Literary Vibes - Edition CIV (30-Apr-2021) (POEMS)
Title : My Farm House (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 104th edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with some wonderful poems and brilliant stories. Hope you will enjoy them.
In this edition we are happy to welcome Dr. Debasis Panigrahi, Ms. Preethi Govindaraj, Ms. Ritika Sriram, Mr. Arpit Jain, Ms. Kavitha Jayasree and the young, precocious Anushka Devi - all brilliant and promising poets and writers. We are indeed lucky to have them in the family of LiteraryVibes. We wish them spectacular success in their literary journey.
The indefatigable poet Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak has embarked on a trip to the hoary past of mankind and through a wonderful maze of historical and geographical landmarks has presented a beautiful account under the title "Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow". I have published it as a separate article due to its large size. You can access it at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/377
We are indeed passing through very trying times. Not a day passes when we don't receive some bad news or the other. In the past ten days I have lost a relative, a few friends, batchmates, cadre mates and a dear friend's wife. In one case it was within twenty four hours of detection of Covid that my friend gasped for breath and passed away, even before his close relatives could arrive.
One of the greatest literary personalities of Odisha, Shri Manoj Das passed away three days back, leaving a void difficult to fill. We at LiteraryVibes pay our deepest respect to the creative genius and pray to God to rest his soul in peace.
These days one is afraid to check messages in the morning, fearing a bad news. The television gives no solace, horrifying scenes of people fighting for beds in hospitals, waiting for oxygen when their relatives breathe their last, doctors being manhandled and dead bodies piling up.on cremation grounds, hardly bring a sense of confidence in the times that we are living in.
The worst part is the dilemma that the crisis poses. Every turn is a mystery, every question is a riddle. Should we allow IPL to take place when the country is reeling under a pandemic, should we retain migrants at their place of work, should we allow export of oxygen, should we continue mega events like the election rallies or the Kumbh mela - every question has a positive and a negative answer. It's as if mankind is at a momentous cross road, at its wit's end, unable to decide where to go, which direction to take.
Only yesterday I asked a doctor friend of mine whether I should use a mask while taking a walk in the evening on the roof of my house. He blasted me for not wearing a mask and advised that masks are to be used even inside the house. I am afraid our times will go down in history as the period of masked civilisation.
And yet, isn't it great that in these very very difficult times our poets and writers find time to give expression to their literary urge? I browsed the Internet to look for some poems of hope in these times of despair. To my amazement I found young children writing wonderful poems on Corona, reflecting their frustration, yet looking forward with hope. I am presenting a few of those poems, collected from the Sigaporean newspaper The Straits Times
1.
When there wasn't coronavirus, I could have hang out with friends,
go to school and crowded places.
Now it is upside down.
I don't go outside anymore as confirmed cases rise.
That makes me stay at home alone without meeting or playing with friends.
We may not have summer vacation with the school's opening delayed.
I wish to go back in the days once the crisis ends
(Zharick, 15, Columbia)
2.
When we are so close, from being so far away from those we love
When love becomes a priority and only until yesterday, it was part of a further delay
When giving you a kiss is what I want most, but I can't. I mustn't.
When I embrace you my soul cries out and only yesterday I had no time.
When going out for a walk in the park was the super plan and always an excuse.
And today, when I have no more time and no more excuses I can only say goodbye.
So, please, I'm asking you to stay home.
(Gael Alberto, 17, Mexico)
3.
It is a virus that made the world like the city of the dead
After we were playing with friends, the streets became empty.
We used go to a school to gain knowledge with my classmates.
But now we are sitting in our homes on our own
It is a virus that has deprived us from work and from the family's livelihood
A virus that if it infects a person, it weakens his strength
He would be deprived of seeing his family, loved ones and friends
His immunity fades if he cannot fight it
Ramadan came and we could not go to the mosques
Ramadan that's full of generosity comes without us being able to go to the mosques
We hope this pandemic will end and return to our lives
We return to our school, mosque, and work and see our loved ones
Eid will come and we will pray the Eid prayer in the mosque and see our loved ones.
(Fouad, 17, Yemen)
4.
Stay at home, please. Today the whole world is in distress.
Everyone advises in horror and fear. Wash your hands, sanitise yourself, don't infect us.
No guests, no visitors. We are alone at home
Corona stole our life.
Keep your distance, keep your distance and we did.
We became a few memories. Whenever they pass our imagination we smile.
Where's the school? Where are the classes? And my friends, and the teacher asking us about our homework.
Empty and sad streets. And the play grounds are as if they're asking about us.
Corona, tomorrow you will see. Our dreams, our awareness and our will bring us victory over you.
(Lincoln, 11, United Kingdom)
5.
Life was always fast-paced, we never slowed down,
Until everything stopped when Corona came to town
Now all is quiet and there's peace all around,
We've looked in our hearts and kindness we've found.
We learn now with mum, this is a new feature,
But we can't wait to get back to our teacher.
I miss Sea Cadets, school, my friends and my dad,
I miss sharing the fun times and that makes me sad.
We've had social distancing picnics, social distancing walks,
Social distancing hugs and social distancing talks.
I'm looking forward to getting away,
The beach, the hotel and a perfect holiday.
When it is? I'll throw my arms open wide,
And shout to the world, WE CAN ALL GO OUTSIDE!
Don't give up hope, the end is in sight,
If we all stick together, we'll all win this fight.
(Lavannya, 17, United States)
6.
Five letters
Two Numbers
And one deadly microbe
Brought the whole world to a standstill
and locked us in our home.
I didn't know I'd miss school
or the endless work
But this self-isolation
really is cruel.
They say history books will record this
as the time everyone stayed home
As if we'll need something
to help us remember this.
I miss being with my best friend
and I miss her hugs.
I hope 'Stay at Home' doesn't extend.
I dream of a day
where masks aren't needed.
A world without fear of infection.
I wish this virus
will soon be defeated.
(Safiyya, 9, Canada)
Through a story which many of you might have read earlier, I am reminded of the wonderful power of small gestures growing into mammoth deeds. Today, of all the times in the history of humanity, is the time to recollect the virtues of goodness, kindness and magnanimity and to unitedly fight a pandemic hanging ominously over the globe. Here is the story.
A sobbing little girl stood near a small church from which she had been turned away because it was too crowded. "I can't go to Sunday School?" she sobbed to the pastor as he walked by. Seeing her shabby, unkempt appearance, the pastor guessed the reason and, taking her by the hand, took her inside and found a place for her in the Sunday school class. The child was so touched that she went to bed that night thinking of the children who have no place to worship Jesus.
Some two years later, this child lay dead in one of the poor tenement buildings and the parents called for the kind hearted pastor, who had befriended their daughter, to handle the final arrangements.
As her poor little body was being moved, a worn and crumpled purse was found which seemed to have been rummaged from some trash dump. Inside was found 57 cents and a note scribbled in childish handwriting which read, "This is to help build the little church bigger so more children can go to Sunday school."
For two years she had saved for this offering of love. When the pastor tearfully read that note, he knew instantly what he would do. Carrying this note and the cracked, red pocketbook to the pulpit, he told the story of her unselfish love and devotion. He challenged his deacons to get busy and raise enough money for the larger building.
But the story does not end there! A newspaper learned of the story and published it. It was read by a Realtor who offered them a parcel of land worth many thousands. When told that the church could not pay so much, he offered it for 57 cents. Church members made large donations. Cheques came from far and wide.
Within five years the little girl's gift had increased to $250,000.00--a huge sum for that time (near the turn of the century). Her unselfish love had paid large dividends.
