up
In a new attire.
Forwarded to Ajaya,
The invincible,
Cerified “Beautiful”.
And now,
“Port St.John's Creeper”
The Pink Trumpet Vine, Podranea ricasoliana,
Port St.John's Creeper,
Hummingbird vine flowers
And Cow itch vine
All names of the cutie.
Bloom in fall,
with trumpet-shaped flowers
And with flare.
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
IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN PERFORMS A MAGIC TRICK (AND POOH GETS TO CHOOSE)
Sreekumar K
An Adaptation of the Pooh Stories of A A Milne
Inspired By The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff
It so happened that it was Thursday which followed Wednesday that week. Not that it had happened never before, but just that it disappointed Eeyore who wanted his expectations to go wrong. Pooh always cited Thursday (along with all the other days of the week) as the reason for doing THINGS.
However, doing Nothing was a thing that Pooh always liked, but he needed Christopher Robin to help him do it. Soon Pooh was on his way to see Christopher Robin. Piglet accompanied Pooh as always. No, not as always, for there were times when Pooh had accompanied Piglet. (However Pooh said (as always) it was the same thing.)
Curiously, this time each of them was accompanying the other. That meant both of them wanted to see Christopher Robin.
“But it could also mean none of us wants to see him, which is not true. If we didn’t want to see him we wouldn’t be going to see him, which we are. Think, think, think”, Pooh said to himself.
So Pooh thought and thought and thought and got a little confused. Piglet sympathised and sympathised and sympathised with Pooh, but didn’t say anything.
By the time they saw Christopher Robin, Pooh had come to the conclusion that it didn’t really matter since it was a pity to go back without seeing Christopher Robin, both of them having come so far.
Moreover, they had very little choice now.
Christopher Robin, in fact, had already greeted them. Eeyore and Rabbit were also with him.
They looked like they just had a sumptuous meal.
“Christopher Robin, I am glad to see you. But I am also thinking about this problem”, Pooh said.
“Which one?” Christopher Robin asked.
“The question whether it was Piglet accompanying me or I accompanying Piglet. For that, first I have to find out who wanted to see you more”, Pooh said.
“It depends on who wanted to see him less”, said Eeyore.
Rabbit put his chin up, closed his eyes, cleared his throat and began in his usual voice, “O.K., now there, since Piglet is smaller than Pooh it may seem Piglet wanted to see you less. But that cannot be, since both of them have travelled the same distance to come and see you. If Piglet wanted to see you less, he would have come only half the way or a quarter of it, since he is only a quarter of Pooh in size. But that didn’t happen. The proof: Both of them are now at the same distance from Christopher Robin.”
“Forget it my friends, because I wanted to see both of you more than you did”, Christopher Robin said.
“You can say that for me too”, said Eeyore.
“And now the problem is solved. It is funny how we solve problems before they gobble us up”, said Rabbit, relieved that he doesn’t have to think anymore.
Piglet looked behind him and made sure there were no problems coming after him to gobble him up.
“ It isn’t like that. We couldn’t solve the problem earlier since the problem wasn’t very particular about getting solved. We just waited till it got tired and had no other choice but to bow out. And now talking of choices, I would like to offer Pooh and Piglet something by way of choice. Eeyore and Rabbit already had their share”, said Christopher Robin.
“Do you mean, in plain words, that you choose to offer us something?” Pooh asked.
“No. I would like to offer you something if you know how to choose”, said Christopher Robin.
“ Of course I know how to choose. You just say ‘Minnie meeny mainee moa’ and keep touching the items,” said Pooh.
“Or ‘Inky pinky pomky, father had a donkey…..’. But I won’t insist on that”, said Eeyore.
“That way of choosing again depends on where you start, or better, choose to start”, said Rabbit.
“Which again is the same thing”, added Pooh.
“But I want you to choose, just choose.”
“Among what, or, as the case may be, between what?” asked Pooh.
“Come into my room one after the other and see if choosing is a problem for you ”, said Christopher Robin.
Piglet felt that it would be better to let Pooh deal with problems that gobbled up smaller animals.
“You go in first or I can go in later”, said Piglet.
“Which again is the same thing”, said Pooh.
Finally Piglet gave Pooh the first turn. Rabbit and Eeyore offered to give Piglet company for some time. Christopher Robin took Pooh inside and closed the door.
Inside the room there was a pot on each of the two tables set apart from each other.
On one Pooh could read ‘honey’ and on the other something which Pooh managed to read as ‘marmalade’.
“Now Pooh, do you like honey or marmalade?” asked Christopher Robin.
“It depends. If I have only honey I don’t like marmalade. If there is only marmalade I like marmalade. And if you have both honey and marmalade, I like only honey. That way, I like honey two out of three times, which is to say I like honey more than I like marmalade.” Said Pooh.
“But your cousin Paddington Bear likes only marmalade”, said Christopher Robin.
“Maybe he never had any honey. Is there honey in Peru . But I doubt it.” Pooh said.
“O.K., Pooh, here is the deal. Which of these will you choose?”
“Of course, if you give me a choice between honey and marmalade, and if I am not Paddington Bear,
which I am not, I will choose honey”, Pooh said.
“Are you sure?”
“Almost.”
“Do you want to change your mind now?”
“The fact is, Christopher Robin, I don’t want my mind to change now.”
“O.K. now you make your choice and it is all yours.”
“But what is the magic?”
“You will see it when you have chosen.”
Pooh didn’t waste a minute. He moved towards the table on which the honey pot was sitting. He got up on the table and hugged the pot. Christopher Robin was behind him. Hugging the pot, he tried to see if it was the right pot. The marking was on the other side and however he tried, he couldn’t see it. He glanced at the pot on the other table.
