Literary Vibes - Edition C (25-Dec-2020) - Volume 1 - POEMS
(Title - Literary Vibes 100 - Picture courtesy Dr. B C Nayak)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 100th edition of LiteraryVibes. To call it a landmark will be an understatement. It is the fulfilment of a dream which I, along with a few literary luminaries had for the past two years. Prabhanjan Mishra and Prof. Geetha Nair have been a part of that dream, as much as Sreekumar K., Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya and Shiva, our technical consultant.
There are many others who have contributed to the eMagazine, enriching it immensely. Literary heavyweights such as Bibhu Padhi. Gourahari Das, Dilip Mohapatra, Krupa Sagar Sahoo, Ishwar Pati, Hema Ravi, Sangeeta Gupta, Padmaja Iyengar, Paramita Mukherjee Mullick, Satya Narayan Mohanty, Bichitra Kumar Behura, Prof. Molly Joseph, Dr. Ajay Upadhyaya, S. Sundar Rajan, Vidya Shankar, Sheena Rath, Dr. Nikhil Kurien, Madhumathi, Anandh Kumar, Ravi Ranganathan, Meera Raghavendra Rao, Radhika Nair, Padmavathi Setaluri, Sulochana Ram Mohan, Sultana Sheikh, Parvathi Salil, Padmini Janardhanan, Abani Udgata, Mihir Mishra and Pradip Ratha, have assumed a larger than life image by the quality of their contribution to LiteraryVibes.
We have had beginners like Sharanya, Anwesha Mishra, Disha Pratichee, Preethi Nair, Priya Karthik, Akankshya Rath, Rupali Mishra, and Supriya Patnaik who have blossomed into prolific poets through their journey with LiteraryVibes. And we have been privileged to get on our page incredibly talented story tellers like Dr. Ananya Priyadarshini and superbly gifted poets like Thryaksha Garla, both of them young and vibrant.
Wonderful travelogues from Kumud Raj, Debjit Rath and Ashok Ray added lustre to our pages as did anecdotes from C. K. Mathew, Mrs. Gita Mathew, Dr. Pradeep Swain, Dr. B C Nayak, Sunil Biswal, Gokul Mishra, Meera Rao, Ujan Gosh, Debi Padhi, Lt. Gen. N. P. Padhi, Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo and Prof. Avay Mohapatra. The pieces on Indian cultural heritage by Dr. R. C. Panda have enthralled us as much as articles on Indian cinema and songs of yore by Anil Upadhyay.
The list is long and space in this editorial being limited, I apologise to those whose names do not find a place here. But I can say with pride that everytime I got a poem, a short story, an anecdote, or a short travelogue from any writer, I felt the thrill of a journey of hope and promise. And I feel today is the time to pay tribute to all those who have made this journey memorable.
My special thanks are due to Prabhanjan Mishra and Prof. Geetha Nair on this momentous occasion. Prabhanjan, a celebrated literary personality of the Mumbai Poetry Circle, has contributed to every edition of LiteraryVibes with a poem of his own and a translated poem of the legendary Odia poet Hara Prasad Das. Prof. Geetha Nair, an accomplished and award winning poet and writer, has been a guardian angel to the magazine, acting as a friend, philosopher and guide, editing the editor on many occasions.
All the contributors to each and every edition of LiteraryVibes deserve my heartfelt gratitude, because without them there would have been no magazine. Our dreams have been built on the edifice of their writings and have blossomed into smiles of joy and fulfilment.
The ever-dependable Shiva needs a special mention, because he has never faltered in his duty, not even during the bereavement consequent on the demise of his beloved mother. It is due to him that we have had LV coming out every week for the past hundred weeks without a single break.
We are fortunate to have five new contributors in this 100th edition. Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo, a renowned paediatrician of Odisha, a brilliant doctor and a humanist to the core, has a wealth of experience to share with the readers. And as his writing style shows, he has a way of winning hearts. Dr. Sheena Joseph, a dentist based in Boston, U.S., impresses with her sensitive, creative streak. Both S. Anilal, a film maker from the U.S. and Thampy Antony, an actor, writer, activist settled in the U.S., write excellent short stories. Sasikumar from Bangalore is a powerful poet and has the promise of a great future. I welcome all of them to the family of LiteraryVibes and look forward to their continued association with us.
I have been wondering over the past few weeks; what should the 100th edition of LiteratyVibes look like? Having toiled to dish out a delicious fare to the readers week after week, I have no doubt that this commemorative edition must reflect the soft murmurs of pleasure as much as the ecstatic sighs of fulfilment. I have tried to make this issue a special one, incorporating various genres of the literary canvas - poems, short stories, anecdotes, travelogues, and tales of our cultural heritage.
Due to the overwhelming response to my appeal for articles, there has been a deluge and the limitations of data size forced us to have three separate sections of the 100th edition, comprising Poetry, Short Stories and Miscellaneous subjects such as anecdotes, travelogues and articles on culture. I hope the readers will enjoy the variety of fare offered in this special edition.
As I look back, I am tempted to pick up one article which captures the essence of what LiteraryVibes represents. There are, no doubt, hundreds of other outstanding creations. But "The Inverted Cross" by Sreekumar K. is the kind of literary piece that churns the heart and leaves a stunning effect. I present it here just to reiterate why we celebrate literature and enjoy it like ambrosia to get a fresh lease of life every time we read an unforgettable creation.
The Inverted Cross
Sreekumar K
(From LVXI dated 12 April, 2019)
All her children, three boys and two girls, her annual productions, had gone to bed. No, not to bed since there was no bed, but torn wall posters spread around where the foot path was the widest. The wall posters showed the famous movies stars and every night there was a fight on who slept on whom.
On a chilly night like this no one likes to see a leper, more so if he is walking towards you and even more so if the only place you can withdraw into, your own house, happens to be a sheet of plastic stuck on a single pole much shorter than you. That was the predicament she found herself now.
She knew he was a leper, his limbs were all bandaged, a bundle under his arm, a begging bowl in his hand. On the other hand he had a short piece of reed with a few holes burned into it, almost a flute which made his a street entertainer, one of the many who wander around in the city. He came in and beyond him the sky lit up with the fireworks going up near the church. She wanted to wake up her children to see that. It was Christmas eve.
“Jesus! It is so beautiful,” she exclaimed.
The leper also turned back to look at the sky and turned back with an expression of cynical disdain. She stood outside the hut as if it was not hers at all. He may look around and go away. She herself had nothing; a beggar, even on a Christmas night as this was unwelcome and there was nothing unfair about it.
But he rudely went past her and sat down. Now what! Sing a carol song for nothing? Not bad!
He took a few loaves of bread from his cloth bag and the children who were fast asleep jumped up and stood around him. When you are hungry, food has such a strong aroma.
Each of them got a loaf and they sat down munching it. He took out his flute and played a tune.
The children seemed to have heard it before. He asked them whether they would like to hear stories. They said yes. He gave them the choice of a subject. One of them put up his half bitten loaf of bread and said he wanted to hear a story about bread. He told them the story of how Christ fed five thousand people with just five loaves of bread. He added that it is no miracle. Tongue in cheek, he told them, it would have been a miracle, had he made five people eat five thousand loaves of bread, even five hundred would have been impressive. The children were so hungry that one of them said it might be possible for them to finish five thousand loaves. But one of them smelled the bread doubtfully and said, “Not this kind of bread.”
He told them the story had another meaning. The woman was also attentive now.
“See, me, a stranger comes in and gives you a loaf each. When you grow up and be like your mother or me wouldn't you do the same for other children. Now if each of you do it ten times that will be fifty people fed. Now they too may do it and in no time you have fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread since that was how it all started."
The woman was moved. She didn't expect this. Jesus! This man was something.
The children also agreed. He was about to go. He got up. Tuned around and asked the children why don't they have a Christmas tree. He asked for a cross lying in the corner of their hut. The eldest one had made it when he attended a free carpentry workshop. He planted it upside down outside the hut right on the pavement and asked them to decorate it with whatever they could find.