When you are in the city of Philadelphia, look up Temple Baptist Church, with a seating capacity of 3,300 and Temple University, where hundreds of students are trained. Have a look, too, at the Good Samaritan Hospital and at a Sunday School building which houses hundreds of Sunday school children, so that no child in the area will ever need to be left outside during Sunday school time. In one of the rooms of this building may be seen the picture of the sweet face of the little girl whose 57 cents, so sacrificially saved, made such remarkable history. Alongside of it is a portrait of her kind pastor, Dr. Russell H. Conwell, author of the book, Acres of Diamonds.
A true story, which goes to show what we can do with a beginning of 57 cents.
Do enjoy the offerings in LV104 in the two links: http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/378 (Poems) and http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/379 (Short Stories and other Articles).
Please share the links with all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous 103 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Please take care, stay safe, stay at home and avoid unnecessary risks. We will meet again next month.
Till then good bye and all the best,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Literary Vibes - Edition CIV (30-Apr-2021) (POEMS)
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
YES…Um..m..m…NO
02) Haraprasad Das
LOVE SONGS – Part Three (Charoti Prema Kabita)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
NO MAN'S LAND
THE NUMBERS GAME
04) Devdas Chhotray
THE GIRL-SUNDAY (Rabibar)
05) Bibhu Padhi
A DAY OF RAIN
06) Debasis Panigrahi
MEMORY
DEATH RUSH
LOVE
07) Sree Kumar K
AN INCESTUOUS RIDE
BEING CAREFUL
08) Madhumathi. H
CHANDELIER STORIES...
WHATEVER!
WHATEVER!
09) Bijay Ketan Pattnaik
THE BUSY BEE (Byasta Loka)
10) Sundar Rajan
STILLNESS
11) Hema Ravi
EXISTENTIAL CERTAINTIES
12) Anushka Devi
THE ANGEL
13) Preethi Govindaraj
MOTHER OR WHO?
RACE
ENVY
14) S. Ritika
ALONG OR LONELY
15) Arpit Jain
HERE AND NOW
16) Dr. Aparna Ajith
HUNDRED DAYS WITH KUNJAPP!
17) Setaluri Padmavathi
THE FACE – A PICTURE OF THE MIND
18) Ravi Ranganathan
RENDEZVOUS WITH THE RIVER
19) Sangeeta Gupta
RELATIONSHIP
DON'T EVER GIVE UP
20) Sheena Rath
BLUE:::A COLOUR OF THE SPECTRUM
21) Runu Mohanty
INCLEMENT WEATHER (Bhala Paaga)
22) Sangita Kalarickal
NO NEW STORY
23) Asha Raj Gopakumar
HEAVENLY WORLD
24) Pankajam Kottarath
WHEN I AM GONE
25) Sharanya Bee
THE ART OF FORGIVENESS
26) Dr. Molly Joseph M
NATURE
27) Shubha Sagar
RAYS OF HOPE
AN ODE TO THE HUMAN SPIRIT
28) Abani Udgata
LET SILENCE BREATHE
A LONESOME STREET
29) N Rangamani
A WINTER MORNING AT DELHI AIRPORT
30) Ayana Routray
ROOTS
31) Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
TUG OF WAR
32) Pradeep Rath
EVERYTHING IN MIND
CYCLES
33) Hiya Khurana
A MESSAGE FOR ALL HUMANS
34) Prof. Niranjan Barik
THE MASK !
35) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A POEM OF DESPAIR AND ONE OF HOPE
Literary Vibes - Edition CIV (30-Apr-2021) (ARTICLES)
01) Sreekumar K
SKIES BELONG TO OTHERS
AND THEN AGAIN
02) Ishwar Pati
SING ME A SONG...
03) Bidhu K Mohanti
THE STENO-SUB INSPECTOR OF POLICE AND THE SILVER SPOONS OF 1945
04) Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo
MINI CLASSROOM
05) Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
SAD, MAD OR BAD
06) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
YERANNA
07) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE - ORIGIN OF SHIVA LINGAM WORSHIP
08) Jairam Seshadri
THE WUHAN EFFECT.
MENTION NOT
09) Dr. Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
THE ENCOUNTER
10) Gokul Chandra Mishra
THE HORIZON
11) Ritika Sriram
THE DANCE OF DEATH
METRO PARENTING
12) Kavitha Jayasree
65, 75 AND 90
13) Sunil Biswal
MUSICAL JOURNEY OF A PASSIVE LISTENER
14) Padmini Janardhanan
IN CONVERSATION
15) Nikhil M. Kurien
THE DUE DEW
16) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA’S MUSINGS :: SWEETY
17) Rangamani N
RESERVATION
18) Minakshi Rath
TOWARDS A STORY
19) Meena J Mishra
HER BOSS
20) Sheena Rath
LOVE BITES
21) N. Meera Raghavendra Rao
A UNIQUE COFFEE TABLE BOOK
22) Satya N. Mohanty
IN COLD BLOOD
23) Vishakha Devi
BROKE
24) Sukumaran C. V.
THE WEB OF LIFE
25) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE SKY IS RED
(For Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Do I hear - your 'yes...
um..m..m…no', does your eloquent 'um',
hide breaths of the sea-ozone?
Your sighs resemble the wild wind,
shy moves foam like the ebb.
I cannot really fathom.
If your sigh masks ‘not-a-no',
why shying away from saying so?
Do you fear the season of ‘fall’?
Before me, you lazily shrink away,
a languid stream, its wet spot
choking on a bed of fallow dreams!
Do I spot a ripple in the bog?
Its reluctant mushy mud, a lick
of honey, a dilemma away!
The late night wakes up thirsty,
the stream flows
in the backyard, dulcetly noisy.
You lurk there, the dark's lumen,
I inhale the sweet salinity,
the breathing of the wet earth.
The wise owl sits silent,
flapping wings, sharpening
talons of presentiment –
before hooting an invite,
but no clear-eyed clear focus –
the prowler seems a prey tonight.
The sky is opening her
doors and windows, - the moon
is arriving, the stars dimming.
The hours are leavening from their languor.
Undressed from her polka dotted black gown
the sky is lying in her pale pastel grandeur.
Risking a walk to the familiar pond,
pushing aside reeds and rushes,
I descend down the slope with ginger steps.
The impatient squelching mud,
wryly pouting, rising, puckering;
bury me beneath their sighing petals.
(Footnote - Imagining Neruda with his Burmese beloved Josie Bliss, described by the poet, capable of loving like a wild animal.)
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
LOVE SONGS – Part Three (Charoti Prema Kabita)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
You, naïve in managing
the hearth and home,
in the tact of navigating
the life’s turbulent zones.
You have to learn from me
its essences,
how to pen a prologue
to the ‘living together’.
Listen carefully, my sweetheart, -
the art of steering the boat
in tempestuous waters
in the middle of nothing.
Even a ramshackle dwelling
can make a happy home -
if it has a corner to shelter
inmates during a storm,
has rags and rugs
to keep them warm
from the vagaries of weather;
where children are born,
are nurtured
with parental love and care;
even when the father grows
feeble with age;
the mother, a hag;
but both ensuring
a roof over their heads,
a square meal for the belly.
Home is a happy abode,
not a grand indifferent dwelling,
a space redolent with love,
a nest, a safe eyrie,
as if lined with soft dry leaves,
warmed with feathers,
secured and committed,
though not tagged ‘Happy Home’.
Let us revisit in it
our idyllic childhood,
before losing our way
in philosophizing?
Recall, the childhood home,
the vague yet familiar shapes in fog,
the fun of blowing bubbles
of Baigaba* sap in winter,
walking in the morning mist
treading the path carefully,
pastures ahead not clear,
the path not visible but familiar
as to a bat’s sonar;
presuming you are there
somewhere.
As if, in a minute,
your sister’s house
would appear out of the haze
across the next
patch of fields.