The other pot had strangely disappeared! There was no trace of it anywhere.
Now there was only one way of checking whether what he got was really the honey pot. He got down and put the pot on the floor and moved back and looked at it.
He looked at the table where the marmalade pot was and then again looked at the pot on the floor.
“Oh! This is wonderful, Christopher Robin”, Pooh couldn’t hide his surprise.
“What?” asked Christopher Robin. He had been waiting for a response.
“You have spelt ‘honey’ correctly”, said Pooh.
“But, Pooh, I mean it is amazing that the other pot has disappeared”, commented Piglet.
“Oh! I didn’t think about that since it wasn’t the one I chose anyway. And now that you mention it, I feel happy I hadn’t chosen that.” Pooh felt relieved.
“And I am happy you are the one who chose. I like marmalade. I would have chosen marmalade and it would have been the one that disappeared.” Piglet also felt relieved.
“That means when your turn comes Piglet, you too choose honey. I don’t think these pots are that big anyway”, Pooh said. It always puzzled Pooh how the more he ate the less there was.
“But how can a pot just disappear?” Piglet still couldn’t believe it.
“But it didn’t”, said Christopher Robin handing the very same pot to Piglet.
“I had just saved it for you.” Christopher Robin had made it appear from somewhere.
“Wow! Where did it come from now?” wondered Piglet.
“It is not that it came from somewhere. It didn’t disappear like it had done last time”, said Christopher Robin.
“But I didn’t even choose”, said Piglet. He was still trying to figure things out.
“But you had already expressed your preference”, said Christopher Robin.
“Which is the same thing”, added Pooh.
“O, Pooh, you always have the last word”, said Christopher Robin.
Pooh refused to say anything afterwards and Christopher Robin thought that Pooh was doing it just to prove him wrong.
However on the way back, as they walked down the hill, and Christopher Robin could be seen waving at them still from behind the bushes on the hill, Pooh had his last word.
“Tell me Piglet. Just how did the pot disappear?”
Now it was Piglet’s turn to say nothing. He was wondering where much of the honey in Pooh’s pot had disappeared.
(Alan Alexander Milne was an English author, best known for his books about the teddy bear Winnie-the-Pooh and for various poems. Milne was a noted writer, primarily as a playwright, before the huge success of Pooh overshadowed all his previous work.
The Tao of Pooh is a book written by Benjamin Hoff. The book is intended as an introduction to the Eastern belief system of Taoism for Westerners. It allegorically employs the fictional characters of A. A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh stories to explain the basic principles of philosophical Taoism. This book was followed by The Te of Piglet.}
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.
I AM, WHAT I AM
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
I am little different
As I am destined
To flow against the current
I just follow my instincts
And in the process
I have
Made many enemies.
I can’t really help
As it is more difficult
To cheat myself.
I don’t find reasons to do
I just do
What comes to me
As the divine ordain.
It is not about feeling good
Or anything about
My ego boosting,
It is like flowers in the garden,
Somewhat, as natural as
The sunset and the sunrise,
Or, little streams
In the rainy season
Flowing down aimlessly,
Unplanned and without any destination
Enjoying every moment of life.
I didn’t choose
To be like this
But, it has become my habit
To follow my heart
Giving no heed to the mind.
They say, I have suffered
Because of my idiosyncrasies
But, is it necessary to explain
How much I am in peace.
I am happy to be unique
Exactly the way I am
Supposed to be,
No matter what anybody thinks.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
SALVATION
Dilip Mahapatra
Sentenced to solitude
I merge myself in you
the master mariner
and you envelop me
and absorb me in you
and I know it's after all
tested waters
known territory
that is engraved in my memory
and I don't need a compass
nor a chart to mark my position
from time to time
and safely sailing within you
one day surely I will find myself.
I rest for a while
on the uncertain shores
and look back to count the footprints
that I left behind inadvertently
on the sands of time
but before I could arrive at a figure
they get obliterated
by one sudden sweep of
an unexpected wave
of consciousness
leaving in the wake a complete chasm
an unfathomable black hole.
I open my haversack
and take out my half finished bottle
of wine
and pour it over the receding wave
and throw few bread crumbs for the fish
soaked in few drops of blood
from my veins
in an act of propitiation
and cascade myself
into the opening arms of the eternal sea
taking with me the hook
line and sinker
all of it in one go
never to be caught again
and then I see no sea
no ship
not even you at the helm
and surely there is
no need
to triangulate and fix my location
and find out who I may be
and where I could be.
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.
INJUSTICE
Latha Prem Sakhya
Misunderstood, hounded and hunted,
The Goddess I believed and worshipped-
Turned traitor by punishing an ardent devotee,
Frightened of Poseidon who ravished me.
The golden hair I cherished turned to creepy crawlies,
Crowning my head, making me hideous,
My beautiful eyes benign, accursed,
To turn a human to stone with a single glance.
I, a living terror, to all who came near me.
Bemoaning the injustice inflicted
Even as a neophyte to goddess Athena.
Redemption I yearned from this suffering undeserved.
The final absolution by Perseus the great
Released me from this life grotesque
As my snaky head rolled on the ground
And the birth of Pegasus my glorious progeny.
The source of imagination, to poetic muse
Releasing the fountain Hippocrene.
And my snake crowned head, a talisman,
A charm, to protect warriors from any evil eye.
(On Medusa, a much maligned beauty in Greek who was a neophyte in Godesss Athena’s temple)
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 CAN FLOWER..
Dr. Molly Joseph M
I can flower in colour
braving the barren,
the waste and withered
heap around me..