So saying he hugged the woman and walked away to cross the street.
She didn't appreciate him hugging her like that in front of the children, he being a stranger, though older than her dead husband and younger than her father.
He was now crossing the street and she was looking at the children trying to decorate the upside down cross like a Christmas tree. She felt hurt to see the cross planted upside down. It was an unholy act on a Christmas night like this, or any day for that matter.
A car was speeding down the street zigzagging with some people coming back from the Christmas party. It was pretty dark and she couldn't see what was happening.
Had he crossed....? She held her breath............
“Jesus!”
The car had passed by. From the other side, the man asked her something, his hands cupped around his mouth. Still he wasn't loud enough. She shook her head from side to side to say, she didn't need any more bread.
But she was not sure that was what he had asked her. But he had gone. It was only later that she figured out his exact words.
“Did you call me?”
................................................
The story assumes a special importance, today being Christmas Day.
I do hope that you will continue to be a part of the journey of LiteraryVibes. We will be happy to welcome you, every time we step out into the literary world. From January 2021, LV will be a monthly magazine, in deference to the wishes of readers who found the weekly editions to be burdensome due to the thirty odd articles appearing every week. The next edition of LV will come out on Friday, the 27th January.
Meanwhile please enjoy this special edition of LV and share with your friends and contacts the links of the three sections: http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/365 (Poems), http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/366 (Short Stories), and http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/367 (Miscellaneous Articles).
Please don't miss out at the end of the pages the superb video clips on the 100th edition of LV so lovingly prepared by Dr. B. C. Nayak, Ms. Madhumathi and the team of Ms. Padmini Viswanathan, Ms. Anju Kishore and Mr. S. Sundar Rajan.
All the previous editions of LV will continue to be available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
I wish all our readers a Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year.
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Friday, December 25, 2020
(Title - The Maiden and the Doe - Picture courtesy Latha Prem Sakhya)
VOLUME - 1 - POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE FICTION OF OUR FACTS
02) Haraprasad Das
RESENTMENT (AAKROSH)
03) Geetha Nair G
FESTSCHRIFT
04) Dilip Mohapatra
THE UNCERTAIN FIX
05) Bibhu Padhi
HOME
06) Sreekumar K
DON'T GO ALONE TO THE STREETS
07) Madhumathi. H
POSITIVE VIBES
FRISBEE HEART...
08) Sangeeta Gupta
BETWEEN YOUR HOPE
09) S. Sundar Rajan
MUSINGS OF A BIRD
THE GREAT BANYAN TREE
10) S. Sundar Rajan, Anju Kishore & Padmini Viswanathan
PACK UP
11) Sharanya Bee
A FAVOURABLE DAY
12) Dr. Seena Joseph
SUMMER RAIN
13) Sasikumar R
THE QUARANTINE
14) Gita Bharath
GENESIS
15) Vidya Shankar
NO SMOKE AND MIRROR THIS
16) Preethi NR
THE SIREN
17) Neha Sarah
CONFUSION PERSONIFIED
18) Abani Udgata
THE LAST NIGHT OF DECEMBER
19) Dr. S Padmapriya Vinodhkumar
NO TIME FOR TEARS
20) Supriya Pattanayak
THE REBELS MARCH
21) Rupali Mishra
LABELS
22) Mihir Kumar Mishra.
REFLECTIONS
23) Umasree Raghunath
HUNDRED HOPES AND MILLION DREAMS!
24) Akankshya Kar
LINES OF FIRE
25) Dr. Aparna Ajith
WHAT’S IN A C-SECTION DELIVERY?
26) Pradeep Rath
LOVE SONG OF YOUNGMAN, SLIGHTLY OLD
CIVILISATION AND AFTER
27) Parvathy Salil
FLICKERING WICKS
28) Sangita Kalarickal
GLASS CAGES AND WARM BREEZES
29) Niranjan Barik
LOVE THY NAME IS GESTAPO!
30) Kamar Sultana Sheik
CHITHI
31) Dr Ajay Upadhyay
AN ODE TO YEAR OF CORONA
32) Thryaksha A Garla
ELOQUENCE
33) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
BHARTI’S PRAYER
34) Radhika Nair
THE RAIN TREE
35) Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak MBBS ,MD, FCCP
ARCHIVES OF AN UNKNOWN
36) Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
BEING A FLUTE
THE DREAM GIRL
35) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A NEW YEAR
VOLUME - 2 - SHORT STORIES
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE BOARDED WINDOW
02) Geetha Nair G
LESSONS
03) Dilip Mohapatra
PACKAGE DEAL
04) Sreekumar K
REUNION AT CHRISTMAS
05) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
POMERANIAN
06) Prof. Gangadhar sahoo
REALISATION
07) Ishwar Pati
AN ANGLER’S TALE
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA' S MUSINGS 18 :: MATTAMMA
09) Lt Gen N P Padhi, PVSM, VSM (Retd.)
WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING
10) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE OBSSESSION
11) Er.Sunil Kumar Biswal
SLOTH BEAR Vs. Mrs.JHAMLAL
12) Dr Prasanna Sahoo
A PEBBLE FROM THE OCEAN OF MEMORIES
13) Dr. Molly Joseph
MERGING TERRAINS..
14) Satya Narayan Mohanty
ALONE TOGETHER
15) Sulochana Ram Mohan.
IMAGES WITHIN MIRAGES
16) Hema Ravi
NATURE'S CHILD
BOREDOM AND SUFFERING
SUMMER
17) Setaluri Padmavathi
INTROSPECTION
18) Sheena Rath
LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL
19) Meera M. Rao
THE RAPED BRIDE
20) Ranju
A MUDDY NIGHT’S DREAM
21) Thampy Antony
THE MEXICAN WALL
22) S. Anilal
THE DNA FACTOR
23) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE DEER CUBS
VOLUME - 3 - MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES
01) Dr. Ramesh Chandra Panda
OUR HERITAGE – GRISHNESWAR JYOTHIRLINGA
OUR HERITAGE – KASHI VISHWANATH JYOTIRLINGA
02) Anil K Upadhyay
TRUTHS AND CONTRA-TRUTHS: SONGS AND CONTRA-SONGS
03) Debjit Rath
OFF TO GRAND CANYON
04) Gouranga Charan Roul
SRI CHAITANYA’S FOOTPRINTS: RETRACING...
05) Ravi Ranganathan
RANGOLI
06) Ashok Kumar Ray
JALLIANWALA BAGH
07) Pravat Padhy
Tanka: The Little Song and My Journey
08) Sanjit Singh
EXAM -THAT DREADFUL FOUR LETTER WORD
Critic's Corner
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A BRIEF REVIEW OF SELECTED POEMS AND STORIES FROM THE 99th ISSUE OF LITERARY VIBES
02) Pabhanjan K. Mishra
A STATION NAMED LILIGUMMA AND OTHER RAIL STORIES
Author: Krupa Sagar Sahoo
Translated by Malabika Patel
(I)
My web throws a tendril to yours,
the clear light goes murky,
blur of a top’s spinning profile.
It settles: a mystery sediment
down below a clear decant.
Which of us composes the top layer,
who, the bottom?
Truths are dressed in fancy mask,
Facts, spun from slivers of fiction.
Do we mime to the ubiquitous strings
of an unseen puppeteer?
Drum to a conductor’s baton?
Look, a cleanshaven refreshing sun
pokes its head
above suspicion’s black milk.
An adoring translucence perspires
through the skin’s pores.
Laughs sponge away last night’s sulks.
Grudges wallow
in myth’s sweet agony.
(II)
Glow-worms tunnel dark thoughts,
like signals from an unknown.
A smouldering leavens the dead pit,
its shadowy veins start to wear
the halo of a borrowed euphoria.
Even the restful wind raises
a tantrik sibilance.
The whisper of a cotton cloud
caresses the autumn’s leaves
drifting in the wind.