My brother would shout my name,
his disembodied voice
floating to us across the fog.
The school may appear
like a ghost,
where my father teaching his pupils,
and the syrupy fragrance
of the ripening mangoes
of the Naakoi* mango-tree
laden with succulent fruits
containing manna.
As we feel our way ahead,
the vista may present
the Gangaadharpur police station
across the road, materializing
from nowhere, out of the fog.
I can exchange my wealth,
my power and all other things
for an hour of this beloved life.
Recall our playing games
on checkered boards,
moving pieces of pebble
and sticks as tigers and goats;
and the games of hide and seek
in moonlit nights.
Memory is like
a dormant embryo,
sleeping in a seed’s womb,
stirring to life
if lovingly stoked
with the moisture
of nostalgia.
Now take the rudder
from my hand, sweetheart,
steer our boat,
be in charge;
allow me
to pamper myself
with a king’s leisure,
relish the luxury
of curling up on your bosom,
with eyes shut,
gloating on
my unwitting losses,
the years,
unaccountable and unsung,
submitted to you
and your primal joy.
(Baigaba* - A fence-weed of rural Odisha, its thick sap is used by children to blow bubbles like soap-bubbles. Naakoi* - meaning having a nose. A variety of mango with a prominently raised point like a nose.)
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)”
Shadows escape
through the barbed wires
that demarcate
the discontinuities
and dance over
the miasmatic morass
while an old haggard frog
on a rotten log
suppresses a sneeze.
Some slippery souls
slither in
stealthily and seek
asylum
and some are taken
hostage
by their
phantom reflections.
No fetters
no manacles
no cages
no walls
yet you lose
your name
your address
and display
not even a number
tattooed in red
on your black and white
striped hide.
Once upon a time
I learnt about numbers
and how to count
listening to the mother duck
who had lost her chicks
one by one
but then it was a happy ending
when at her final
quack quack quack
the five little ducklings came back.
But for the ten little Indian boys
it was rather a sad story
for when they started
they were
‘ One little, two little, three little Indians
Four little, five little, six little Indians
Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians
Ten little Indian boys.’
And then they disappeared
one by one till
‘One little Indian boy left all alone;
He went and hanged himself
and then there were none.’
On the Twelve days of Christmas
the True Love
kept on adding a new gift
every single day
to the partridge in the pear tree.
And now I still deal
with the numbers every single day
My Aadhar card number
my national ID
the gateway to all transactions
My PAN card number to track
my monetary dealings
The debit card PIN code
to withdraw my cash
The limiting number of
characters to restrict my tweets
numbers and numbers
a never ending list of numbers
and we continue
to count the days numbly
as the numbers roll by
making us dumb and dumber
as we see almost everything
is coded into
combinations of
ones and zeroes
and into bits and bytes
while we await the day
when we would lie supine in the morgue
and a tag tied to our left toe
would reduce us
again to a mere number.
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.
(Translated from Odia by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
You bring the Sunday to me,
relaxed, and in its Sunday best;
the feel of ease, the sunny laughter, et al.
You teach me the axioms of life -
icons are not products
of the book-pages;
stars grow brighter
as night advances, and by two,
they appear within reach;
the time of everyone, even
of the short-listed ‘who’s who’,
is expendable for a price, as easy
as recharging the mobile phone
if you have the moolah to buy talk-time;
writing skills never make man of a monkey.
You delight me
like my Sundays, smelling fresh
as washed and pressed linen;
your smile resembles a sharpened knife,
but at times, smug as a closed Sunday bazar
with welling up sad old-movie songs for eyes.
After a week of hardworking days,
arrives a Sunday like your
much awaited arrival with tousled hair,
but lips tasting honey-sweet.
Do you know – I exchange
my napping hours of early mornings
to buy time to play with you
from a life that races ahead
inexorably towards the last whistle.
(The poem in Odia appeared in the “Shrestha Kabita, Oottara Parba – 2014”, meaning “The Best Poems, Second Volume – 2014.” The poem maintains its tension up to its last line whether the poet is addressing it to a lover, or a little kid.)
Shri Devdas Chhotray is a legend of Odiya Literature. A versatile genius, his imprints are indelible on many facets of creativity. A poet par excellence, he is also an accomplished writer and is a household name in Odisha for his numerous film lyrics. A recipient of many awards, he has been recently conferred with Sahitya Bharati Samman for the year 2021.
We remained within, forgot
the passing of each moment.
The mango and guava trees
spread their branches wider
as if to take everything in
and preserve it for autumn,
which was still far away.
Under the lightning’s brief stay,
the first mangoes shone brighter,
the thick jackfruit leaves
looked firmer than ever.
The morning as usual outlasted
everything, including the rain.
At eleven my friend who lived
at the town’s other end, near
the dry river, came and said:
“How unfortunate that the year’s
first rain should have hit
our poor old washer-man
with such prophetic anger!
His body, charred beyond
recognition or sorrow,
showed his hands over
his chest, in a gesture
of pure compensation, prayer.”
Much earlier than this
I had guessed as much, but I was
indoors, enjoying at my end of the town
the falling of rain on the grass, on
the mango, the guava, the jackfruit
trees, faithfully, according to
ordinary prescribed laws.
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.
Her two-wheeler
Seemed to have only one wheel.
Or was it just my mind?
She is good at rides
Slow enough
Safe
Fast enough
Anecdotes after anecdotes
Silly tales of her childhood
Much briefer than mine
Pain-born pleasures
Dad had turned his back on her
His face as ugly as a man’s
She smells of lessons
Her lessons smell of her
In my mind
She talks like my mom
I listen like my dad
To a beach I am sick of visiting
With my teacher, my love
The essence of moonlight
More charming, lively
Lustful, affectionate.
A secret had grown between us
Like a birth to be aborted
Fond of, nevertheless
Arms spread wide
Jumping off into excitement
Clasped around her waster
Hands lock around her belly
Her licklish laughter
Gives me goosebumps
Jagged crumbling edges, careful steps
Calculating the ifs and if nots
Before committing the why nots
Endless ocean
Tastes different in each handful
Predictions drown, uncertainty laughs
Free of all care
By being full of care?
That won't work.
My logic is different from yours
"Not logic, it is language"
We hear in different languages
One for each listener
But the speakers are stuck with one
Meaning is a faithless whore
My stone building dilapidates
Building it anew
To see it crumble as usual, everyday
Talking to myself
In the interrogation room
Tough customer
Won't budge
Buddy being careful
Relax, be carefree
I won't tell anyone, so no point in telling me
Such are the secrets
Source code changes when you've finally got it
No new lessons today.
Copy the old one from the graves
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.
This will trouble you.
The memory of loss
long thought to be buried
in the crevices of mind
will surface suddenly.
The old hurt will come gushing back,
as if it happened the other day.
You will remember the loss
in the familiar clothes
in the cupboard,
in the potted plants
of the balcony,
the cosy sitting space
on the verandah,
in the untidy kitchen,
the half ajar puja room,
the silhouetted wall painting,
the dusty book-shelf.
You will come to realise,
the inanimates carry
the memory better.
They are also more faithful
reminder of loss.
This will trouble you
in the crowded street,
on the lonely river front;
while looking for a corner table
in a favourite restaurant;
while chiming the bells
in a half empty temple;
while looking at the waves
of a stormy sea.
This memory of loss
will trouble you to no end.
Time can help you
forget it, even heal a bit.
But it will come back
in the unguarded moments.
This memory of loss,
there can be no real closure.
The dead bodies
are in a queue,
to be burnt or buried.
The burning ghats, crematoriums,
the graveyards, cemeteries
were not ready for this ‘death rush’,
Corona has unleashed.