I look beyond the
waters that circumvent
yonder palm fringed green belt,
there is the clear sky beckoning..
why weep over the fragments,
of dreams shattered,
of bondings lost,
or chances missed..
we fritter our short life
crestfallen..
walling in, walling out...
all a passing phase,
inthe wink of an eye
it flits..
let us colour the
blanks like the kid avid
with his picture book..
After all, isn't it worth a try
to lend life, colour
to a fleeting present
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
THE QUARRY
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
A little way is quarry
Where men toil, nought worry
From dawn till dusk,
For it’s their task.
By the hill so gawky
Is a pool full, much murky.
‘It was a ditch’, they say
‘Till rains filled it last May’
In it swim little fishes
Seldom used as a dish.
No one knows how they got there,
Indeed it’s something queer.
For herons, it’s their haunt
And crows loiter around,
Tired men refresh in it,
Stray dogs jump and hit.
Often a cry can be heard,
One that warns all the crowd.
Then there will be a scurry
As everyone for shelter hurry.
No men are seen around
Nor crows that are abound
Herons are quick to flee,
Dogs scamper with a plea.
Anxious moments pass slow,
As everyone awaits the blow.
Soon the dynamite will burst
Rocks, splinters fly past .
When all is at peace
Workmen go back to their piece
And the rest for their loll
Till heard is another yell.
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.
HIM
Ananya Priyadarshini
"Why did you come so late ma'am?",
I was taken aback by the tea seller's strange behavior. This was the same guy who'd welcome me with the warmest and the brightest smile whenever I go to his shop.
"To drink tea, of course. That's why
I come here every night",
He cut me in the middle.
"The nights are no more usual, ma'am. Haven't you heard of the psycho killer?", So this was the point the poor guy was trying to make!
Over past two nights, there had been three murders in the locality. They were destitutes, the homeless or the ones sleeping on footpaths. The killer simply used to slit their throats without leaving behind any trace for the police. People got alert but afraid at the same time. WhatsApp messages stating not to step out after eleven in the night, keep doors and windows closed were already circulating.
'Don't tell me you've been to that tea shop again this late in the night!', my roommate's text popped on my phone screen.
'Some things are to be taken seriously, man!', next text arrived, without waiting for my reply.
I giggled. Tea seller handed me over a tea. It was half past ten.
"God knows who's this demon killing innocent people!", He muttered to himself.
"He isn't necessarily a demon. He could be God too!", This was a stranger's voice. I have been coming to this particular tea shop at this particular hour for last two years and almost knew all faces here. But this guy was new.
"Which God goes around killing people!", I almost laughed. The person looked half-offended but soon drew a smile across his lips.
"He's killing the destitutes, the homeless. Maybe, he just wants to set them free from their pathetic life!", the stranger had by now lit a cigarette.
"Don't talk rubbish, okay! It's the God who's given us this life and also the same God who has the supreme right to put an end to it. Nobody has got the right to decide for him!", The tea seller almost shouted at him!
"Yes, and it's the same God who has made some people to live in palaces and others on streets..."
The stranger was again cut in the middle.
"Who told you that the people living on streets aren't happy or that they hate their lives or want to die?", Tea seller didn't look like to be in a mood to keep quiet.
"See, don't talk like you know it all. I'm a destitute. I'd found myself on the streets ever since my senses began working. I'd struggled, didn't quit. I was a brilliant student. Pulling trolleys in the day and studying at night, I still scored way better than the rich kids going to tuitions with high fees. I wanted to be something big. I prepared and appeared for UPSC. I cleared my prelims and mains. But couldn't appear for the Viva-voce."
"Why?", I asked. He looked at me, obliged that I was hearing him out so thoroughly.
"I used to sleep on the verendah of a market complex. I read there and kept my little belongings there. Everyone was good, nobody had a problem with my stay over there. They were kind of liberal and helpful too, who'd help me financially at times. The day I cleared my mains, all the shopkeepers were celebrating and encouraging me for the Viva. But the next day, I was in jail accused of theft in one of the shops. Nobody spoke for me, no lawyer took up my case- for I had nothing to offer them except for the assurance that once I become a collector, I'll pay their fees. But why would anyone invest their faith on a bastard like me? I was jailed for three months. I missed the Viva voce. And for the criminal records, could never appear for any exam again", both me and the tea seller were listening to him.
"Sorry, brother that's sad...." This time the tea seller was cut in the middle.
"You know what's sadder? I'd never stolen anything. The shopkeeper who filed the case against me did it just out of jealousy that his son couldn't clear the exams. An affluent man's jealousy can bring down an UPSC aspirant to a bastard bus driver in no time!"
"Brother, I'm a destitute as well. Just managed to survive this world because of a few good men. Can you see that child?" Both me and the stranger turned our heads to see the child studying in the campus of police station right across the tea shop. "I'm fostering him. He's an orphan too. And I'm sure he'll make it big in life!"
The stranger's eyes twitched twice- each time the tea seller uttered 'orphan' and 'destitute'. Familiarity? Maybe!
"In a pond full of mud, a lotus might bloom. But that same pond is home to a hundred pigs. And pigs are meant to be slaughtered!", The stranger said.
"Eeww... Don't talk like that. I'm vegetarian. And ma'am, don't come to shop this late from tomorrow!", The tea seller closed his shop with this closing line.
"Don't worry naa! Your shop is right across the police station. And I can't go to sleep without gulping down a cup of your special tea.", I waved and came back to hostel.
