Literary Vibes - Edition CIX (24-Sep-2021) - POEMS
Title : On Nature's Lap (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 109th edition of LiteraryVibes.
This time we are lucky to have the contribution of many talented first timers for us. Mr. P. L. Sreedharan from Malappuram, Kerala, is a gifted and versatile poet with more than thirty books to his credit. Ms. Meenakshi Goswami, Principal of a High School from Tejpur, Assam, is a highly accomplished poet. Miss Twinkle Sasmal, a professional web designer from Konark, Odisha, is passionate about literature and occasionally writes deep, thought-provoking poems. Dr. Milton Franz, an Associate Professor of English from Eluva, Ernakulam, is a prolific writer. Shri Pratyush Raj Sharma, a business consultant from Bangalore has many interesting tales from his varied experience. Ms. Chinmayee Barik, an award winning, best selling writer from Panikoili, a small town of Odisha, writes mind-boggling stories in Odia. I read one of them in Facebook and was overwhelmed by its beauty. I deem it a privilege to have translated her story "Nun" for the readers of LiteraryVibes. Let us welcome all these excellent poets and writers to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them abundant success in their career.
I have great pleasure in also presenting to you a beautiful painting 'Glory' by Ms. Mallika Chari, a highly accomplished painter. It can be accessed at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/394
As I had mentioned repeatedly in the past, I will be very happy to host paintings, anthologies of poems and short stories in LiteraryVibes at no cost to the artists and writers. I only want art and literature to spread through your efforts and enrich a million lives.
As life moves on ever so slowly, I often wonder whether the days, months and years that have rolled by have been worth living. Did I do anything that someone will remember me for, long after I move on to God's kingdom?
Assailed by these thoughts, I came across a lovely story which made my heart dance with joy. If I had to live my life all over again I would like to bring a lot of smiles to those who have forgotten what it feels like smiling. Read the story and you will know why:
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THE CAB RIDE
(Narrated by a New York City Taxi Driver)
I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be the last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a frail voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
'Would you carry my bag out to the car please?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'
'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'
'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly..
'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.'
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice..'The doctor says I don't have very long.'
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired.Let's go now'.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescence home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.
'Nothing,' I said
'You have to make a living,' she answered.
'There are other passengers,' I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a lingering kiss on her wrinkled cheek. She held onto me tightly.
'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.
I drove around aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
Upon a quick review of the night, I didn’t think I had done anything more important in my life till then.
Great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID OR WHAT YOU SAID. BUT THEY WILL
ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
Those are the moments to live for.
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Those who care to read my story "Baba's Filter Coffee" in today's edition will find the glimpses of some such deeds in the life time of an old man in the late evening of his life. We recently lost Nirmal, a close friend from our college days. When we were students of Pre University back in 1969 in Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, Nirmal had organised a Shramdaan in his village, about 60 kilometres away. Twelve of us went to this interior village, stayed in the High School building for a week and built a road, cleaned a tank and repaired the school building. For the villagers it was a novelty, seeing boys from the college, (some of us were typical urban boys, like me, born and brought up in a town), toiling for them. They were happy to join us and all of us had a wonderful time. When Nirmal passed away a few months back, there was not a single one among us who did not remember that great selfless service he had given to his village, as a young boy of seventeen years. I am sure, like us, some of the surviving villagers from fifty two years back would have had tears in their eyes remembering that unforgettable week. This is what I meant when I said, would anyone remember us for anything we did? The famous lines of a lyric from Dil Ek Mandir, an iconic Hindi movie comes to my mind, "Jaane waley kabhi nehin aatey, jaane walon ki yaad aati hei." (Those who go away never come back, only their memories return.)
Wish you a happy reading and great festival days ahead, with Navaratri and Dussehra smiling around the corner.
Enjoy, but with care.
Please forward the following two links of LV109 To all your friends and contacts:
http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/395 (Poems), and,
http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/396 (Short stories, travelogues and other articles).