We touch gingerly with lips
sorrow’s sweet pungent edges.
There is a desire to bleed and die
plumbing into pain’s obsolescence.
Listen, octaves of empty thoughts
weep a pleasing sob on a lapping shore
asking us to reveal our bodies’ secrets,
God Himself kneading truth with lies.
(The poem was written before 2000)
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
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
He is angry, very upset,
is too tired of family squabbles,
their suffocating air before squall,
also, the hollow entreaties, platitudes.
Like an unresponsive deity
to holy water or prayers,
he knows that his family
has nothing worthwhile to offer -
except, a few charred chapatis
from an obliging pan
burnt from the heat
of scalding curses;
a deceitful Peepal tree,
that cracks the wall,
but claims to be a well-wisher,
that holds the wall in one piece;
the wooden chair
that has survived the thunderbolt,
by a whisker, when its
treacherous wood
betrayed its position
with a feigned cry of panic;
a reluctant sitar that is made
to weep every morning;
the dust whorl
on the western horizon
hiding a storm
in its magnificent halo.
No worthwhile offer
fourth coming,
he has little expectation
from his squabbling family!
But he is beside himself
with anger for the family’s efforts
to solve the problem
by ‘give and take’.
Reluctant to accept –
the empty platitudes,
hollow entreaties,
cursed chapatis,
the cheating Peepal,
the deceitful chair,
the weeping sitar,
or the dust-whorl.
He may yet call off his picket
if he hears his family’s laugh
behind the roaring waterfall,
the mutual squabbles and rancor;
he may get up and change
into a fresh set of wear,
but he may again sit on a picket
if the quarrels don’t end.
(Note – The poem is chosen for the centenary issue of Literary Vibes. Solution to one problem from a slew of legitimate resentments may give temporary joy, but other pressing issues keep demanding attention.)
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)”
1
With the waves they came
Breaking into glittering spray
Swathing me
Sinking into me
Till I was lost to myself
And lived
In your words
2
Along that silver path
You came gleaming to me
Spinning strands of moonlight
Into a latticed web
That drew me closer, ever closer
Until,
a creature lured by shimmering light,
I lay caught.
3
Burrowing in sand
I bring up crabs, shells
And a sharp-edged shard of the moon.
I scoop up the sand
With both my hands
And in the long slim cave it makes
Bury myself.
Winds sieve cover over us;
Warm within my hold
I hear your heart over me
Go dub lub dub lub...
But a chill wave sweeps
To fill my bed with bitter cold
And your heart is still again.
4
I am a crab that has lost its shell;
Every flick of your finger hurts.
Your breath is a gale.
I seek in vain
For a dark rock, a weed
To retreat beneath.
This softness is pain;
I must withdraw again
Where no light strikes-
Where all is in stasis.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.
My ship not under command
wobbling on the sea of the world's
collective tears
ravaged by the winds made up of
million people's moist sighs
her steering gear broken down
and my trusts severely busted
I hoist the two red lights on my mast
and proceed to plot a quick fix.
I unroll you and spread you
carefully on my chart table
roll my parallel ruler
on your compass rose and
draw the course from my last DR*
and mark my current estimated position.
But I am not sure how far
have I drifted while riding the high tides
and how much have I been dragged
by the ebbing streams.
I look for the stars in your eyes
and find the Great Bear in all its glory
that soon changes its shape
to become Cassiopeia's chair.
The Cygnus and
the Orion
interchanging their positions
in rapid succession
make it difficult for me to shoot
a Rigel or a Deneb
but somehow I capture
an unruffled Polaris
shining meekly but steadily
and plot its altitude.
I am glad I got my latitude
but with all other stars
mocking at me and playing truant
and a moronic crescent of a moon
taunting me and
prancing on the vagrant waves
dying off in the distant horizon
how do I get the other position line
that may intersect my latitude
and give me my other coordinate
my longitude?
* DR: Dead Reckoning position based on course and speed only.
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
Home is where we are, today,
this early morning hour. And we wish it
to remain as it is. With white eyes
staring at us from every corner,
thin legless bodies walking the corridor
at night, when you pretend to sleep.
There is always someone else
occupying the chair beside mine when
I begin to dine, with my children and wife.
There’re always strange hands, waiting
to greet me when I return from outside,
graying fingers moving quietly over
handwritten pages and sketches, as if
to know and rectify my long-past errors.
There are times when we welcome strangers
as relations, as if the blood which flowed
in their veins gently spoke to our
matching blood in whispers, when we
stood or moved among others’ company—
our bodies as pale and spectral as theirs,
eyes nearly lidless, unblinking, staring
into things of tomorrow, of next year, into
matters that will end with our century.
Our wan hands take hold of things
that we know belong to others,
our lips utter sounds that do not
ever make an intelligible word
or phrase, but only a dark bluish mass
of matter that sprawl in the air
we breathe, urging us to watch
and listen to long-extinct sounds.
The things we think we possess
are owned by the people we have only heard of
but never seen, although their good wishes
seem to be with us, for how else
could we possess what we didn’t own?
At times a voice floats through
the humid midnight air, returning us
to our obligation to stay where are.
Our home, perched among our
children’s grudging smiles, hands
that are reluctant to take or give;
the dim, eventful faces from elsewhere
that could as well belong to the future
as they did to the passing and the past,
staying on in an indefinite exile.
First published in TriQuarterly
A Pushcart nominee, Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. My poems have appeared (or forthcoming) in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, American Media, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poetry, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal and Queen’s Quarterly. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Five of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, Language for a New Century (Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins), 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
DON'T GO ALONE TO THE STREETS
Sreekumar K
May be we are dead
Dead and gone
Buried and inherited
Cremated at night
Ashes floating on water
Certified to be deleted
From twitter, instagram, FB
No way we can go to the neighbour and ask
Am I dead or what?
No way to get someone to pinch us
Am I dreaming or what?
Transparent crowds in the street
Have eaten the rest of my family
Now eat our plants, and the compound wall
The Big Banyan tree in the city centre is gone
The corporation had sold it as firewood
The man who bought it was in tears
To see his money vanish like that
The river is dry, no fish, no boats
The corporation was planning to dam it
The company which bribed the Mayor
To get the contract
Couldn't move the court
So, they murdered the Mayor
On a smoggy morning
When he went for a walk
With his German wife
And Austrian dog
They cooked his wife
Along with the dog
There has not been a sun
Let alone a sunset or a sunrise
For twelve hours regularly
The clouds turn a sickly white
We call it day, the other is night
Factories had closed down
Long before they were burned down
Their owners were murdered
In broad daylight
And their homes and banks
Were looted by the workers
This is really the good news
Bad news is about ventilators
Bad news is about children
Who are not at home at home
Parents miss their hobbies at the office
The general public have their nose shortest
It is the nose it goes for, they say
There is an invisible crowd out there
And we don’t know if we are dead
There is an invisible crowd out there
And we don’t know which way to run
There is an invisible crowd everywhere
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.
The vibes we create through art
Each drop of Poetry, every story, song, rhythm from the strings, and voices
Merge with the vast ocean of art
Of wisdom, and a million human experiences
Words heal, words transform, words create change, words gift hope
Words hold promises, for our tomorrows
All the positive vibes that flow into the universe
will handhold each other
Whispering into hearts:
''Life is beautiful, if art is what we choose
To land in love with each day
Art, that sustains life..."
In the ocean of art
we are the drops, and
There is an ocean, in each drop...
Like a frisbee tossed into the air
Her heart glides over the Sea
Each wave giving a high five...
Wings of her soul, take a dip
Rise again and hug the breeze, as joy drips from every feather
The Sky in all its splendour
Blend with the flowing blue
Under the monsoon-kissed Sun
Her heart glides over the lilting waves, farther and farther
Deeper into the labyrinths of love
Her oceanic dreams, and desires flow
Under another Sky glides her heart
Slowly sailing, and drifting for a while
Waves bring her frisbee-heart to the shore
Again, pull it back, the whispers of the shells absorbed, and
The unspoken words printed on the sands...