Like a conquering army
ravaging a vanquished people,
the virus is prowling on the streets;
preying upon hapless men and women,
young and old, in a perverse delight.
Its victims are dropping dead
like flies and mosquitoes.
The pandemic is a butcher.
There are no hearses left
to carry the dead
to their resting place.
An old mother is carrying
her dead son in an auto,
like a piece of luggage.
There is no time to cry, to grieve;
She just needs to give him
a decent send off.
Some have given up
and deserted the bodies
of the deceased relatives;
hoping that the departed ones
will get a mass funeral,
as unclaimed bodies.
Or else, the elements
from where they had come
will take them back,
in an ultimate act of grace.
The grave diggers, the crematorium operators,
the ones setting the funeral pyre up
have not gone home for days.
They were not ready
for this ‘death rush’,
Corona has unleashed.
It is like the first drops of rain
dripping like pearls
from the flowering ‘kadamb’
and kissing the parched earth.
Inhaling the smell of the wet earth
you close your eyes,
your lips tremble with anticipation.
You come to know,
love is in the air.
There is something with the rains
that deepens your longing,
upsets you without an apparent reason.
The rain soaked leaves look greener,
the kind of green,
that precociously mild
shade of green
you never saw before.
You come to know,
love is in the air.
Seeing the rains descending
on the roof top, the balcony, the courtyard
seizes you with a brooding loneliness;
numbs you with an yearning helplessness.
You can not make out
what has possessed you.
You come to know,
love is in the air.
Debasis Panigrahi is a popular and critically acclaimed literary personality of Odisha, writing for over three decades. He is a bilingual author, who writes with equal felicity in Odia as well as English. He has so far published eleven collections of short stories, three collections of novellas, one novel and one collection of non-fiction and lyrics in Odia. His works in English include ‘Things Left Unsaid’, an English translation of his selected stories which he co-translated and ‘Mellowed with Years’, a collection of poems. He is the recipient of ‘Odisha Sahitya Academy’ Award for short stories. Professionally, he is a senior officer of the Indian Police Service and is currently posted as the Additional DG of Police and Director, Vigilance in Odisha.
She nods her head
in a joyful conversation
Colorful gathering of souls close to her...
Suddenly turns toward the voice, echoing her name
Runs excitedly, and hugs
Laughs, giggles, blushes...
In all her movements, and moments
Dances mirthfully, her danglers
Jimikki, chandelier earrings
Whispering secretly to her
How beautiful it is, to see her
Celebrate herself
A reminder to the world
We deserve moments of joy, laughter, and love
Not crowns for enduring pain, juggling challenges...
Moments to unwind, pause, rejoice, escaping the rigmarole
Not applauds, or awed cheering for breaking glass ceilings!
There is suffocation in luxury cruises
Exhilaration in paper boats, and dancing in the rain...
Grandeur is not in expensive facades
But lying under a starlit Sky...
She smiled, removed her earnings, and
Gently placed them in the box, with a goodnight kiss
All through the night, the box was giggling and blushing...
Time and tide wait for none
But isn't that sometimes cruel of time?
Why not a little pause, a power nap?
Why runs the time, in such a hasty pace?
Why not take a moment to look back and
See the sea of anaemic tears, shed by mankind?
The flora and fauna of the earth too, may ask for
A little more of time, in empathised slowness...
''I never could stand still try as I might'',
Said time, running after the next moment!
Oh heed my dear healer on wheels! why?
Why the past often haunts and wants to relive?
Why the future winks and taunts, as if the trailer is run?
Why? Why the present is reluctant to be in the ''now''?
Everything happens for a reason, and on time
Time unflaggingly ticks away, unruffled by the tenses
Neither all the teardrops of the world
Nor all the bursting out laughter, impede the journey
Neither you nor I can hitchhike time
While we mostly travel in the past or future
Leaving the present to dissolve, evaporate
And begin another journey of 'if onlys'...
Time slithers away through the dead ends
Through the opaque silences and dreams
Every frozen moment of thoughts too
Are time's constantly flowing footsteps
What if time promises us to wait and grant boons?
We would all become rich beggars for rewritten destiny...
Madhumathi is a bilingual poet-writer (Tamil, English) and an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry, Photography and Music. Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), AIFEST 2020 Poetry contest Anthology, CPC- Chennai Poetry Circle, IPC – India Poetry Circle, multilingual Anthology Amaravati Poetic Prism, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, Storizen, OPA – Our Poetry Archives, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes-Literary Vibes, and Science Shore.
‘’Ignite Poetry'’, “Arising from the dust”, “Painting Dreams", “Shards of the unsung Poesies" are some of the recent Anthologies her poems, and write ups are part of.
Besides Poetry, Madhumathi is a mental health advocate. She writes on Mental health, to create awareness and break the stigma, strongly believing in the therapeutic and transformational power of words. Her Blog:
English: https://madhumathipoetry.wordpress.com & Tamil: https://madhumathikavidhaigal.blogspot.com/?m=1
(Translated from Odia by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Selfishness is the watchword
for the most, the escapists, the opportunists;
they keep stealthy watch on others,
filling their honeycombs, pretending pious.
But a busy-bee, made of a different clay,
works for the labourers who crush
the bones in mines, on fields,
to earn crumbs, mixing blood with sweat.
He is in the vanguard of every protest,
be it of farmers or labourers,
asking for freedom from penury and oppression;
a dhoti and shirt covering his lean body.
A scythe in hand, he would chop off
the harvest of dark forces from his land,
the weeds from the dark seeds, sown
and grown by the exploiters, on his soil.
He relishes and cherishes
the breath of the wet earth,
delights with the green shoots
rippling across the barren fields.
He celebrates, welcoming
a bright tomorrow by waving high
his torch of free thought,
dreaming of the people’s power.
….I would love to write
the manifesto of this busy-bee’s work,
spread over days, hours, and minutes;
his life dedicated to the dispossessed.
(This Odia poem is in the poet’s book “NAI PARI JHIA, 2004. This poem is chosen as it relates to one of the iconic movements, the farmers protesting over the last six months for their right to the MSP. The poem published in 2004 seems akin to the contemporary, justifying ‘a poem is eternal’.)
Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..
He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.
Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.
After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in
(photo is by S. Neeraja)
The gentle breeze, very fresh,
Caressing me, ever bliss,
Leading me thro' mystic path,
All laced with flora, unsought.
The gentle rustle of the trees,
Sets a tune, never to cease,
Heavenly blue skies, cloudless,
Exotic and so priceless.
Ripples from the nearby stream,
So refreshing, though unseen.
The winding path takes a fork,
I stop enroute to recoup.
As I stand there in a trance,
Gazing at the vast expanse,
Nature's bounty, so serene,
Creation of the Supreme.
As time appears to freeze,
Looks like all moments cease,
To showcase the radiance,
So spellbound in the stillness.
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.
(Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi)
Perennial as the flowing river
Human birth is continuous on earth
Nature’s treasures are ours forever
Where contentment reigns, it brings added mirth.
Worldly charms entice; in time, get fulfilled
In the voyage, change is perpetual.
Sizzling summers arrive, swiftly step past
Amidst chaos, Life’s treasures are for find!
Memories fade into azure-blue sky vast
Going full circle in life frees the mind.
When effervescence stops, surface is stilled
Discovering freshness’ effectual.
Let evolution be continual
Beyond gloom, always a silver lining!
Let life not be reduced to ritual
Cause and effect come with their own timing.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
She was born on a lovely January day.
She was the fairest of them all, if I may say.
She is white with brown spots here and there.
When you look at her, you'd know she really needs care.
Her little button nose is the cutest in the world.
Her fur is straight unlike her mother's which is curled.