Looking forward to meeting all of you again on the 29th October, the last Friday of next month.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
DOLLY TO LOLLY
02) Haraprasad Das
THE MIDDLE-CLASS MAN (MADHYAVITTA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
PARALLEL PERSPECTIVES
04) Sreekumar K
WHITE HIBISCUS
STORY TELLING
A GLIMPSE OF AADHYATMA RAMAYANAM
05) Madhumathi. H
THE LITTLE BOY...
06) Dr. Molly Joseph M.
SWEET, SWEET RIVER
IRRESISTIBLE
07) Bijay Ketan Patnaik
THE UNIQUE CELEBRATION (EIKAKA UTSAV)
08) Sreedharan Pl
WORDS LOOK AT ME!
09) Meenakshi Goswami
UNDRAPED INKLING
THE PANG OF EVENTIDE
10) Twinkle Sasmal
THE PAIN
11) Hema Ravi
TURBULENCE
12) Setaluri Padmavathi
VARIETY – THE SPICE OF LIFE
13) Pankajam Kottarath
THE CONCH SHELL
14) Sudha Dixit
WOMAN
WINGS
15) N Rangamani
AS I SEE, I HOPE! AS I HOPE, I SEE!
16) Ravi Ranganathan
SUFFERANCE
17) Pradeep Rath
WHEN THERE IS STILL TIME.
18) S Ritika
THOSE FLUTTERING WINGS ARE LOST, ALAS!
NUMB AWAKENING
19) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
LET GO!!!
20) Runu Mohanty
A PRAYER (PRARTHANA)
21) Asha Raj Gopakumar
MY GREAT INSPIRATION
22) Seema Jain
YOUR SUDDEN DEPARTURE
CHAMPA FLOWERS
23) Ayana Routray
RIPPLES OF THE SEA
MIRROR OF GLORY - THE SUNFLOWER
24) Akshara Rai
THE LAST RIDE
25) Trishna Sahoo
OH! MY TEACHER
26) Abani Udgata
THE BOY IN THE TEA SHOP
REDEMPTION
27) Prof. Niranjan Barik
NOT BORN A TWIN
28) Indumathi Pooranan
TIME
29) Supriya Pattanayak
LUNCH HOUR IN THE CITY OF LONDON
30) Ashok Subramanian
THE UNIVERSE UNDERSTANDS
31) Sukanya V Kunju
BUTTERFLY ANALOGY TO LIFE
32) Chandan Kumar Chowdhury
POEM- WHEN I AM GONE
33) Sundar Rajan S
THE WINNERS
34) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE SONG THAT WALKED WITH ME
Table of Contents - ARTICLES
01) Geetha Nair G
TRAVELLING COMPANIONS
02) Ishwar Pati
ANGEL HEART
03) Sreekumar K
DIL SE
04) Krupa Sagar Sahoo
BHAINSA THE LITTLE BUFFALO
05) Prof.(Dr.) Gangadhar Sahoo
THE POSTPONED LUNCH
06) Dr Prasanna Kumar Sahoo
THE UNFORGETTABLE MEMOIRS
07) Sunil Biswal
RI TAN’GI HO’RU
08) Ms. Chinmayee Barik
NUN
09)Dr. Milon Franz
MEMORIES IN FULL BLOOM
10) Pratyush Raj Sama
A STORY OF DREAM, STRUGGLE, AND ADAPTATION: MY MEMORIES IN RUSSIA
11) Setaluri Padmavathi
MY VISIT TO LAKSHMI PURAM (A VILLAGE IN INDIA)
12) Gourang Charan Roul
NEW YORK – FROM A TOURIST’S PERSPECTIVE
13) G K Maya
THE BLUE LOTUS
14) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
MIRACULOUS TULASI
RIPPED JEANS
15) Sheena Rath
MA DURGA..... THE INVINCIBLE
16) Vishakha Devi
THE LITERACY BRIDGE - IN NEED OF REPAIR
17) Shruti Sarma.