Some day, crossing oceans, gliding into eternity
She might become the Sea...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
Between your hope
of touching my soul
with your telepathic thoughts
and my ocean of words
filled with passion
we float together
in our shared dreams
words fail me as you stun me
with your enigmatic smile
speechless yet so comfortable
where silence is an eternal poem
we float together
in our shared dreams
we understand each other
as twin souls
this understanding is born
out of our conversations of
thousands of lifetime
where we were inseparable
In this life our journey
on earth is far away,
there are oceans and
mountains in between
we met each other
by accident
and realised how far away
we are born
not meant to be together in this life
yet we float together
in our shared dreams
we understand each other
as twin souls.
Sangeeta Gupta, a highly acclaimed poet,artist and film maker, also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer, recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. She also worked as Advisor (finance & administration) of Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts.
She has to her credit 35solo exhibitions of paintings, 20 published books, has directed, scripted and shot 8 documentary films.
She is a bilingual poet and has twelve anthologies of poems in Hindi and three in English to her credit. Weaves of Time, Ekam, Song of Silence are collection of poems in English. Pratinaad,Mussavir ka Khayal (2018 ) and Roshani ka Safar (2019) are her books of poems and drawings/paintings. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography.
9 of her poetry collections are translated in Greek,German, Mandarin, English ,Urdu, Bangla and Dogri. She is based in Delhi,India.
My second home is nestled in a tree,
Along with rustling leaves with top gear,
With a river calmly flowing, carefree,
Brings scintillating music to the ear.
So refreshing, that one could for aspire,
The sky is bereft of smog on our flight,
The Earth presents a heavenly sight.
With humanity all gone underground,
On our flight from home, such empty scene,
There is a strange quietness all around,
Never in our earlier days, we've seen.
An unpolluted environment, clean.
Nature has again spelt it out,
Co existence is the best way, no doubt.
Yes, over fifteen decades have rolled,
Adorning the highway like brocades,
Having grown steadily manifold.
Yes, over fifteen decades.
On frightful storms, I carry crusades,
I became a landmark, I am told,
As I stand unscathed through the promades.
A protective umbrella, I hold,
Each passer by, in comfort, evades
Sweltering heat and showers untold.
Yes, over fifteen decades
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.
Pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
While you are heralding a Happy New Year
Smile boys, that's the style.
What's the use of drowning,
As worries draw you down?
So pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
Pick up the New Year as the hours roll by
And smile, smile, smile.
While you are bye-byeing the year flown by,
Smile girls, that's the style.
Learnt a slew of lessons,
Not looking worse off now.
So pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
Chin up, the new year is of bright blue skies
Soar high, high, high.
While you are savouring this slice of life,
Smile all, that's the style.
No sighing from us now
For things are looking up.
So pack up the Covid in the year gone by
And smile, smile, smile.
(How it evolved : Pack up your troubles...' , a popular 1915 military song that he had learnt in school was a blast from the past for S. Sundar Rajan. It inspired him to pen a happy verse based on the song. He invited his poet friend Anju Kishore to add another verse. The final verse was inspired by a picture Sundar had clicked recently that synced with their positive outlook. Full of positivity for the new year, the poem urges the world to leave a harrowing 2020 behind. Poet Padmini Viswanathan joined in to lend her mellifluous voice and chirpy whistling that added to the poem's joviality. Thus, a song was born.)
S. Sundar Rajan is a chartered accountant, a published poet and writer. His poems are part of many anthologies. He has been on the editorial team of two anthologies.
Anju Kishore is a published poet and editor. Her poems have been featured in numerous anthologies. She has been on the editorial team of four anthologies.
Padmini Viswanathan has authored three books- Nostalgia, Mylapore Lodge and Be the Book. Her poems and short stories have appeared in many anthologies.
Today things worked in my favor
I mean
The momentary visitor to
The outskirts of my room
I haven't seen in a while
Paid a visit again, this time
She perched on for a little longer
A precious possession of mine
That went broken
In a momentary rush
That I wished so much to get repaired
But in vain
Was replaced with something new
Sometimes
Replaced is better than repaired
Not always though
And I could write these words
Thankfully
As I breathe in and out
I hope what today brought with it
Wasn't momentary
Like the many things before
That I lost
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
(Picture Courtesy: Lt Col Dr Sonia Cherian, Retd )
Blinding lightning flashes
And rumbling thunder
Rain, so untimely and unusual,
Wind, ferocious, blowing off anything in sight
Another storm raging inside him!
She'd walked away hand in hand
With a new-found flare
No thoughts of hearts left behind
Their dream home, half built,
Stood with him in the rain, in disbelief!
He gazed up at the gloomy sky
Through the wooden panels
Of the house yet to be roofed
The sky, shattered as his fragmented spirit,
About to explode into another downpour!
It poured heavily for long
Drenching his heart and soul
Soon, a cry, though feeble, awakens him
The little one needs its mother
The mother in him, he didn't know existed,
Slowly evolved and took shape
Witnessing such a magical transformation,
The rain, now dances to a happier note,
And the baby finds a soothing lullaby
In his father's rapid yet calming heartbeat!
Dr. Seena Joseph is an aspiring bilingual writer. She mostly writes on social media and online magazines. She is originally from Kannur, Kerala, now settled in Boston, USA. with her husband and 2 sons. She is a dentist by profession and a writer by passion.
The evening hangs heavy in the room.
My notebook and pencil lie idle.
The final candle is struggling through
The last of its illustrious moments.
Short-lived thoughts
Buzz and clash all around.
Tired of it all, the mind must be
Lying wasted in some corner
Unsought, unfound.
My heart wanders down unfamiliar paths
Breathing in damp air
Over the mossy, slippery cobblestones.
Of late, my body and heart behave
Like an old couple in a lovelorn marriage.
The light in my room flickers.
The wind howls in a violent orgy.
The valley lights up in streaks from hell.
When the skies open tonight,
The valley, the garden and the alleys
Where deathly silence lurks,
Will all be covered in glorious generosity.
The restless skies of my mind too
Fill up with dark clouds.
Rainshadows, no rains.
The damp breeze brings along
Faint tolls of a distant church bell.
Sweet notes rise and ebb
Driving nails into my ears
And deeper into the soul.
I must shut my windows tight,
Lest the demons from the dark devour me -
I prefer the familiar ones inside.
When the candle finally succumbs,
I want to cover my eyes with stale indifference.
I won't wait by the window anymore
For that guest who fails.
Some windows are best kept shut,
Some feelings are best quarantined.
Sasikumar is from Kerala, and is currently living and working in Bangalore. He loves literature, travelling, movies and music. He tries his hand at poems and short stories in his leisure time, and is working towards becoming a published author soon.
This was a protoplanet not long ago
A nebulous coalescing dust cloud
Now volcano-smoke stained its sky,
Lightning flashed and thunder growled.
What was this shape that glided in
To crash on the heaving land?
Too smoothly shaped to be a meteor
Fragmenting on the rocky strand.
The silver shape fell from the sky
The thin air screamed its protest
Globules of matter splashed, vaporised,
And the spaceship came to rest.
Broken and mangled, who had launched it?
How many light years had it flown?
The answers to these questions
Would remain forever unknown.
The sturdy viruses inside the ship
Had survived the ravages of space
To colonise their new world, to evolve
And engender many a worthy race.
First came bacteria and fungi
Then plants which produced oxygen
Lizards and animals, and finally
A thinking race of men.
Over the ages, the spaceship had sunk
To the ocean depths far below,
The last bit of broken metal, for a little time
Still emitted a feeble glow.
Soon, it, too, became embedded
In the base of a coral accretion
Which grew and obliterated
The once proud silver inscription:
"Manufactured in AD 2050
By a collaborative alliance
Of India, Japan and Australia
In the interests of pure science".