She runs in circles to catch her tail,
Even though she knows that she would surely fail.
In the morning she always welcomes me with a purr,
Behold the angel! The angel with white fur.
Anushka Devi V. is an eager 5th grader at Vruksha Montessori School. She did her primary schooling at Rosary Matriculation wherein she took an active part in many literary and cultural events. Inspired by her sister’s submissions to LV, she has made her first attempt at poetry. She loves pets and writes about them.
Memories of a speech
Long time ago,
I prepared for morning assembly
Torments me so!
I had memorized that mother nature;
Blazed in sunshine,
giggled in the breeze
Flourished in spring,
Pitter-pattered at ease.
But I am convinced
All this while
We didn’t know nature’s face
I imagine, it has an impish smile!
I guess you probably know
It belongs to a child
How could we even imagine,
a mother be so wild?
He opens the basket
To shower some drops
At a whim,
Pause, then suddenly stops…
He may flash a lightning
To savor the fear it brings,
But soon turn the oven
To heat up things!
The lakes go dry
Showing thirsty cracks
Hoping for compassion,
The munchkin lacks.
The kid blows up sand
And blinds the desert pride,
The palms stare helplessly
Like waters in the tide.
Just when he softens,
Scatters dew drops to add some bling,
Tsunami roars ferociously
And sweeps in everything!
Quakes tremble the earth
While disasters cry,
Where is the little devil,
does he hide in the sky?
Sometimes the cold may
Urge him to throw
Some cottony wisps
Of magical snow!
Or does he stay deep down
Painting brilliant coral hems
Or perhaps erupt as a volcano
Leaving behind precious gems?
What is important, I wonder
the gentle nature of my child
who is amiable and generous?
or a competitiveness unkind?
I realize the qualities in him
are the ones I zealously taught
the thoughtfulness and shyness
are so close to my heart.
How do I convey;
life isn’t a mere bed of roses!
Is it wrong to impose,
my worldly views?
Should he choose then
the race or go at his pace?
My dreams for him
or his desires,
full of grace?
Will he realize
why I insist, and pick up some speed
the world is racing,
and running with it almost a need!
His eyes are opening wide
as I portray realities
his sweetness, a tad frightened
of unseen calamities!
I want to hug you
and comfort your fears,
you’ll strike a balance too
as you grow in years.
I know I’ll still see
the charm and affection
those pearls will still shine
in spite of the competition.
I beg you to keep them safe
your genuine little smile,
your sincere compassion
without a trace of guile!
My father had a burning desire
To see me succeed
Education was the stepping stone
To triumph, that would lead.
He did not have the chance,
The means or the fortune,
But nothing could keep him
from singing his tune.
He toiled relentlessly
Stacking his cards
I was to focus on studies;
Not measure his toiling yards!
I cooperated with his wish
Forever miserable,
Could I carry the burden?
And emerge the poverty struggle?
I moved along, bringing him
Tears of joy;
The medals and certificates
Like trinkets of a ploy.
While my classmates took everything
As a personal entitlement;
I seethed with the frustration
Of endless resentment!
They did not have to conceal
Bursting seams and fraying soles,
They did not have to labor -
Comfort has different goals.
I was in the group all right,
But felt subservient
Their world was free
Mine came with a rent.
My father did not see the disparity
His dreams were innocent
My anguish steadfast;
Never ceased to torment.
The implacable emotion of envy
Will it ever release me?
The beginnings had tied me back,
will the end too, elude me?
Preethi Govindaraj is an Advanced Practice Oncology nurse by profession, and works as a Nurse Navigator at the MedStar Georgetown University Hospital in Washington DC. She is a gold medalist in BSc. Nursing, Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and MSc. Nursing, Christian Medical College and Hospital, Vellore. She is an Army nurse who migrated to The United states of America after her marriage. She has been a poet and author since childhood, writing in Hindi, English and Urdu. Her work has been published in several literary magazines and as anthologies. She dabbles in all forms of art; her other interests include singing, dancing, painting and embroidery. She currently lives with her family, which includes her husband, Dr. Ramesh Govindaraj and two sons, in McLean, Virginia.
(Photo Courtesy: Nate North)
Grandpa’s shoulder for jumping kid
Mother's lap for travel sick
Lover's bosom for the lone soul
A haven for cupids post evening stroll
A keeper of secrets, spreader of gossips
My life was but these relationships
“Is loneliness your only vistor”
Smirked the budding grass.
Had reality turned into this, alas!
I smiled,
“ Memories reside here, can't you see!
I may look alone, but never lonely.”
(Rejoinder to Ritika's poem)
(Photo Courtesy: Nate North)
"Beautiful but lonely"
commented the camera,
I wish to speak once,
Tell it my story,
All against nature just
to denounce his theory
For within I hold,
Many stories to be told
A first kiss,
A Last hug,
Pose of a would-be mother,
Nostalgia of a grandfather,
The proposals, the heartbreaks
gossips of all famous freaks
For I am just not "here",
I am Here and Now,
I come from here and "a long time ago.."
Travelling to here and "for ages to come..."
I cannot wait, to be again
Bed for a sleepy child,
Rest for a tired mind,
Theatre of nature,
Witness for all future...
Arpit is an aspiring poet, who pens his views in couplets and short poems.. his creations are mostly in hindi and a few in English. You can get glimpses of his work on https://www.instagram.com/lostmindwanderer/
Time flies smoothly like a breeze
And there’s no time to cease.
We all cherish deep in our heart
That our little munchkin bestowed us a fresh start.
And with our endearing Kunjapp, we enjoyed hundred days!
He brought a smile in us always and in all ways.
With utmost delight, we do many things
So much love and affection, our Kunjapp brings!
Appuppan and Ammumma are getting aged,
Seeing Kunjapp’s miraculous gestures, they get engaged.
Our world transcends to an ecstatic place•
Just by a glimpse of Kunjapp’s serene face.
His love can melt everyone’s heart
And that is his very jubilant art.
We love him ‘more than words can wield the matter’
And our fondness for cute Kunjapp, nothing can ever alter!
Hundred days with our little Kunjapp has passed this fast!
Cherishing all the treasure trove of memories exceedingly vast.
This poem is dedicated to the spring of our life and my raison d'être 2.0, Anvik Sujeeth aka Kunjapp
Appuppan – Grandfather in Malayalam
Ammumma – Grandmother in Malayalam
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.
THE FACE – A PICTURE OF THE MIND
The face is the index of human mind
Sad and joyful emotions, it can bind
Happiness pervades on our lovely face
While an achievement takes place.
People love our smiling expression
They do care about our inner perception
Smile begins a pleasant conversation.
It often covers the inner contradiction
Facial expression informs innate speech
It explains correlation and has a global reach
Gestures of facial parts reveal the truth
In our discussion, they cannot say untruth.
The eyes are our face’s real interpreter
That plays a role and acts as a messenger
The organs inform all inner emotional feelings
In addition, they guide us in all kinds of dealings.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has been in the field of education for more than three decades. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics. She is a bilingual poet and writes poems in Telugu and English. Her poems were published in many international anthologies and can be read on her blogsetaluripadma.wordpress.com. Padmavathi’s poems and other writings regularly appear on Muse India.com. Boloji.com, Science Shore, Setu, InnerChild Press Anthologies and Poemhunter.com.
We met, River and I, at our appointed place
Talked for long hours
Discussion was perfectly two sided:
She talked buoyantly
I conversed silently.
She knew I was admiring her
I knew she mapped me in full.
It was more than
Finding ‘ books in running brooks’
It was definite that
We were truly entrapped
With each other
Beyond the threshold of life
Me, with her, she with me
Horizon was somewhere in sight!...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
A relationship
defined largely by silence
where the need
for conversation
lost all relevance
the desire to know
to discuss, to see
to feel each other
frozen forever
you exist in my core being
silence between us is tranquil
so intense, so deep
it cannot be divided
it binds us as inseparable
I know that you know
that you are my world.