MY DEAR FRIEND
18) Dr.Radharani Nanda
THE BLUE SAREE
19) Prof. Nachiketa K Sharma.
THE DILEMMA
20) Satish Pashine
TOO BUSY TO SAY SORRY
SATTU GOES TO THE BIG SCHOOL!
21) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM RECENT HISTORY: ONE FAMILY, ONE NATION AND ONE COUNTRY
22) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
BABA'S FILTER COFFEE
REVIEWS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
AN OVERVIEW – Fourteen Poems from 108th Issue, Literary Vibes
02) Sreekumar K
WHERE DOES POETRY COME FROM
Hi loll, howdy? This is Doll;
… tell you, just give a look –
where has my moron ‘ex’
landed himself?
An absolute ass, a prize sulk,
a bumbler, a grumbler, a fumbler,
you know what I mean, baby.
He ran away on my cursed day
when my stable door was open,
his leash was loosened, and now,
suffering somewhere his abject misery
without my amazing company
in his life, his invaluable gold-field.
Ha! the lazy nonperforming digger!
The poor dear called me
a ‘mines field’ – just between
you and me, in privacy, – because
I would come firing phut-phut-phut.
Should he call it ‘quick fire’?
No, I think, it’s called ‘multi-organic’,
or some idiotic jargon of that sort.
And he, an empty cannon,
not even a puff of air, no sparklers,
no sound, no pellets; yet he has pitched
a tent in my heart! If you find him, my lame stud,
don’t domesticate him, let him return to my stable,
eat an occasional sugar cube from my hands.
Am I in love with the lazy bone? Oh noooo!
(From the ‘TRIVIA’ series of poems)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is a poet/ story writer/translator/literary critic, living in Mumbai, India. The publishers - Rupa & Co. and Allied Publishers Pvt Ltd have published his three books of poems – VIGIL (1993), LIPS OF A CANYON (2000), and LITMUS (2005). His poems have been widely anthologized in fourteen different volumes of anthology by publishers, such as – Rupa & Co, Virgo Publication, Penguin Books, Adhayan Publishers and Distributors, Panchabati Publications, Authorspress, Poetrywala, Prakriti Foundation, Hidden Book Press, Penguin Ananda, Sahitya Akademi etc. over the period spanning over 1993 to 2020. Awards won - Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award, JIWE Poetry Prize. Former president of Poetry Circle (Mumbai), former editor of this poet-association’s poetry journal POIESIS. He edited a book of short stories by the iconic Odia writer in English translation – FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM, VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI. He is widely published in literary magazines; lately in Kavya Bharati, Literary Vibes, Our Poetry Archives (OPA) and Spillwords.
THE MIDDLE-CLASS MAN (MADHYAVITTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
‘A kitchen…,
enough meat… veg-fare;
the house-help, a bit wayward;
the family mostly under the weather’
is the cutest recipe
for a middle-class household.
The man of the house
can serve his severed head
ingratiatingly on a platter
oozing submission
to well-heeled friends
invited home for a birthday.
His neck ever too weak
to carry his head, his self-esteem
low for the lack of success.
No friend listens to him
when he waxes eloquence
of his few achievements.
His friends don’t care
how he feels or care
for his fragile ego, his opiate.
His diffident hand
keep scratching his head,
when his guests
eat, drink, and dance,
occupied with their selfish joy.
His niceties, his worries,
his caring and pleasing ways
remain out of their attention.
He stands alone in his grim eminence.
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)”
You look ahead
till your gaze may reach
where the road narrows in the distance
and both its edges converge
to a point
and the people
black and yellow
white and brown
walking on the road toward it
or away from it
dressed in green
white and saffron
tend to merge there only in
shades of grey.