Gita Bharath has enjoyed five years of teaching middle school before starting on a banking career that lasted thirty four years. Now, happily retired, she focusses on writing and trying out kolam art.
Her first book Svara contains three hundred poems, comprising narrative, humour,and philosophical verses. Her work has featured in international anthologies, and won prizes from Literoma, Asian Literary Society, Story Mirror, etc,
In a quiet corner of my simple home,
Transported here from Hogwarts,
Stands The Mirror of Erised on its two clawed feet.
Its ornate gold frame, though brown with age,
Exudes an aura of resilience and dependability,
Its brownness rendering a dignified elegance
To its ancient charm and magnificence.
‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.’
So the inscription carved around the top reads.
No Greek or Latin is this,
Nor a cryptic code for a clever head to decode.
No, the words are but just a mirror image—
‘I show not your face but your heart’s desire.’
'What desire of mine would it show me?' I wonder—
Impulsive longings of the past
That stemmed into pain?
Or fanciful craving for an illusive glorious future
That would branch out into disappointments?
The stems and branches are not callow anymore,
The wood now brown, mature and wise,
I yearn not a revival of the pain—
The pain is in the past, forgotten now.
I aspire not too to blemish future surprises…
Forget it, “future” is not even a tense in grammar.
Here I am today, at peace with myself,
In my natural state,
A mindful balance of darkness and light,
No-regrets, no-expectations, self-sufficient.
But please don’t translate it as denying myself
The little joys in life, like…hmm…yes…
Chocolate!
Neither an impulsive craving nor a fanciful craving,
But a desire, nevertheless.
Ah! These are lockdown times… I am sceptical…
Curious, I stand before the smoky reflector…
Is that a streak of brown I discern?
I crinkle my eyes and step closer to the mirror but
I am distracted… the doorbell chimes.
In lockdown times? Puzzled, yet I open the door.
‘Homemade. I know you love them,’ she says,
A huge smile playing on her lips.
It's my next door neighbour with a plate full of
Smooth, sinful, seductive brown squares!
I am back again before the Mirror of Erised:
That's brown I see—
The melt-in-the-mouth chocolate on the plate I hold in my left,
And streaks of warm, delightful brown smudges
Upon my grinning lips and the fingers of my right hand.
Whoever said there was no magic in the world?
Footnotes:Smoke and Mirrors means something that distorts, like a conjuring trick
(The Mirror of Erised, created by author J.K.Rowling first appears in ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone’. My descriptions of the mirror in this poem are in reference to its description given in the book when Harry Potter stumbles upon it unexpectedly one night. These are the words from the book:
“It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: ‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.’)
Vidya Shankar, a widely published Indian poet, writer, English teacher, a “book” in the Human Library, and an editor with Kavya-Adisakrit (an imprint of Adisakrit Publishing House), says poetry is not different from her. The author of two poetry books The Flautist of Brindaranyam (in collaboration with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan), and The Rise of Yogamaya, she has received several literary awards and recognitions. She finds meaning to her life through yoga and mandalas.
In the silvery layers of the ocean,
I see you.
A swish of a tail,
A ripple in a wave,
A sliver of moon reflected on your skin.
I hear you sing.
Soulful, melodious, breathtaking
Your voice rendering such mellifluous music!
I yearn to be with you.
You cast a dimpled smile
Half hidden by a curtain of tresses.
Your shimmering skin
Resembling a thousand mirrors.
Your fluttering tail
Reflecting a million rainbows.
I have forgotten who I am!
And I crave to be with you.
I row my boat farther from the shore.
I hear the wood scrape against the rock
The sea water gushes in.
As I am being pulled down to the depths,
I see only you.
I hear only you.
One last time I rush up for air
I see you swim away.
Your iridscence fading.
Floating notes of music.
Crashing woods of another boat.
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
Right now, I’m a mess
My mind seems to have run
Away with my thoughts.
My emotions seem to be going
Everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I am, right now, confusion personified.
It is dark all around
I can see figures,
But don’t know whether
They’re human or animal
I can hear whispers
But can’t seem to find
The source.
It seems as if the demons of the dark
Are having a heated discussion
They’re wondering whether or not to take over me!!
So great is my confusion..
..that even the demons have to think twice.
The only relief I get
Is by looking at myself
At least my eyes haven’t been
Replaced by my knees
Nor has my heart traded places
With my kidneys.
I haven’t grown horns
Nor have my ears suddenly sprouted an under bush.
I haven’t grown a goatee or a moustache
And my nose hasn’t turned into a snout.
Confusion surrounds me
No solution in sight
I guess I better put down my pen
And turn off the lights!!
(In loving memory of Rev. Dea. S.F. Malvea – my Nanaji)
Neha Sarah is a Wild Child, a voracious reader with a wild imagination, who has always found beauty in the written word. By the grace of God, She is blessed with the talent to write her heart out and her poems reflect her thoughts, fears, triumphs and defeats.
Time flows unnoticed, voices
in the wind are empty, unknown.
The familiar sky is abuzz with
endless stream of words, songs.
And it trudges onward; therefore,
on waking up, someone is seen
before the mirror, weeping and laughing.
As you come closer, the river
disappears and the shadow of
a dinosaur moves to horizon.
A little boat loses its way in
a dead estuary in this night,
the last night of December,
and questions the winter sky.
The stolid white sky resembles
the face of god ; it may exist or may not.
The inevitable morning descends
from the heart of the wall-clock.
My promises to you remain incomplete.
After your departure that day
the feel of your lips on tea cups,
the dense air on eyebrow of each flower,
the intimacy of the embracing spring
fomented a typhoon in the senses.
You vanished in a yellow storm of
the falling dry leaves when
the afternoon was slowly sinking
in to the lap of a moonless night.
Each time in this night, I measure
your distance from me.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) completed Masters in Political Science from Utkal University in 1979. He joined SAIL as an Executive Trainee for two years. From SAIL he moved on to Reserve Bank of India in 1982. For nearly 34 years. he served in RBI in various capacities as a bank supervisor and regulator and retired as a Principal Chief General Manager in December 2016. During this period, inter alia, he also served as a Member Secretary to important Committees set up by RBI, represented the Bank in international fora, framed policies for bank regulations etc.
Though he had a lifelong passion for literature, post- retirement he has concentrated on writing poetry. He has been awarded Special Commendation Prizes twice in 2017 and 2019 by the Poetry Society of India in all India poetry competitions and the prize winning poems have been anthologised. At present, he is engaged in translating some satirical Odia poems into English.
There is no time for tears,
Wipe them quickly,
Someone may see them,
And know how vulnerable you are!
There is no time for tears,
Smile and let the world think,
Everything is fine...under control!
Like a quintessential hero,
Bathe yourself in the light of eternal glory!
There is no time for tears,
You being intelligent,
Can keep fooling the world,
All is well.........all is well!
There is no time for tears,
What will the world do?
Knowing you are devastated!
With you?
There is no time for tears,
Smile with your pearl white teeth,
After all, you are a champion,
And champions don’t break easily!
There is no time for tears,
Only time for deeds,
And good deeds alone,
To redeem us!
There is no time for tears,
Just shock and disbelief,
And all those negative emotions,
You know you can’t handle?
There is no time for tears,
Resurrect again and again,
Like the legendary phoenix bird,
And quell all fears!
Dr. S. Padmapriya is a well known poet and writer from India. She began writing poems in English at the tender age of seven. She is the author of three poetry collections – ‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’ and ‘Galaxy’ as well as one novel, ‘The Fiery Women’ and ‘Fragments’, a collection of short stories. Her poems, short stories, book reviews, articles and other literary works have been published far and wide. She is a multi-faceted personality with experience in teaching, research and administration.
Tempestuous wind wails and howls,
The ground is shifting all around,
A storm is blowing up the sand,
She can hardly see the barren land.
The sky is dark, an empty page,
No light beacons through the haze,
Her footprints on the sand of time,
Blown out before they form a line.