When all attempts
to resolve the riddle
have failed and
you are desperate
on the verge of giving up
all exhausted, hopelessly insane
and mad at yourself
then try one more time
just one more time
approach the given problem
with a beginner’s mind
the new perspective
invariably works
as a miracle
don't ever give up
on your human experience ever
my soul tribe.
Sangeeta Gupta is a Delhi based bilingual poet, artist and film maker, served as an IRS Officer, retired as chief commissioner of income tax, worked as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi.
She has to her credit 35solo exhibitions of paintings, 25 published books, has directed, scripted and shot 17documentary films. She has fourteen anthologies of poems in Hindi and six in English to her credit. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography.10 of her poetry collections are translated in Greek, German, Mandarin, English, Urdu, Bangla,Tamil and Dogri.
Sangeeta has been adjudged as highly commended poet of the year 2020 by Destiny Poets International community Of Poets, UK.
BLUE:::A COLOUR OF THE SPECTRUM
A splash of blue
In all its hues
Blue is the sea
As in me
Blue is the sky
Oh!! so shy
Turquoise the stone, don't you mourn
Indigo (blue) the morning glory
An untold story
Blue exudes calm
Just like the balm
Blue evokes different moods
As is viewed
Blue is boy
Ahoy!! Ahoy!!
Feelings of serenity
A sign of stability
Blue bleeds wisdom and inspiration
Symbolizes the healing Power Of God
In the Bible it's taught
Blue represents equilibrium
Blue is the Caribbean
Blue eyes of Siberian Huskies
Always adorable and friendly
Blue represents Lord Shiva
Blue symbolizes Lord Krishna
Protecting humanity and destroying evil
Blue a colour of sacredness
Blue the presence of the Universe
Blue a part of the rainbow
Shades of Blue :::::Turquoise, Teal, Aquamarine, Indigo
Let us embrace Autism with Acceptance and Inclusion
(April Autism Awareness Month)
(Blue is the colour for Autism)
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession).
She has been writing articles for LV for the past one and half years. Recently she has published her first book.. "Reflections Of My Mind",an ode to the children and families challenged by Autism
INCLEMENT WEATHER (Bhala Paaga)
(Translated from Odia by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
A loving companion in a lovely milieu
has added vivre to the inclement weather;
we feel like climbing the highest peak,
hoist our flag on the top of the world.
Start the rituals, dear, for the adoration
and worship. Experienced, as you are
in the art of loving, you may not need
many dips, baptism or doctrines.
We are to make the placid surfaces
dance with ripples under our fingers,
move with strategies, no less intricate
than moving a die in a game of dice.
Let’s pick and choose the signs
of good omens, hasten our fingers,
on mridangs*, lest we lose
the rhythm in songs of life.
Till the land, lying fallow;
squeeze the drying fruits thoroughly
to extract the juice. Dear me, it’s
no easy task to reach the peak.
We are creating a history of sorts,
it is no nocturnal stage performance
that downs its curtains before the dawn.
The curtains once parted, the show would go on
like playing on mridangs
unending; like the army’s regular left-rights
to keep itself battle-fit, or dancing away
samba lifelong, not tinkering with love’s rhythms.
Footnote – Mridang*, or a dholak is a percussion musical instrument, and its shape, size, and coatings on its faces where the striking fingers and palms produce varied pitches of rhythmic sound.
(The Odia poem is selected from the Poet’s book of poems, ‘Sahaja Sundari’, 2011, for its unparalleled and unconventional sensual imagery, nothing less than those noticed in poetry of the iconic Indian poet Kamala Das, writing in English.)
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
Water in the tea kettle
Shimmers with bubbles
An expectation of a rising tempo.
Weaving through swirls of steam,
The vision of a story.
Memory of my story
My own, very own story.
No new story.
A new package
A new permutation
Narration to wring
Out a hard heart
Or squeeze a smile
From oceans of tears
Every tale has been told.
No new story.
Fern fronds unfurling
In the gentle warmth of spring
Waking, yawning, stretching
While each frond formed
A new perspective
The fern stands eternally young,
As old as the Earth.
No new story.
My life though my own,
Lingers at the edge of time
As old as the stardust
My bones are crafted with
The words rise from me
Yet are not mine
To tell, to sell.
No new story.
The tea kettle whistles
A new tune
Tea leaves transform
Dust from millennium
Into a limpid brown pool.
A surge of smiles.
Same old, same old.
No new story.
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.
With hope and prayers,
With the faith in God,
Waiting for that day.
A day with a promising dawn.
A day with a heavenly world.
Filled with bonafide love and care.
Filled with flawless respect and equality.
Filled with boundless courage and audacity.
Surely, that day will come.
A day with a heavenly world.
A heavenly world filled with nectar.
A heavenly world with a smiling dawn.
Asha Raj Gopakumar, a postgraduate in English Literature and a novice in writing. She has been living in the Middle East with her family for more than a decade. She is an ardent lover of music, nature and spirituality. She is an active bajan singer in many devotional groups. Presently she focuses on reading, writing and is very much busy creating a personal vlog for bajan lovers. She had been a teacher for almost six years and gave it up for family matters.
When I am gone
don’t look for me among the stars
stuck between the murky layers
and visible only after the sunset.
I will be there in your breath
unseen, untainted, unscathed.
Don’t think it is the end
Look for a start at the end
that takes you to the other end,
a beginning without an end.
Remember only my smiling face
Let the scowling one sink in the well of void
Let my smile bring sunshine to your garden,
and allow your buds of hopes to burgeon.
Forget if I upset you, my blames and my tears
a transparent veil that wipes out your ire,
remember the fun we had, not the silly squabbles,
just the torrents of our spilling love.
Still I expect you to spend a moment
before my framed picture once in a while
when I can feel the worth of a life lived well
and pray for one more spell to love you more.
Pankajam retired from BHEL as Deputy Manager/Finance is a bilingual poet and novelist(writing in English and Malayalam), settled at Chennai. In addition to several poems, book reviews and articles published in national and international journals, she has contributed articles to anthologies/journals. She has twenty-four books so far published, including fourteen books of poems, a translated poetry collection in French, three fictions in English and six books in Malayalam and a couple of books in the pipeline. Three books on literary criticism viz., Femininity Poetic Endeavours by Dr. VVB Rama Rao, History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry-An Appraisal by Prem Katoch and Socio-Cultutal Transition in Modern Indian English Writing & Translation by R K Bhushan Sabharwal discuss her works in detail. A book of critical essays and research papers on her poem edited by Dr. S Barathi titled “Poetic Oeuvre of K Pankajam” has also been published. She is the recipient of many awards such as Rock Pebbles National Literary Award 2019; Cochin Litfest Prize 2019; Essay competition award conducted by ISISAR, Calcutta in the World Thinkers and Writers Peace Meet 2019; Literary Excellence Award from Gujarat Sahitya Akademi and Motivational strips on the eve of India’s Independence Day 2020, etc. She can be reached at kp_bhargavrag@yahoo.co.in
THE ART OF FORGIVENESS
Sharanya Bee
Sometimes
You learn to forgive yourself
Not while seated upon white sand
In sea breeze and silence
Not when the holy bells ring
And your eyes are closed, hoping
To see some light in that dark
Not through calming voices or soothing words
Sometimes
You learn to forgive yourself
While standing strong on a trembling ground
Among a hustling crowd in train stations
While picking up fallen groceries
From a broken bag, kneeled on the hot ground
Vehicles racing past
While scrubbing dead skin
Off the calluses of a worn out foot
While bargaining at the top of your voice
On a burning summer day
For meaningless dime you're
Still afraid to lose
Sometimes
You learn to forgive yourself
Not in solitude
But between absolute chaos
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.