The illusory locus
serves both as the source and the sink
where definite becomes indefinite
the finite becomes infinite
and vice versa
and there are many such roads
that are parallel to each other
and which tend to seem
to finally meet
at the ultimate
vanishing point
the cosmic confluence
where all differences
appear to disappear
ending the journey
from the crotch to crown.
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.
Who woke you up dear?
The sun hasn't risen yet
You are white all over
With a nascent dab of kumkum
Late last night
The cold night wind was up and about
When I was about to go to bed
I remember having kissed you good night
You were only a bud
Securely shied up
In deep green calyx nails
This morning
You were all ready to greet me
Soon the sun will kiss away that kumkum
Then your white will dazzle my eyes all the more
On this deep dark lovely body
At the very tip of a nimble branch
Like a lamp kindly lit
Now She is a flower
A yarn all entangled
Deep in the mind
Flows out a clear stream
From soil soiled with Time
Along the path of life
Another one goes through one
The traveller stays
Path moves
Ships see
Fast approaching land
Steer or crash!
Time, like a snake
Had eaten a live Frog long ago
Now it is the Frog's turn
It flips its salivating tongue
To feed on what it fed
To be selfless
Time, as it flows out
Gets swallowed by frogs
Which used to croak for food,
The last time they were eaten.
But times have changed.
Thus it goes back and forth
Time eats Tidings
Tidings eat Time
The story teller sighs
Says, "It is not over yet."
And goes right back to sleep
To wake up in other worlds
Where, hopefully
No Time
No Frog
No Snake
Not even its tail
Please pass the salt
All I need is a pinch
A pinch to wake me up
From a dream I haven't slept on
Like a frog, caught in the mouth of a snake
Nevertheless opening its mouth wide
And sticking its tongue out for food
This world encoiled in time
Goes after enjoyment with its wavering mind
(From The Ramayana in Malayalam by Thunchaththu Ezhuththachan)
A GLIMPSE OF AADHYATMA RAMAYANAM
Sreekumar K
This is a translation of a few lines from Thunchath Ezhuthachan's Adhyathma Ramayanam Kilippattu done without referring to a dictionary. So, corrections are most welcome.
( Kilippatt meaning bird’s song, a poetic tradition invoking a parrot to sing the poem to the author to avoid the story coming true in the author’s own life)
When Lakshmana, infuriated by his father’s decision to send Rama to a forest and crown Bharata as the king, railed at everyone around, Rama told him thus:
My dear brother, son of Sumithra, you should leave your agitations and listen to my words
I already knew of your intentions and I always felt that no one else has so much love for me as you.
And I am sure that nothing is impossible for you
Still, I want you to listen to this
This visible land, this very body, this wealth and assets
If they are but real, your concern has a reason
If they aren’t, what is the point?
All is vanity and vanishes in an instant
This very life itself is fleeting and instant
Like a drop of water on a hot plate
Our lives are but transient
Like a frog, caught in the mouth of a snake
Nevertheless opening its mouth wide
And sticking its tongue out for food
This world encoiled in time
Goes after enjoyment with its wavering mind
The companionship of the dear and the near
Lasts only for a while
Like the wayfarers put up in an inn
And dying there one after the other
Like logs of wood drifting in the river
Meeting and parting in this world are all too common
Well being doesn’t last forever
And so is the youth
Life is all too short like a thistle of grass
And one’s of family vanishes like a dream
This world full of attachments
Is as transient as a dream
Never forget the snakes
That resides in this dream city
The sun rises in the east
And in no time sets in the sea
It rises again on the hills
Just after we had our sleep
The animals who are fooled thus
Never ponder about the passing of time
Bobbing up and down in the ocean of maya
They fail to see their life draining out
Some grow old, turn grey and wrinkle up
And die with no dreams realized
Even as we watch without batting an eyelid
The artfulness of maya still fools us
Now it is day, and night follows
And the next day will come on time
But even as fools dream so
Without ever knowing the ways of one’s real self
Not aware of Him who manifests as time
Or the interesting games He plays
Their life goes like a bubble in a wild pool
And even that they never realize
Diseases, like our sworn enemies, surely
Come and reside in our body only to devour it
Death too resides in all of us
Waiting for its final chance
The body leads the living to false identification
And they see themselves as kings and priests
The invincible and the scholarly
Only to be eaten, digested and excreted
Or turned to ash in wildfire
Or get buried and become worms
This false identification does them no good
This body, made up of a few pound of flesh, some bones
some blood and mostly of urine and waste
Is nothing but the elements coming together
It changes with time and is the abode of falsehood or maya
Your decision to burn down this world came from
Your false identification with it and the ensuing pride
This false identification leads us to false pride
Which engenders fury which in turn engenders evil
It is this feeling that we are nothing but our body that
Becomes ignorance the mother of all illusions
Take it from me that you are not your body
But the soul, and this knowledge will end your ignorance
Maya is the handiwork of this ignorance and
True Knowledge is that which ends this maya
So, seek that knowledge that leads to freedom.