No signs, no trace of past path,
Not a thing, to follow the last,
All alone in this forsaken realm,
She marches alone, forging her lane.
Step by step, weathers the storm,
Breaking barriers with each one,
Chirping bangles, answer to none,
Demand respect not approval.
Guided by her beliefs, her soul,
Uncharted territory she explores,
A lonely figure, wild but sure,
Triumphant hope drives her ashore.
(This was inspired by a story about a transgender politician but can be a generic rebel too. I have attached a picture that depicts a woman in a pride march which I think works well.)
Supriya Pattanayak is an IT professional, based in the UK. Whenever she finds time, she loves to go for a walk in the countryside, lose herself among the pages of a book, catch up on a Crime/Syfy TV series or occasionally watch a play. She also likes to travel and observe different cultures and architecture. Sometimes she puts her ruminations into words, in the form of poetry or prose, some of which can be found as articles in newspapers or in her blog https://embersofthought.blogspot.com/ .
A shabby, dirty unwashed looking shadow of a man
Labelled as a less valuable asset societywise
With wobbly steps, in a torn shirt
Longing looking at the empty plastic bottles
Being shouted on by a well dressed man
Labelled as a gentleman by society
Standing by a garbage bin,
the shabby one continues to pick his precious treasure
A liitle one pops her head from beneath the treasure
Covering for refuge, tail held high up
Judging his next move
Only to be gently picked
Showered with a hug and placed near wasted food
As the gentleman continued to shout
A kind hearted soul mislabelled
A true gentleman at heart
Dr. Rupali Mishra is a 2nd year Post Graduate of SCB Medical College and Hospital, Cuttack, Odisha; sketches and reads poetry, stories and articles, besides being engaged in medicine research and application ; presently working, in a workforce of doctors fighting against Corona. She can be reachable at docrupalimishra@gmail.com.
I threw the butt ends
Of my smoked cigar
Trampled it under my feet
Past , present merged in it .
Know not what signalled
This aborted merger
Nor what message it bore
For the ever expectant
Speculative coy mistress
Dark apparelled, virgin future .
A flow, a reflexive process
Effected the clash, the merger
At a point in abstraction
Here and there or anywhere
Do little matter ; hardly matter .
Pedantic analysis falters
But ultimate realisation smears
The mind with the holy ash
And shuts the door on fears.
As destined destination
Draws solemnly closer
A willing warm acceptance
Turns every fallen grey leaf
In to assured chaste intimacy
As in saliva sealed, first love letter .
Past ; a muffled drum
May cast a pall of gloom
Or like an old photo album
Sprout roses in full bloom
All around , tempt you too
As does your old school
Fumbling now on lost tunes
With vocal cords in doldrums
To dwell on memories cuddlesome
Of morning chorus , fancy costumes .
T.S . Eliot silently elbows
With lessons in Quartets Four
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present
In time future.........
Tattered images disappear
Butt ends merrily discarded
Like a broken dressing mirror .
Mind settles with time present
Forging a nuptial bond of serenity
In awakened calmness
Here after , for ever .
Born on 14th August 1960, Shri Mishra is a post-graduate in English Literature and has a good number of published poems/articles both in Odiya and English. He was a regular contributor of articles and poems to the English daily, 'Sun Times' published from Bhubaneswar during '90s. As the associate editor of the Odiya literary magazine Sparsha, Mishra's poems, shared mostly now in his facebook account are liked by many
HUNDRED HOPES AND MILLION DREAMS!
With every jerk, that mankind gets
There arises a new way of life to bliss
With every pain that comes long
There comes a relief that can sing a song
With every distress that torments us
Mankind emerges above the fuss
Be it the pandemic or the potholes
We know to cross them both with smiles
Be it the depression or devastations
We know to rebuild the lives with all we can!
Be it the destruction or the demeaning
We know to rekindle the spirit of life to reigning
How far can we get, and how fast we arise
Amidst the pains of the nature’s wrath?
How fast we recover, how deeper we dig
Amidst the chaos that succumbs us around.
Let us arise and shine again with hundred hopes
And Million dreams – that weave this mankind
Let us ascend the steps of life, with the hopes
Of a better tomorrow and a better life
Let us chase those unfinished tasks to complete
We should with none, but with us compete
Make us feel the part of ever uplifting mankind
Filled with love, compassion, truth and being kind!
Yes, lets end this era of pandemic with grace
With Hundred Hopes & Million Dreams to embrace!
Umasree Raghunath is a Senior IT Professional/ Author/ Blogger/ Poet/ Lawyer/ Diversity & Inclusion Social Activist/ Motivational Speaker, Past President - Inner Wheel Club of Madras South, Vice-President-eWIT . Umasree has close to 400 poems across various themes, subjects, situations and emotions and been writing since she was 13 years old. She is the Author of the Book- Simply Being Sidds and also has a live blog in her own name.
Trodden on the forbidden lane
Dragging down dumps of despair
These little homeless fellows
Slowly walk towards a snare.
Impervious: it has made them all
To all perils and penury
Heedless to the ‘boisterous pomp’
They transcend into hallows of poverty.
Their imploring eyes staring
Through their tousled hair
Compromising delight with dignity
Their bodies emaciated and bare.
The train lines-‘lines of fire’-
Chain them to their destiny
Where freedom means nothing
But a dark shadow of ignominy.
Ms Akankshya Kar primarily works as a sales trader in the Indian debt market with a reputed Primary Dealer. After completing her B.A(H) in Economics from Miranda House( University of Delhi), she did her PGDM(Banking and Finance) from National Institute of Bank Management, Pune. She has been extremely passionate about poems as a genre and has been writing for a long time now. Some of her poems have been published in the refereed international Journal, the Contemporary Vibes and have been discussed at international forums as well. She is also a trained Indian classical singer and a professionally trained belly dancer.
WHAT’S IN A C-SECTION DELIVERY?
With an exceedingly generous gesture of love and affection, i dedicate this poem to the spring of our life, anvik sujeeth, who will be 25 days old on this promising day of merry chirtmas
(Picture Courtesy - Amal I Kumar)
It Was A C-Section Delivery
Everything Happened In A Few Minutes Hurry Burry
Nine Months Passed Like A Smooth Breeze
Nine Seconds Made My Pregnant Tummy Squeeze
I Whispered - “The Most Unkindest Cut Of All”
In A Wink’s Time, I Heard My Doctor’s Call
It’s Baby Boy, Dear, Said The Doctor
Oh, He Is Separated From Me By The Dissector
They Slowly Unveiled My Face To See My Little Love’s Cute Face
In That Moment Of Cloud Nine, My Faint Self Felt His Auspicious Grace
I Heard Them Calling My Bystander
His Dad Was Ecstatic To See His Cute Candor
His Grandparents Were Brimming With Joy
My Sister Was Curious To Gift Him Toy
After A While, I Came Out Of The Operation Room
After A Glimpse Of My Loved Ones, I Was Shifted To The Icu Room
I Began Counting Moments To Get Rid Of That Drastic Day
Yearning For The Umpteen Alluring Days With My Munchkin To Play
(P.s - this is written while on bed rest )
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
LOVE SONG OF YOUNGMAN, SLIGHTLY OLD.
After a long hiatus I am again in love.
Well I am never out of it,
sometimes deeply embroiled, sometimes superficial.
Love is multi splendoured,
walks on cat's feet,
creeps stealthily to your heart and seizes you.
You croon like a flower blowing in a soft wind.
One may find love even after Sixty, is it not strange?
Eight years ago when I broke the news
of my new girl friend, Chittada joked,
I laughed and laughed.
My latest one smiles whenever she sees me,
I reciprocate.
Think of her while I go to sleep,
she comes to my dreams in fading hours of morn,
think of her as soon as
I rise up.
Distracted, I no longer watch Netflix or read books,
writing is difficult.
she takes much of my time,
I don't mind.
Cuddle her gently, sometimes kiss and caress,
well, is it not love?