Usually, I don't go to that tea shop at any time of the day apart from night. But the next day, I was at the shop by five in the morning. The tea seller had been murdered. A sharp, clear and single stroke of blade across his throat and the body was lying right in front of the main entrance of the police station on a red patch of land. The child who was reading in the police station campus the night before, was crying and losing his breath. He had clung to the dead body like it was his dad's. My heart sank.
"The bus owner who took me up after I was released from jail was an orphan too. He fostered others like him. This was the second man I've seen in my life after my bus owner.", I was startled by the now familiar voice. It was the same stranger I'd met last night. "He used to say, I've helped you survive. So help five others.", The stranger smiled.
"We need psychos in our society. Like this tea seller, like your bus owner who simply never give up on life, goodness. But all we get are cowards to slit throats in the darkness", I looked into the stranger's eyes and said, "doing good always needs more courage!"
He looked pale.
The next morning, I was heading towards an orphanage. I wanted to make proper arrangements for the tea seller's fostered kid's stay and education. There was a lot of crowd on the road.
"Take care of the kid. I've helped five people. And I'm glad that the fifth one wasn't the kid, instead. Take care of him. Hope he makes it big in life!", The stranger just appeared out of nowhere.
Before I could speak anything a random noise drew my attention. A journalist was speaking looking into the camera- "After committing four murders, the psycho killer has finally committed suicide in a very similar fashion..."
I turned towards the stranger to communicate the anxiety. But there was nobody. I didn't pay much attention and surfed through the crowd.
The next I remember is waking up in my room around afternoon. My roommate was blabbering how I'd fainted upon seeing the psycho killer's deadbody and how I was brought back to my room by people. I looked at the TV. The screen was divided into two columns. On one, it was the same journalist speaking, "After committing four murders, the psycho killer has finally committed suicide in a very similar fashion..."
On the other was the dead psycho killer's file photo. He looked exactly like the stranger.
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.
THE ONE QUESTION
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
"Who are you?"
His question shook me out of a light slumber.
I wondered, should I tell him the truth?
Will he be able to embrace me with the same vigour and lust, once I tell him the truth?
Should I pretend that I didn't hear his question and slip away into a restful night?
Should I lie and repeat my stories to make sure that he still believes what I have always told him?
Should I just listen to his heartbeat and tell the truth, engulfing his agony and never come out of it?
Should I run away, unable to find words to let him know what I intended to say?
Should I make myself invisible and cry out loud to my heart's content?
Should I pick up a fight and leave him in a fit, never turning back to see his haunted eyes?
Should I keep calm and let time stand still and take his breath away in a kiss?
But all I Wish for is to just stay in his arms and let my heartbeat stop!
Oh, How I wish!!!
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha is an Assistant Professor of Nutrition at the Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences, Kochi, Kerala. She is passionate about art, literature and poetry.
VISHWAMITRA GOTRE…
Hari Varma
This is a Short Story written (from partly real experience) immediately after the demise of my father way back in 1996.
It was a chilling morning. All three of us were performing the ritual of offering water to the departed soul of our father. We were standing waist deep in the river water, which flowed by our ancestral palace.
I was very surprised and happy to see the young priest, hardly 35 years, speaking out the meaning, philosophical interpretation and social relevance of each and every step of all the rituals connected with the last rites of my father who had left this earth just the day before. I was surprised that, in this materialistic world, most of the priests who did this sort of rituals do it just to survive or to make money. Two extremes. Here I was happy because, I was looking at a person with a modern outlook who could talk to me and explain to me about Garuda Puraanam, the ancient scripture that talks about life after death.
The priest continued….
“Take one handful of water, face south and say softly. ’Vishwamitra Gotre…”
We all repeated.
“Ramavarmane…”.
Rama Varma was my father’s name. He belonged to the lineage of the erstwhile Kshatriya Sage Vishwamitra.
We repeated with full earnest. Then he told softly. “Don’t be so loud when you speak his name. Be soft…soft…He is around here in the astral form. He is on a long journey to join the Almighty. Let us help him by offering water and food so that he does not face any difficulty all through his journey.”
The ritual went on till noon. By nature, I am very objective in my thinking. I believe, my father was lucky that he passed through the thin layer between life and death so smoothly, that too chanting the name of Lord Vishnu ‘Naaraayana’. I wondered what his feelings were right now! Is he happy? Or is he sad?
I was not feeling any hunger at all. My mind was elsewhere. Perhaps, searching for the unknown. I went to the room where my father had breathed his last. I lied down beside the cot. The room was dark. Suddenly I felt very light. I felt I was floating in air. I felt very good. The room took a bright mixed hue all of a sudden.
To my horror, I was seeing another me, reclining at my feet in deep sleep. I was seeing another me! I felt uneasy and had no idea what was happening. Suddenly one of my aunts entered the room and put on the light. She was coming towards me. But she doesn’t seem to see me. Oops! She just walked through me. I could hear the toilet door closing. I could hear her murmuring to herself on the way “Poor child, he must be really very tired”. I was amused and could not help but smile. I looked down and to my surprise, I realised that I was literally floating. When I walked, I was moving slowly.
I went out to the main hall where a location was marked with holy ashes in the shape of my father’s body. That was where he was laid down for performing all the rituals yesterday before the cremation. I could see a spiralling glow around the very area. But that was thinning slowly and was going towards the south.
Then I went towards the central courtyard of the large palatial structure. On one of the parapets, I saw the priest relaxing. I tried to call him, but it seemed he couldn’t hear me though his eyes were wide open. Then he pulled himself up leaning on the pillar and prepared himself for another round of tobacco chewing. Then the realization dawned on me that none of them were able to feel my presence!