With a steady mind, since all your instincts
which are your real enemies will only thwart that search
Of all those enemies, anger is the most potential
In impeding your way to freedom
One kills one’s own parents when blinded with fury
Anger leads to regret and it binds you to maya
It erodes one’s principles and hence one should abhor it
Anger kills you and desire blocks your path to salvation
Happiness is your true nature and peace leads to that
You should set your mind on peace and no sorrow will come to you
Soul resides above all that is living
It is purity itself and self embellishing and self luminescent
It is the essence of all principles, unending, and eternal
it has no form or substance
It engendered the universe and permeates the universe
Set your eyes on that
You are knowledgeable to know that happiness and unhappiness are all to be endured
and do your duty with a pure heart
When you do your duty, do it
as an offering to the ultimate
without any attachment whatsoever
and not thinking about its result
The soul is pure and no actions can stick to it
Follow my words and thinking of your real self
and with no other thought in your mind
and filled with Happiness
and devoid of illusions and desires
It is honourable to be one with the ultimate
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.
(September 10th, is World Suicide Prevention Day, But every day is important to spread awareness, break the stigma, and collectively heal the broken souls.)
Rainy evening, at a railway station
I sat under the grey clouds, watching the raindrops
Land next to me, on the bench
Noticed a little boy, who seemed to love the trains
As much as I did
The distance between us, were filled by more raindrops
I smiled, he didn't
His gaze, wrote the untranslatable on the wind's diary, only the rain could comprehend
The sound of the passing trains, pulled away the gazes too...
I didn't know, whom he awaits
I didn't ask
He might have come, just to meet the trains
Just like me, hoping to unburden my heart...
His clenched fist, those tiny hands
I loved to see what he holds
I wished he showed it to me
Asking me to guess
But I first wanted him to smile...
I took out a paper, hoping words would bloom
Just a raindrop, filled the entire space...
The little boy, slowly turned, with muted eyes
I gestured, if he wanted the paper
Hesitantly, he took it
Made a paper boat, and wrote something
Pulling out a broken crayon from his pocket...
Placing it between us, he smiled
Now his eyes gently spoke
We both kept watching few more trains
The rain almost stopped
This boy sat a little closer
I showed him my clenched fist
His curious eyes, and shy fingers competed
We never asked our names, never spoke a word, yet conversed a lot
Heart light as a feather, I left the station
Watching this little boy, turn around often
As he walked away
Gifting me a tiny paper boat, for my soul's cruise
Oh my Captain!
'Captain' is what he wrote...
How beautiful are some moments, and people we meet
Some strangers too, are little messengers of love...
"Let's BE THERE..."
Let's not judge someone as "attention seeking", if a soul chooses social media to pour out. Some souls might truly not have a peaceful atmosphere at home, might be going through abuse, and there could be a lot more reasons to choose to vent to strangers, hoping to find a kind listener.