Memories
glazing
in the rain...
the sky
getting
cleared up...
how beating
the dark
it brightens ...
nature
surviving
the onslaughts
with a smile,
the smile
of a beaten up
wife in drunken
revelry
to keep
her children
happy....
how much
you teach
Mother Nature!
how patience
pays
how things
roll out
in the
scheme of
things
be it
the pandemic
or a new normal
hinged on
the abnormal...
Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published twelve books,10 Books of poems, a novel and a Story book for Children. She has won several accolades which include India Women Achiever’s Award 2020. She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. She can be reached at E mail- mynamolly @gmail.com ; You tube- https://www.youtube.com/user/mynamolly
The tunnel was dark and never seemed to end,
Shivers through my spine it continued to send,
Suddenly a shining ray of hope I began to see,
And invisible helping hands reaching out to me.
Drowned in unknown fears and fathomless agony,
Deafened by mind and spirit piercing cacophony,
I was uplifted by the echo of musical notes divine,
And a voice whispered, 'Don't worry you will be fine.’
Dark grey clouds loomed large over my head,
Lightening streaks further my painful fires within fed,
Until light rays pierced through my drops of tears,
Infusing my sky with vibrant hues and lifting my fears.
In the worst of moments of despair and zero hope,
When life's blows hamper your innate ability to cope,
Kind words and acts of loving and caring friends,
A fresh new wave of hope through our soul transcends.
AN ODE TO THE HUMAN SPIRIT
Shubha Sagar
I marvel at the innate and inbred quality of the human spirit,
Even in the worst of times, of being able to give itself a lift.
Its inherent capability for forgetting and forgiving so easily,
Its intrinsic ability for reviving and rejuvenating effortlessly,
With its ability to reinvent itself, often surprising its own self,
And for ever facing new challenges, constantly bracing itself.
I salute the inbuilt capacity of human spirit to love selflessly,
And specially in times of dearth and destitution, give endlessly.
Its amazing ability to come forward and help others in pain,
Without any vested interest or the desire for any personal gain.
These basic human traits have saved humanity from degradation,
The much-hyped selfishness being restricted to a tiny population.
I pay my homage to the beauty and bounty of the human spirit,
Which neither human nor natural calamities can possibly beat it.
There is cure and care for all those who are suffering and ailing,
And for all the hurts and ache, there are various forms of healing.
The human spirit has survived despite waves of hatred and crime,
Its ability for love and compassion, making it victorious each time.
Shubha Sagar is an educator, a counsellor, a Tarot Reader, a Reiki Master, a poet, an author, an avid blogger and a healer, currently living in Bangalore.
A Postgraduate in 'Zoology' and 'Psychotherapy & Counselling', her career as an educator spanned twenty-five years during which she worked in various reputed schools across the country.
She loves penning down her thoughts especially in form of verse. She has published two solo books, 'Heartfelt Poems' and 'Soul Stirring Stories, women with extraordinary spirit.' She has contributed poems and short stories to more than 3 dozen anthologies. A life-long learner, she believes in drawing inspiration from all around her. Shubha Sagar is available on shubha.sagar.13@gmail.com
Let silence breathe.
Our unspoken words
are synapses uniting
the hands across
the banks of the river.
In this utter darkness
hands meet each other
across distances like
the sighs of milestones .
The emptiness of the sky
terrorises the distances.
Across the intimate distances
stars beam their lights trying
to locate meaning in other face
In the dark void.
In the bed-room the table lamp
keeps vigil as an attendant
on the traces of past hours,
the hollow of folds on the pillow
the creases of passion on bed spread,
mummified remains of whispers and sighs.
A thousand stories wait on the surface,
circle in the still air waiting to be retold.
Let silence breathe.
It is so tough to explain to oneself.
The moon so familiar and friendly
does not heed our calculations nor
swoons to the strains of the violin or
the magic of the painting brush.
After the pall-bearers leave heaving
the burden to a known destination
they come and sit on the verandah
and weigh pain and pleasure and talk
about the cruel gaze of malefic planets.
Friendly voices reach the shadowy
corner to caress the fresh wound .
The bouquet of flowers looks on
uninterested lying on the table
and nods as if it knows everything.
Humid air teases the crotons
on the traffic island floating in
the daily fume and furore .
Voices around the receding peak
of the pyre merge with traffic noise.
Their footfalls soon walk in to
the lake of the dark night as
the wind rushes in to turn
the pages of the calendar.
Days and months march on
in a disciplined caravan to
merciless beyond as before.
Sometimes, though, my mother
with tears in her eyes grieves
for her son who died an infant
even as me and other siblings
prance and frolic before her eyes
in the moonlit night in the courtyard.
Somewhere a flame leaps in to view.
It is tough to explain to oneself
how cool breeze running over
the rigid entrails of a broken violin
extracts a mournful tune.
Abani Udgata ( b. 1956) retired as a Principal Chief General Manager of the Reserve Bank of India. in December 2016. 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. He can be contacted at his email address abaniudgata@gmail.com
A WINTER MORNING AT DELHI AIRPORT
The walled city still sleeping,
It's cold,though not so biting.
Seated at the table,
We say it's unpredictable.
Obviously the weather is meant;
The Himalayan Snowfall, perhaps, plays the stunt?
The sky wears a think blanket,
There isn't twilight yet?
Hither and thither hover the birds in fright;
But delayed is every flight.
In the crowded lounge one can see people sway;
Yet in the open, we can't tell a person feet away?!
Departure from normal is but nature,
The cause for STD-ATD rupture!
STD: Scheduled Time of Departure
ATD: Actual Time of Departure
N. Rangamani, a resident of Chennai, graduated from IIT Madras; superannuated after more than thirty-five years of service in (Aircraft Maintenance) Aviation. He has revived his writing passion post retirement. He likes to write and puts it to action, sometimes. He writes in Tamil and English. Contact: rangkrish@gmail.com
With the years and days passing by
The source of the tree deepens down,
To hold it firm and upright high upto the sky.
The majestic branches and leaves may be it's crown
But the roots are the main frame that help it reach that high
Strength is in their firmness
And life supporting power in their reach
You can learn much from watching it
For the roots have so much to teach.
Learn to support someone at the time of their need
Along with also grasp the quality of helping the one selflessly
Learn to be generous, leaving back all your greed
With that also learn to shoulder your responsibility seamlessly
Years upon years with the growing roots too grows the tree,
With all of it's good deeds
The tree is portrayed to be great but that it doesn't glee
Even if reaches the heights, it doesn't let it's root to recede.
Even if you reach the eminence
Don't forget your roots and try to be free
Rather push yourself honouring your duties, shedding away your preeminence
The same way just so as the tree!!
Ayana Routray, a student of Class X in Bhubaneswar, is a young poet with keen interest in Literature, Fine Arts, Singing, Modelling and Anchoring. She is also a television artiste in Odiya TV channels.
“Tug of war”
Made us win, made us lose
Made us all fall
Made us giggle
Made us guffaw;
Now too “Tug of war”
Daily, unlimited
No choices offered
No accolades, no wins
Just play or perish…
“Tug of war”
Between ‘wrong or right’
‘Duty and delight’
‘Escape and fight’…
“Tug of war”
Between…
‘Morning tea and Maths bee’
‘Push-ups and pull-ons’
‘Nail polish and shoe polish’.
“Tug of war”
Between......
Mid-days stir and wash machine whir
‘CID’ and ‘Shoorveer’
‘Chicken tikka’ and ‘Kadhai paneer’.