All of a sudden, I heard a scream coming from the room where my father had breathed his last. That was the scream of my aunt who had gone to the toilet. Thereafter I found myself standing inside the room in front of the other me who was reclining on a mat on the ground. I was shocked to find that my aunt was crying aloud, and my brothers were running towards the room. My mother was sleeping in the opposite room tired and exhausted. I tried to make my presence felt but no one heard me.
I felt a cool waft approaching me. Then I saw my father, in a white hazy form, standing by my side. He touched my back lightly. His face was very calm and peaceful. He seemed to be fully charged yet sober. There was an aura all around him and a glow from within. I felt happy and secured. He said, “It is not yet time for you, my dear”. Ignoring that, I asked him how he was feeling. He just smiled gently. The smile was pregnant with a wealth of meaning. Never before had I seen him smiling so warmly during my entire lifetime of 40 Years. I still possess one precious photograph of him smiling heartily that appeared in one of the dailies along with the news of his retirement.
The whole palace was now in utter chaos. Everybody rushed in and out of the room. I saw my brothers struggling not to collapse. My sister could not control herself and she collapsed. My cousins and uncles were trying their best to control the situation. Everyone around was wondering, the faces betraying their pain, and helplessness.
But I was totally detached to the situation and was engaged with my father. I asked him, “What forced you to be so submissive to all those around you? Was it a submission or was it just detachment? Do you think that the circumstances have forced you to wear a mask of well-being although suffering internally?” I continued, “I always felt that you had so many pre-occupations. You suffered everything along with my mother and went on absorbing every bad moment that came to us.” His face turned sad. The smile vanished. I was relentless in talking to him. “We could never understand your pain or sufferings. You never let us share it and alleviate the pain you went through. You carried it all on your shoulders.”
He spoke …… Surprisingly, his lips were not moving while speaking.
“My dear, be aware that the lifetime is meant for educating oneself so that you proceed to a higher plane when you come here. You will realize when the time comes. Now go. Go back and be with your mother.”
The words were echoing and slight distortion. He continued but my questions remained unanswered.
“Also tell your mother that I am happy here and that she was the one who helped me to learn several things about life and the sacrifices. I believe that had taken me to a higher plane. Tell her that she would be on her own from now on and that she needs to live as herself and not for others.”
I could not hold myself back for asking certain questions…
“I had lot of doubts and questions to ask you. But you never gave me a chance. You were always elusive. Either you didn’t have any answers, or you were running away from my questions. Now that you are here now, can I have some wisdom from your higher world so that these doubts are cleared?”
He did not answer but his silence with a smile prompted me to ask the questions…
I asked, “All through your life known to me, you were a Shakti Upaasaka and you had been a very staunch follower of the Shiva-Shakti. Moreover, you initiated me into Soundarya Lahari which I followed religiously. You have been visiting the Mookambika Temple at Kollur almost every year till your age of sixty. After that you seem to have changed your direction and started to follow Vishnu. Then you almost stopped your visits to Mookambika and instead started visiting Guruvayoor regularly. Tell me, was distance the only reason?”
He smiled again and said “What difference does it make? It is a fact that these changes had taken place in me. Let me also tell you that those were some natural changes that even I did not realise. Now, to clear your doubt, just touch me, look at my eyes and concentrate.”
I tried to concentrate. I started to feel happier inside. The space all around me started getting bright. Very bright. I saw a huge ‘mass’ of light materializing in front of me. The light emanating from that was much more powerful than the sun we see in summer noon. But, surprisingly, this light was very cool and the whole atmosphere was very comfortable. The light mass started to become bigger and bigger as though ready to explode any minute. The light started to engulf us, and I felt that I was a part of that energy field.
He continued….
“This is the Universal energy field from where all the other energies emanate. There is only brightness. No colours. Like that, whether it is Vishnu or Shiva or Shakthi, all are same. Only one fact you need to know is that, there are two types of energies and they are Static Energy and Dynamic Energy. Only a combination of these can enhance the energy level. Each on its own is ineffective for any activity.” The very first verse of Soundarya Lahari, on which he had initiated me long back, crossed my mind.
I could easily deduce the answer to one of my question to him, without him telling. During his 60 years of active life, he had focussed more on the combination of Static and Dynamic energy which he felt was his need. The balance life he spent meditating on Vishnu, who offered him peace of mind and helped him for his final journey to eternity.
He continued… “So understand, my dear child, energy is just one. One, and only one! The Universal Energy. Whatever way you generate it. Your body is energy. Earth is energy. Everything around you is also energy. So, death is only a change of an energy form. Now go back and move on with your life that is destined for you.”
I had one more doubt that pestered me always. “Then why people are afraid of death? Don’t you think that when someone dies, he or she leaves a big void and that creates a deep sorrow in the minds of the people who are left behind?”
He looked a bit concerned but continued “There is no need to be afraid of death. One need to educate oneself and increase their knowledge to keep the fear away. Now, about sorrow, tell me how many people continue to live in sorrow all through their life after the death of their near and dear ones? None, right? They cannot. This is because, they have to move ahead with their lives and face the reality of the future. Through that, they are supposed to get wiser and increase their level in the next realm. One gets sad only when they remember the departed. And to remember, one has to forget.”
I tried to digest these profound thoughts.
Another form started to emerge beside my father. That had an amber aura. Slowly it became clearer and clearer. It was the priest who was helping us to do the rituals. I got a shock. He spoke but his voice was very metallic.
“Do not pester your father anymore. Let him have a smooth transition till his next birth. He needs more of introspection and analysis of his life to advance within this plane.”
My father slowly brushed him aside and told “Let him speak to me. I was expecting him, and I understand his state of mind.”