Thousands years of penance and gospels,
thousands years of scriptures and sermons,
thousands years of Lord's advents, wars and revelations
didn't civilize us enough,
they torture, kidnap and kill our girls and mothers even now
for no fault of their own,
often with no remorse and tend to trivialise the crimes.
Rancour runs swift in our veins,
right from the days of Ramayana our myths defile women,
Sita couldn't protest against multiple indignities,
neither did Ahalya who was turned into stone for no reason,
Draupadi had to wed five against her consent,
we believe in the flimsy pleas of men made tales all the ages and subjugate women.
As they are not united,
as they don't know their real strength,
as they tolerate like earth all the crimes,
as they can't defend themselves with arms,
as leaders and courts deny them justice,
girls like Pari, Swati and others fall easy prey
to the lust and greed of men.
Pradeep Rath, poet, dramatist, essayist, critic, travelogue writer and editor is an author of ten books of drama, one book of poetry in English, 'The Glistening Sky', two books of criticism, two books of travelogues and two edited works, Pradeep Rath was a bureaucrat and retired from IAS in 2017. His dramas, compendium of critical essays on Modernism and Post modernism, comparative study on Upendra Bhanja and Shakespeare, travelogues on Europe and America sojourns, Coffee Table book on Raj Bhavans of Odisha have received wide acclaim. He divides his time in reading, writing and travels.
(Edited by Dr. Ampat Koshy)
Smoke
zigzags from the incense-waves
burnt at dusk
Once,
they were to me
blessings from the gods
grandma sang to in praise
How swiftly
softly
repeatedly
I’d cup them all in,
as she sat in prayer
with her eyes closed — before
Amma in a switch’s switch
eclipses the fiery nilavilaku,
while flicker wicks in
the earthen lamp
under tulsi leaves,
dissolve slowly
into the black, sapphire sky.
Seventeen years;
I still trace the snaky tendrils
from the incense,
sometimes sense it
smilingly or sulking,
often with no thoughts
no emotions.
They’re kisses,
so far away from where
grandma prays
unseen…
Parvathy Salil is the author of: "The One I Never Knew" (AuthorsPress, Delhi, 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, she is pursuing her second master’s degree in Gender Studies at SOAS University of London. A former Young India Fellow at Ashoka University (2019), she has recited her poems for the All India Radio’s Yuvavani, as well as for the : South India Poetry Festival 2017, Krithi International Literature Festival 2018, Mathrubhumi International Festival Of Letters 2019 etc. She is the winner of several literary competitions including the Poetry competition held during the Darshana International Book Fair 2016. She was also a participant of the National Championship and had secured the second rank in the Inter-school Oral and State-level Written Championship of MaRRS International Spelling Bee (2013-14).
Winter swirls rapidly in,
On the heels of a mellow autumn
Too soon. Much too soon.
I desire a different pace
Fruit to ripen quicker
And skin to wrinkle slower.
Life is the short trip
Between the fish monger and pharmacy
Via a path around a wintry lake
Between sighs of the earth
A bald eagle lazily takes flight
Watching through a snow globe
Down into my vanishing time.
My time the thick, stodgy molasses.
My time the brisk, tumbling rapids.
Born a poet at heart, Dr. Sangita Kalarickal has been honing her craft since childhood. As a published fantasy writer with a soft corner for literary fiction, she lives in Minnesota, USA, with her husband, kid, and the several characters she writes about. Currently she is working on her first chapbook. In her day job avatar she is a physicist, and has also been known to moonlight as a gardener, and a community volunteer.
I live in the world virtual
She lives in the world actual
The world is atop on my lap, in my laptop
Her world is mostly in her sovereign domain, the heavenly kitchen
She had never touched the mouse
That had become the key to the world around
I boast I know the universe as I am a professor
She in her universe is a poor home-maker,
Remains busy with pressures like that of the pressure cooker
Though for small part of the day, tiny-tots are her care,
She being a part-time nation builder!
Stealthily she paces into my study space
To hand over the tea or on some plea,
At my small screen from corners of her wide sparkling eyes
She indulges in intelligent glances spree
Lo, she finds elegant beauties waving at me
Models popping up one after the other without intermission
Shilpa to Kareena to Aishwarya to many a legion
Her face reddens
On her nose gets fastened frown
How without her permission
These ladies could shamelessly parade in to show their apron
Capture her husband’s attention
How long this tamasa has been going on
She wonders on and on
The grouse in her heart boils and boils to a balloon’s proportion!
Explanations go in vain
Professor an old man
Profession no attraction for persons who roll on billions !
Clime changes with time
Time, the great changer, avenger and equaliser,
It brings in a Pandemic that changed a lot in the world, in one and all
Making virtual the new normal
To teach the Tiny Tots she has taken to the tools of artificial intelligence
Sends A,B,C,D to her little learners every morning a day and day after
But to her utter confusion and surprise ever
Shahrukh, Abhishek, Hrithik appear from nowhere
In the corners of the small computer and wave at her
Ever loving he asks her, what is the fun dear, how goes the business here
Why these guys are after you hanker
She doesn't know, is her answer sober
She a down-to-earth ordinary woman ever
Nothing to do with these unsolicited intruders, the so-called filmy stars!
Then asks her sweet-heart
Now since you know what is treasure and what is trash
Why were you doing then the gestapo business?
That is the Dharma
Prompt comes the emphatic answer
The love of wife for her most beloved ever
Every wife must be a gestapo
That is the sign and proof of love for the dearest dear!
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
"Auntie", I get called
By the countless children
Of my neighborhood;
Some even in their late teens..
I don't mind. I have stopped minding;
A year or two before I would chide them:
I'm not so old to be your Auntie, dont call me that..
Now, I don't mind ..
When you don't have nephews and nieces nearby
It helps to be called like that,
By any kid, even if he is on the verge of adulthood..
And then this dark-skinned girl
Of indeterminable age
Walks up to me in a traffic signal ..
Indeterminable, because her eyes have aged,
And her body still a child's..
Through the open auto-rickshaw,
A thin hand extended for alms,
A strange feeling of an aura
Of a remote Tamil village permeated her presence..
Instead of the usual , 'Amma' or 'Akka' used by alms seekers,
My ears tingled with the word she uttered,
"Chithi!"..." I'm fainting, Chithi", she said..I have not eaten for two days..
I did not know if she was telling the truth..
I did not know if I could really solve her problem
But it was the month of Aadi
And this girl-child, in dingy clothing evoked in me
Strange emotions...of temples and fairs,
And a goddess wearing nose-rings on both nostrils..
She'd called me Aunt, that's all,
But that word in the Tamil language implies more than that..
It means 'like a mother'..
While 'Amma' said in a dragged out tone failed to impress me, ever,
By many an alms seeker
This short-syllabled word hit me,
I felt responsible for her, but my traffic signal turned green,
I handed over my take-away dinner to her
And placed a hand over her head in blessing;
May you find a better life, child !
Now, I heard the word
From one of my own land
Uttering the syllable, so spontaneously,
In an elite gathering of a foreign land,
And I remember this girl-child,
The therukoothu and village fairs,
The boom boom maadu, the poikaal kuthirai,
And the child-like goddess,
With nose-rings on her nostrils.
In the background, I hear the heady beats
Of the pambai and udukkai,
Yes, I have in me somewhere,
A piece of the beloved Tamil heartland.
Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in
AN ODE TO YEAR OF CORONA
Dr Ajay Upadhyay
Goodbye 2020,
Brazen was your style,
The Dark Prince,
ushered in,
uninvited.
Abrasive was his ways,
didn’t mince the message:
Majesty in minimalism.
Scraping of all that’s useless,
left behind,
sheen of the simple.
Locked us down,
bodies chained in masks:
Abundant was your
precious gift of time,
to find hiding Houdini in us,
for setting our mind free.
Toiled us in
blood and tear:
Forcing us focus on
what is in hand,
away from
the pie in the sky.