“Tug of war”
Played whole life
With lot of strife
Tired of the duel,
The ‘self’ contorts now
For the ‘bliss’ ultimate
And the supreme divine.
We are always pushed and pulled between different factors and events all throughout our lives...well, should we then exit? Where do we go...are you sure you'll get a better life anywhere else? If you are thinking that for your good karmas you'll go to the heaven or for bad karmas you'll have to suffer at Hell...Sorry, you do not have to go anywhere, you have to repeatedly come back to this world to live the fruits of your Karmas...The algorithm is set.
Understanding this and little more, when you surrender to the Almighty all your actions, then probably by staying here also you enjoy your life, contribute to the society and yet remain connected to your origin forever.
This "Tug of war" of life at times becomes so tough that suddenly we look up and we see the light.....
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
As I watched the birds flapping their wings in voids,
clouds floated in,
dreams melted in a hazy backdrop,
life meandered nearby.
Did we come from some distant lands
thousands of years ago as 'homo sapiens'
where rivers, valleys, lakes abound
or from deserts of African East
where a relentless Sun blasts the earth,
animals and men?
Traversed distant lands,
crossed deserts, rivers, mountains,
plucked fruits and killed beasts for sustenance,
hunger quenched,
sang and danced to rhythms of thunder and rains.
May be, slightly bored, created gods, fables and state,
while revolving
in constant cycles of birth,
youth and death.
Everything in mind, nothing beyond it,
man, god, fairies and devil,
contours of soul,
earth and heaven,
your silvery softness,
gossamer thread of life,
love and hate,
war and peace,
mind embraces all, nothing escapes it.
We are part of the great mind,
a drop of spark in the great ocean,
we lay submerged,
popped up our head for a while and swim a little,
exhausted, drown ourselves unable to swim anymore
and thereby hangs a tale.
All the ideas creep into mind,
great or small, world shattering or fanciful,
revolutions take shape, civilizations emerge,
all float for a while, then sink,
mind remains.
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.
Oh! Dear Human,
You might have money, cars and property,
Or good friends and family,
But do you deserve serenity?
If you think you do, you might be wrong,
The earth has been bearing you humans for very long…
Once upon a time, when nature’s beauty flourished everywhere,
All other planets were jealous of this wondrous sphere,
But now there is a drastic change….
The earth is crying in extreme grief,
And other planets take a sigh of relief,
For they don’t have to bear a torturous creature,
A creature who has played an havoc with nature,
“Human” we proudly call this creature….
Fauna killed… Oh! That’s alright,
Wifi stilled… Your face turns white!
Cut down trees and destroy all plants,
For they can’t cry out for help,
But dear human don’t you dare forget,
That without them you certainly will regret…
The technology is flourishing with great speed,
And increasing every human’s greed,
But this greed has forgotten something,
That all started because Mother Nature is caring…
Human can be given the title of a fool,
For he can’t understand the necessity of car pool,
It’s necessary for two men to boast about their wealth,
But why to care about nature’s health?
You call plastic a “necessity”,
Oh! Human, on the nature, have some pity…
The smoke produced in your factory,
Has destroyed the life of every bird’s family…
Do you ever think before disposing into the waters a chemical strong,
That your deeds won’t let a fish stay with her son for long.
You suffer diseases because of the pollution caused by you,
But why should the endangered sparrow suffer flu?
And the innocent tree die in your garden,
When the supreme culprit is the human…
You are proud of your devastating inventions,
And think that they make you strong and charming,
So why are you scared to face a threatening situation,
A situation called Global Warming…
A mother immensely loves her children,
But also gives a tight slap to the mischievous brat,
Global Warming’s result might be mother nature’s tight one,
So, dear Human, better be aware of that.
You still have some time,
To save the nature’s regime,
A bit of love and care from each person,
Could save the other creatures from losing their dear one…
Spend only a few hours from your busy procedure,
Not to boast on social media for likes and popularity,
But in reality for mother nature,
I promise, you’ll feel the actual serenity….
Hiya Khurana is 14 yrs old and is studying in 10th Standard. She developed an interest in writing since a very young age. She enjoys writing essays and poems. She started writing poems at the age of 10. She likes reading short stories and poems. She won an essay writing competition at the age of 8. She has also won many school level speech competitions in English as well as in Hindi. She represented her school and backed a position in the Top 10 in a national Hindi speech competition held last year. She is also interested in painting and crafting. She has won many school level drawing competitions. She also enjoys playing chess and has participated in an inter school chess competition as well. She has won chess awards at the school level.
They were two and we were three
On two sides of a single row
In the Chair Car of the popular train ‘Jana’ that does special during Covid-Ninteen run
Connects Kolkota to Cuttack and then to the temple City to make early morning return
The two were perhaps a just-married duo !
Was the young lady talkative or fond of flaunting her language?
A language for which Modiji won’t mind a months’ incarceration
Enjoy Didi’s hospitality without fish or mutton
True he is a vegan, but his interest is in words, the sweet soothing diction
The sweet language was piercing our ears, and must be piercing his heart
She was taking full advantage of the constitution, the right to expression
The train may stop in some stations, some junctions
But she stops not, no intermission, no intersection
The sky was overcast with clouds
But all precipitation and lightning was happening in the train, inside that coach
The young man was a true disciple of Gandhi
He was doing Gandhi's monkeys three-in-one with his face down,
Though not smiling ,he was a Buddha too,
A Stitaprgyan, an equanimous man !
We three also acted Gandhi’s monkeys,
Not to see, not to hear, not to listen to the rubbish
Playing a deaf ear to one sided conversation
Our eyes fixed on our instruments of information
Where our fingers ran chats line after line
We are in respectable good jobs and position
Young women not in chains
But again we are women
Not just ‘thy name is women’
Our Gandhigiri is just a pretension
We must unravel the pain or else our journey is in vain
War also begins in the minds of women
The raison-d’être must be deconstructed without illusion.
One of us who teaches literature was a multi-tongue,
It was not difficult for her to decode the sweet coated missiles thrown
The greatest blunder to the discredit of the gentleman
Was done in the recent times by discourtesy to the mother-in-law in word or action
And extra love for his mother, treating the latter as motherland in contradistinction
An unnecessary wanton value addition to his kith and kin ones
Forgetting the social distance from one’s own old-blood relation.
That is a must in the post-marriage session
She was therefore running a refresher course for the marriage-freshmen.
As if she was doing for him revision after revision.
As we were approaching the station for a hurried get-down
Among ourselves, we electrified the question-circulation
In our small machines-electron
What is your take?
From the young lady’s sermon,
and the young man’s unruffled position?
One sentence read that he is an example for whole India as to what is tolerance!
The other contesting line said he stands larger than the nation
A real living Mahatma, a living Buddha as a good candidate for Noble Peace position!
But the line that was admired was mine,
Credit should go to Corona
It is the Mask
That covered the couple’s faces
Not letting out identity and identification
Made possible running the crash refresher-course lesson!
Amidst people in the running train.
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 stori
A POEM OF DESPAIR AND ONE OF HOPE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The day the earth fell silent,
Conference halls went empty
The circus stopped,
So did the operas.
The football games not played
Empty stadium collected dust.
The birds stopped singing
Flowers wilted before their time came
Tiny hands raised themselves
In prayers to God.
The lone old man was seen
Cycling to the abandoned dispensary
Looking for some left over solace.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I am present as a tiny dot everywhere
In a lover's gift to his beloved
A small breath in every soul,
In throbbing hearts, in smiling eyes.
You may hug me and give me a new life,
Or throw me out of your little world.
I will stil be there,
Pasted as a little dot
On the empty mirror on your wall.
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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