The priest smiled and gestured to me to keep it short and told, “You can ask certain questions to me also. I shall try to answer whichever is within my scope of awareness.” I agreed in gesture. He smiled and slowly faded away.
I asked my father, “What do I pursue once I go back?’
“Try to find out what is the purpose of your birth and try to work towards that goal. May be, you will not be able to satisfy your goal one hundred percent. But your effort will take you at least to some distance. You should be striving more on how to reduce the distance between you and your goal.”
He started to fade away and instinctively he told “I will give you a clue to understand your goal. Keep your eyes and ears open for messages from anywhere, and anybody. Your present path of trying to understand the astral world looks very positive. Opportunities will come your way. Use them to propagate your thoughts. Just go on.”
The light started to diminish, and it slowly vanished.
Then I saw my father floating away slowly. I could notice a flash of pain and pride at the same time on his countenance. My father’s presence had left a deep impression on my mind. I was not sure if I wanted to go back or whether I would be able to go back. Then an element of fear crept over me. My attention went back to the chaos.
A local doctor of traditional medicine who treated in allopathic system was being ushered in, to the room where my ‘body’ was kept. There was total silence in the air. Everybody was expecting the pronouncement of my death officially. The doctor went through the usual investigations, stretched himself and looked at my brother with a long face.
All the people started to leave the room one by one. My death was announced. Another series of activities started. Preparing for the cremation of my body.
Unexpectedly I started getting a strange feeling of heaviness and started falling through a large colourful tunnel. The colours were very bright in the beginning, but it started to get darker and darker. I felt a sort of wetness on my face which I tried to wipe off.
I opened my eyes to find the room very dark and no one around. I heard somebody opening the toilet door. My aunt came out and seeing me awake, asked me. “Tired, aren’t you? Have some lunch and sleep for some more time. I shall call you when the next rite starts.”
I rubbed my eyes and came out of the room. The Priest was still relaxing, and I went to him and asked, “Could you explain to me near-death experience or after-death experience?”
He smiled and opened the Garuda Puranam.
Back to the real world… Life goes on… Charaiveti… Charaiveti…
Being a Painter, Theatre Actor/Director & a Story-teller since childhood, he ended up as an Entertainment Professional in the field of Animation & Visual Effects. This is even though he is a Post-graduate in Applied Mathematics. His passion for Writing, Painting and Theatre helped him immensely in his profession. He used to be a Travelling Photographer and a lover of Mountains and Jungles. He always finds reasons and reasonings to ‘ideate’ and ‘create’ through fine arts, performing arts whether through text, images, video or music.
Currently he runs his own YouTube Channel “HINDEOS – Art, Culture, Spirituality & Meditation” with the objective of documenting various nuances in Art & Culture that are normally not available on the internet as Videos. This is with the objective of preserving our treasures for the benefit of present and future generations.
THE PARADE
Sumitra Mishra
We sat back on the front seats
Laid with soft red cushions
While they gathered around the fields
Hanging on or clutching the rusted bars
Among hundred others on the cement sidewalks,
The troops marched
On the green
Their black shoes shining
Like waves of the black sea
Their gloves dancing
A rhythm of gleaming white
And the sashe on their shoulders
Shining red and gold.
The maroon, green and yellow tents
Canopying the VIP military cadre
Swelled
In pride like the parading troops
While the green, orange and white tricolours
Wafted in joy in the cool winter wind
And the tricolour balloons bobbed up and down
Like jellyfishes in the blue sea-sky
The aroma of patriotism
Was thick in the air
Like a festive fervour.
Behind the marching troops came
The band of gold trimmed girls
Their whirling, twirling skirts,
Elegantly leading the bands;
The bearers of brass,
The flute players
And the bagpipers,
Playing the tunes of the foot-rhythm
Left-right, left-right
And the dhun of “Sare jahanse achha”
Then marched the pageants,
Gaudy, decked up, colourful tableaus .
My heart swells with pride,
And love for this moment of pride,
For the people, the country
For the colours maroon, green , white
And the flamboyant gold.
FAMILY ALBUM
Sumitra Mishra
My mom sat by the hearth
Cooking fish broth and vegetables
Wood fire and dung cakes crackled
Like the damp crackers
Dad was hooked in his library,
We waited for some entertainment
We had no TV, radio, tape recorder.
She came with old family albums
November 1978 to December 2004
My elder sister
Always up with some trick to entertain us
Ludo, Business, Chess, Chinese Checker , Puzzles
Or illustrated stories from the Fairy Tales!
1978, What a bizarre show!
The black and white photos of my parent’s wedding
A sleepy village in dark shadows, no electricity,
Mom’s face drowned under her silken veil
Papa’s face serious, calculating but eyes shining with happiness
Grandma carrying a decorated pot with mango leaves and coconut,
She looked so sad and tired,
My aunt standing behind my mom in a saree
With a conch in her right hand and lips twirled
They look almost alike, undistinguishable.
The 1985 album, still black and white
My two sisters sit holding each other in a studio
In almost similar dress and shoes
Only colours are different
One a potato face with a crown of curly hair
The other a doll with big eyes spread wide in fear
I am still somewhere away in the cloud.
Now the 1990’s, all colourful albums
Almost me and me on the centre stage
My family in the background
Parents hugging, sisters playing or petting
Grandma or grandpa holding me tight like a bundle
Me with my friends, with bat and balls, kites and cars
Or me sitting at the tabla, hands poised, eyes smoky
With boredom, my teacher- a thin man squeaky as a mouse .
How well did I play?
I ask my sisters
They laugh out loud
Your mind on the playground
You played for hours only with your fingers.
“Dinner is ready, would you all come?”