Only a true friend
speaks the bitter truth,
with a smile.
Waiting in the wings,
2021, to pick up your baton.
If only,
I can see through
its disguise,
get an inkling of
the grand design!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
The vast expanse of a dirty brown protrusion,
As if skewering the blue skies above,
It stood tall and proud,
An accident that was intended by the Gods.
But an anger, oh, a rage!
Rumbled in the belly of the beast,
The heart burning up the skin of the creature,
A light shudder, a light tremble.
It could feel itself give up control,
As aeons of its efforts went to waste,
The earth let out a sigh,
As the golden red ornamented the sienna.
It roared, the sound deafening,
Like that of a million bullets,
Being fired at the same moment,
Raining down from the sky.
The call awakened it's twin,
So similar yet completely different,
He was the grace to her brawn.
He rose to join her on her expedition.
Together, the blistering heat and the frigid cold,
Wreaked havoc on the earth,
His eloquence matching her force,
Their waves sweeping through the towns.
The pyroclastic flow,
With lightning crackling in her womb,
Rose to glory in the dawn,
Their flare blocking out the sun.
A terrible dance between the emperors of yore,
The earth bowing down in reverence,
They feasted till their hunger was appeased,
Laying for another indefinite rest.
Thryaksha Ashok Garla, an eighteen-year-old, has been writing since she was a little kid. She has a blog and an Instagram account with about 200 poems posted till date. She touches upon themes such as feminism, self-reliance, love and mostly writes blues. Her poems have been published in two issues of the 'Sparks' magazine, and in poetry anthologies such as ‘Efflorescence' of Chennai Poets’ Circle , 'The current', 'The Metverse Muse', 'Our Poetry Archive', 'Destine Literare', 'Untamed Thrills and Shrills', 'Float Poetry', and in the 'Setu e-magazine.' She won the first place in the poetry competition held by India Poetry Circle (2018) held in Odyssey. She's pursuing psychology. She's a voracious reader, a violinist, and dabbles in art. She can be reached at: thryaksha@gmail.com by e-mail, Instagram: @thryaksha_wordsmith and on her blog https://thryaksha.wordpress.com/.
BHARTI’S PRAYER
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
A runner did come
From the wiggling ghat’s end
To convey me a message, secret.
I pray,
Let the moon wane, wane wane.
For, when the moon gets dissolved
And nothing sees anything,
My immaculate lover in confinement
Will cut those barrier bars
Caging him for years long,
Paining me all the time.
On that blind night
When my lover gathers freedom,
Unknown to those who cursed him in,
I’ll pray,
Let the moon wax, wax, wax.
For, when the moon matures once more,
Imitating the bright big sun,
Will my lover advent, traversing
Mountains wild and valleys illegible,
To offer me a kiss long sought
Under the Heaven’s basking glory.
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.
Her lush green canopy held wide open,
The rain tree by the cornfield
Rocks in her arms,
A baby girl in a makeshift cradle;
While the mother toils in the fields for a measly meal,
The leaves jingle their rattles in the breeze,
The birds coo stories of distant lands,
The flowers paint their thoughts in pink,
For the little one.
Folding palms in gratitude
For the seasons –
For the gifts of rain and sunshine,
Snowflakes and dew drops,
The tree, watches over the little girl;
.
Living a dream,
The tree eagerly awaits her little girl,
Now, a wildflower in bloom -
The sweet chime of her anklet bells,
Her peals of laughter,
Her squeals of joy,
When she would swoop low to lift her and
Perch her on the branch
Where the woodpecker has left her
A gift in the hollow.
Voices of dissent from the rumbling bellies,
Earlier a murmur, now in roars -
Their muscles rippling as the fists rise;
‘They ought to be silenced’, growl the men
Who own the lands and the uniforms.
The rain tree stands rooted in horror -
The hyenas, their jaws clenched, out on a hunt
Sink their bloodstained teeth and claws
Into her little girl, ripping her apart;
‘Let it be a lesson’, they laugh and whoop
Hanging her on the branch,
That once cradled her.
The birds, in shocked silence
The leaves, with bated breath
The tree, with her hands to her head
Mourn
The feeble knell of the anklet bells on the feet
Hanging from the branch,
That once cradled her.
The world of words and the sounds of music having always tugged at her heart, Radhika Nair left a successful IT career to pursue her passion .She has written widely on Art & Culture for ‘The Hindu’ and other publications. ‘The Sound Of Words’ is an anthology of her poems. She has also penned lyrics for the Malayalam blockbuster ‘Anarkali’. She lives in Kochi with her family and her dog.
ARCHIVES OF AN UNKNOWN
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak MBBS ,MD, FCCP
You come alone,
Complete your sojourn,
And go alone,
Where to ,
Still in mystery.
But sure,
From where, how and when you come.
How you enjoyed
The celestial objects,
Reached up to them,
Explored them,
Enjoyed their hide and seek.
Enjoyed the earthly pleasures.
Nature fascinates you,
The sunlight brightens you,
The moonlit soothes you,
The wind vibrates you,
The rain bathes you,
The birds chirp for you,
The oceans sing for you,
The mountains lift you,
The trees swing you,
Everything you need,
Provided to you.
Finally, the moment arrived,
No log off,
No sign off,
No switch off,
But a black screen,
“Crash Dump”,
The error repeats,
And you are deleted,
Forever.
Leaving behind
A drizzle to mourn,
For an Unknown.
Now ,where ?
In memory,
And in archives.
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha, MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and 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 has been working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin.
BEING A FLUTE
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
A piece of bamboo
Floating in the stream
Perfectly hollow
Without any naught,
Detached from
The wild groove
Pensively thinking
How it can contribute
To the overall entity,
To be of some utility.
In the process
Will find
The real purpose of life.
Can it sing?
As good as the stream
And, help float a mind
In the cool gentle breeze
With some soft music?
An Angel with a glowing face
Came down peeping
Anxious to clear its doubts.
Become a flute,
Is not that easy
It needs to undergo
Lots of pain to allow holes
Around the body.
That can create
The divine melody
With the desired practice.
Whatever may be
The difficulties,
Creating melody
With divinity,
Is still better than
Being an unwanted piece.
THE DREAM GIRL
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
This time
It was different,
She came on her own,
Stealthily, tiptoed,
Opening the door,
Came face to face
To pour the heart
Overflowing with love
To splash the paint
On the canvas
And scribble few lines
With golden words
Creating a book of verses
Reminiscing bygone years.
Holding my hand in care
Serenading me
In the moonlit night
Away from public glare,
She created the poetry
Beyond the grasp of mind
Making the heart swing
In great euphoria.
I wasn’t aware
Until she came closer
And stroked my hair
To tell she was the girl,
Who ruled the dream
I had woven,
All these years.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
I stood there auctioning the sky
as the year was coming to a close.
Some laughed at me,
some walked away.
Many returned to look at the sky
and asked which corner of the sky was for sale.
I smiled and said all corners,
the whole sky was to be sold.
I just raised my hand and plucked a piece.
See, here it is, a sample,
blue and soft like cotton candy,
you can take it
and stitch a fabric of dreams
or cover your window with
curtains made from a piece of the sky.
You will have the sky at home
plastered like a sheet of hope
on your window, for the weary souls
who pass by your house
lonely and sad, tired and lost.
You can even make the sky into a large canvas
to paint your unfulfilled dreams.
The moon will come and sit at the window
to drape herself by the sky you buy
You will drink the moonlight
in palmful of gulps.
What is the price, you ask me
O, I will take your dreams
in exchange for a piece of the sky,
And then we will live on borrowed moments
from time buried in eternity,
we will dump our worries in a forlorn bin.
We will forget all the miseries,
the tears of the closing year
and sleep under a canopy
made from the largest piece of the sky,
we will weave soft lights of our dreams,
It will be ours, yours and mine and everyone's,
A new beginning,
When the pages of the calendar will turn
And usher in a new year.
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.
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