Asks my mom.
My fingers press the pages of the album
Trying to relive the notes of the past
My child-self pulls forward into now.
Suddenly we recollected the silhouettes of
Those playful, frolicsome days forgotten
Through these tattered, yellowed family albums!
Flames leap from the pit
curling in heat, long time starting.
Mahogany curves, warming
to the touch
of your fingers
on the strings
as we sit
at the edge of time.
Sensual notes, long and full,
ethereal.
Soft wood, yielding
to the rhythm,
not yet music,
struggling to stay in tune.
Long time waiting.
Not yet…not yet.
She moans under your
studied hands,
delicate touches, exploring
a universe.
I close my eyes as you strum,
melting into mahogany fire,
brilliant in the darkness.
And I moan, long time coming.
I catch the pattern
Of your silence
Before you speak
I do not need
To hear a word.
In your silence
Every tone I seek
Is heard.
CHILDREN IN THE PARK
Sumitra Mishra
Where vivid children twirl
Like colored tops through time
Nor stop to understand
How all their play is touch-and-go:
But, Go! they cry, and the swing
Arcs up to the tall tree tip;
Go! and the merry-go-round
Hauls them round with it.
And I, like the children, caught
In the mortal active verb,
Let my transient eye break a tear
For each quick, flaring game
Of child, leaf and cloud,
While on this same fugue, unmoved,
Those stonier eyes look,
Safe-socketed in rock.
THE DROOPING CANDLE
Sumitra Mishra
They are the last romantics, these candles:
Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers,
And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes,
Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.
It is touching, the way they'll ignore
A whole family of prominent objects
Simply to plumb the deeps of an eye
In its hollow of shadows, its fringe of reeds,
And the owner past thirty, no beauty at all.
Daylight would be more judicious,
Giving everybody a fair hearing.
They should have gone out with the balloon flights and the stereopticon.
This is no time for the private point of view.
When I light them, my nostrils prickle.
Their pale, tentative yellows
Drag up false, Edwardian sentiments,
And I remember my maternal grandmother from Vienna.
As a schoolgirl she gave roses to Franz Josef.
The burghers sweated and wept. The children wore white.
And my grandfather moped in the Tyrol,
Imagining himself a headwaiter in America,
Floating in a high-church hush
Among ice buckets, frosty napkins.
These little globes of light are sweet as pears.
Kindly with invalids and mawkish women,
They mollify the bald moon.
Nun-souled, they burn heavenward and never marry.
The eyes of the child I nurse are scarcely open.
In twenty years I shall be retrograde
As these drafty ephemerids.
I watch their spilt tears cloud and dull to pearls.
How shall I tell anything at all
To this infant still in a birth-drowse?
Tonight, like a shawl, the mild light enfolds her,
The shadows stoop over the guests at a christening.
Smt. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor Engish from Bhuvaneshwar, Odhisha. She is an accomplished poet and writer of short stories. She is passionate about Literature and spends her time in reading & writing.
LIVING ON BREADCRUMBS
Dr. Jinju S.
Love rises
with the yeast of youth:
Your heart
kneading the dough
with copious care;
Blend it well with agony,
the right amounts
of hope against hope,
With a pinch of naiveté
to taste.
Watch it swell and swell
till your heart's about
to burst.
Punch it, roll it, shape it
till you're sure it looks
like the bread you've always
wanted to bake on your own.
Drizzle your dreams,
And preheat your oven
to a feverish high,
Slide in your loaf
and wait--
WAIT, I said, you eager fool!
If you are lucky,
You'll get your bread
unburnt and whole,
neither mushy nor coarse--
pray it doesn't crumble
when you touch--
downy-soft, fragrant,
and as perfect
as bread can be.
Now cut it up and eat it--
Butterpaper slice
by butterpaper slice,
Over the long sandpaper years.
You can't eat your bread
and have it too.
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. She welcomes readers' feedback at dr.jinjus@gmail.com.
GOOD-BYES
Anwesha Mishra
You stood up, dusting your jeans.
"I'll leave then."
My eyes that were fixed on Saki,
Wandered away to rest on the door,
Beating with the wind.
You wore your backpack.
Stretching, which unfolded into a yawn,
Shut your eyes as if in a bubble.
"Bye", I said, without a second thought.
.
Halfway through the entrance,
A voice inside me pleaded;
"Can we hug?”
I didn't realize when my lips had parted,
To almost defy my strength and ask you to stay.
But I held onto myself just in time,
And watched you leave.
"You would have regretted this later."
.
I put the book down, heard you,
Tread across the alley.
The mobile fumed under my breath.
Smouldering my bubble just enough to last,
Anticipating a familiar gust of Cologne,
When the doors would fling open.
(Anytime soon?)
Everytime I hear the bell,
In our little nest.
ONE OF SEVEN SINS
Anwesha Mishra
I hum a song by Tuvaband.
In crippled sheets; "here-"
He extends.
Sip some tea and wipe my lip.
The varicose in his shins showed
In the occasional lightning.
My eyes graze his build and back
To his face, his eyes-
"You're gifted, you Adonis!"
I smirk as I think.
I don't understand it-
The immediate urge to snug.
It's an open treasure chest.
The pearls have to be concealed.
"I will love you with all my might"
"I will show you no fear,
No freedom, no light"
The curtain caught fire,
I must contain my desire.
Greed is a felony, "am I crossing the line?
"Penny for thoughts?"
He smiles, trying to see;
I gulp the rest of it.
"It will rain incessantly"
And you're mine. I sing,
"Now I must feel shameless-"
Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy.
DEATH THE LEGAL MURDERER
Alhassan Ibrahim
How could that be possible?
The last we conversed,
You gave life
to my dead dreams.
Oh! I could recall
That mild smile you wore,
When you saw me;
On my Khaki Khaki.
Oh! death killed you
Leaving young Jane
In unbearable pain
Oh! dear death,
What will be your gain?
I felt the trauma
Inside of me it beats
Like a drummer.
Oh! your dear boy
Whom is ignorant is amazed
By the beauty of the crowd.
Only if he knew
Why the eyes weep
That he mimics them with handkerchief.
Rest on Mama
Till we meet again!
In the land of no return.
Alhassan Ibrahim Babangida has B.A in English Language from one of the Universities in Nigeria. He is a teacher who is also a poet and a writer.
LOST
Afnan Abdullah
"I dread searching for myself in your words.
Heartbeat after heartbeat,
I see you.
With your hair neatly tucked behind your ears,
And nothing but an empty cup
As the sole witness.
Pausing for a while,
Lifting the pen from the diary,
And leaning your head a little,
Towards the side,
Unconsciously biting the lower lip,
Thinking of words,
Lies,
To make it sound insignificant,
(Wish it was easy)
As if merely,
Random mumblings of the mind.
The pen writes down two words,
And strikes back three.
You let out a sigh.
Staring out the window,
You get them,
Shallow deceitful words,
The punctuations,
Serving the purpose well.
But I look out,
(I know I shouldn't)
For the subtle changes.
The poetry,
Lying in the words,
That were lost."
Afnan Abdullah is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. He completed his schooling from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. A person of varied interests Afnan likes football, medicine and Urdu poetry and literature in general.
HEAL TO BE HURT...
Parvathy Salil
I’ve lost count of the times
life’s proved me that
it’s not what it’s thought to be.
Oh yet why but I exist—
retelling: “l’ll fix it all this time.”
Nose-dive, I
in instants as I soar;
then weep and writhe,
and wonder what went wrong?
Time flies each time and
heals me half;
the rest but festers
the next time I tread.
Endless it is,
this trauma of life —
it’s all about healing, just
to be hurt...
Parvathy Salil is the author of : The One I Never Knew (2019), which features a blurb by Dr.Shashi Tharoor, MP), and Rhapsody (Self-published,2016). Her poems have been published in the Kendra Sahitya Akademi journal, Indian Literature; Deccan Chronicle etc. Currently, a (22-year-old) student of Liberal Arts at Ashoka University (Young India Fellowship Class of 2019); she has also recited poems for the All India Radio’s Yuva Vani. She has presented her poems at the : South India Poetry Festival 2017, Krithi International Literature Festival 2018, Mathrubhumi International Festival Of Letters 2019 etc. The winner of several literary competitions including the Poetry competition held during Darshana International Book Fair 2016, she was also a national-level finalist for theMaRRS Spelling Bee Championship (2014), and had secured the second rank in the state-level championship. Parvathy Salil, welcomes readers' feedback on her poem at parvathysalil262@gmail.com.
UNFINISHED JOB
Kabyatara Kar
He knocked from inside the nailed coffin,
The sound sent vibrations in the darkness of life "Thud Thud"
He was suffocating, still choking and fighting his death.
He was on his way to a new venture...
Some goons stopped him,gagged him,dragged him and nailed him alive, due to mistaken identity..
Back at home everyone was waiting,
To cheer the moment when 'Suman' would get his job
And every problem solved.
Sister prayed to God with her fingers crossed..for his success
Alas! Now he lay alive nailed in the coffin.
Again the coffin was aloud
With the thudding sound
This time the sound pulled a crowd
Everyone with their efforts dug the ground
And opened the coffin from which came the sound
They discovered the half-alive feeble 'Suman'
Who had so many Unfinished Jobs.....
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 QUAINT LITTLE STAGE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
It is a large spacious hall,
With a decorated canopy
But it makes us so claustrophobic.
In the quaint little stage
Where light and shade play hide and seek
The semi darkness creates an aura of mystery.
We see her dim silhouette
Unmoving like a pagan goddess,
Steeped in a seductive charm
We are getting impatient
After all we had been called with a mission
To sing her the paeans of passionate adulation.
The man next to me is a celebrity,
So are the others standing like a row of glittering bikes
Their names go round in reverent whispers.
Now she turns to face us
The audience lets out an audible sigh
Her smile of rapturous seduction moves them to an intoxicated euphoria.
The crowd is waiting with impatience,
With celebrities galore
The passion is rising to a crescendo.
So we go to the little stage
And sit down to draw her, paint her
To analyse her and try to outdo each other.
There, in moments of crowded asphyxiation
Poetry dies a tragic death, mauled by gargantuan egos
Sadly imprisoned in a smouldering cocoon.
THE TWILIGHT
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Something in the twilight
Made me come out to the street
I saw the sun descending into the layered horizon
Like a rescuer climbing down the steps of a well.
Everything looked so different on the street
But nothing had changed in the room I just left
Not an inch had moved in Monalisa's lips on the wall,
Nor had time slowed down on the grandfather's clock.
Out on the street everyone was hurrying home
The play of light and dust must have hallucinated their mind
The sky turned into a cacophony of colours,
The trees, the flowers paled into a pregnant shadow.
The day was ending with a darkening despair,
The evening was an unborn bundle of uncertainties
I felt in my bones the missing something
When it was neither a day nor a night.
I tried to speak and my speech stretched to a drawl
I listened to all the noises and heard nothing
I wished time didn't ride the crest of a twilight on the street
With the ghastly yellow of a jaundiced patient.
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. The ninth collection of his short stories in Odiya will come out soon.
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