Of course, 'with a pinch of salt' we ought to exchange communication, especially with strangers, but we must also learn to be more receptive, empathetic, to first understand someone's vent. It is very very important! Let's Watch out for signs.
Not all mental health issues require professional help. A lot of them can be eased if not completely cured/healed, if we are willing to be there for others. Listen with empathy, being non-judgemental and trustworthy.
Let's help someone cope with his/her pain, to fight the battles inside, handhold through the healing process. Create space to talk Vent.
As long as tears are considered a sign of weakness, as long as we 'assume' someone as 'being strong' by just seeing his/her smile, as long as emotions are taken for granted/trivialised, healing would be difficult for the souls in pain...
Let's understand how important it is for our mental well-being to have a trustworthy shoulder to listen, vent without inhibitions, and how we too can be one, for several quivering souls in the world, who are silently enduring inexplicable pain...
Our collective efforts to be there for others, can save lives. Every little counts. Let's BE THERE.
A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi is 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, Amaravati Poetic Prism, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, Storizen, OPA – Our Poetry Archives, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes, and Science Shore.
‘’Ignite Poetry'’, “Arising from the dust”, “Painting Dreams", “Shards of unsung Poesies", "Breathe Poetry" are some of the *recent Anthologies her poems, and write ups are part of. (*2020 - 2021). Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, to create awareness and break the stigma, strongly believing in the therapeutic and transformational power of words. Contact: madhumathi.poetry@gmail.com Blog: https://madhumathipoetry.wordpress.com
Sweet, sweet river
of my ancestral home...
Can you halt a bit
for me,
to sing a song,
the story of the rise and fall
of the saga of my
grand, grand parents, their points of intersection on
pinnacles of glory, and downfall...
Hah! my sweet, sweet river
let us join the wind's whisper
that wafts in the fragrant past so fresh, so new...
Decades have passed, yet the tall looking, coconut trees
nod assent as they
wave their palm fronds in the air...
let us halt for a while
under the shady nook
and recount..
Out there where the wild undergrowth in brambles and bushes cover up.
there lies
the basements
of an ancient ancestral home
surrounded by acres of fertile land
facing thee, the smooth flowing river...
paddy fields stretched along the low lying shore
witnessing many a
sowing, seeding, harvesting
my kind Grandpa, Grandma supervising, caring for the many
who toiled on soil.
how the harvests
full
filled up the granaries so vast
attached to my ancestral home..
how on the vast stretching courtyard
heaps of coconuts lay
waiting to be cut and put under sun
to fill up the canoes that came transporting them
far off
for sale in such a
scale...
how feasts and revels
were the order of the day
the portals of my
"Thachanilam Tharavadu"
kept open for all
for reception so kind, warm...
How on the special
Canoe of the household, everyday they set off
to catch fish so live
to make a dish so fresh..
Sweet, Sweet river
can't you recollect
those heydeys of revel...
or
Can you trace the the days how decadence came
with the youngest son
so profligate
bringing downfall
to the glory...
squandering wealth, selling off
bit by bit every part of land
not sparing even the royal looking house
breaking it up piece by piece
selling it off
for drunken merriment with a host of hooligans
he chose...
Sweet river, do you remember the times,
holding on to his staff,
my broken Grandpa, Grandma made the unwilling exit to their elderson's abode
casting a lasting, lingering look at
you,
with tears in their eyes...
the outdated relics
of an empire so broken...
Sweet, sweet river
can you halt a bit
while on whispers
of the wind
I finish my song...
Ten decades have elapsed,
here I stand
the third generation shoot
showing my offsprings the roots
the vicissitudes...
the days that darkened into nights
and then paled into mornings and eves so suffused
in the recurring
pattern of life...
the vast stretching
tamarind and the giant mango tree still stand tall
braving the vagaries of time, still bountiful as ever...
For how long, it depends, on
the high bidder sales
so uncertain a future unfolds...
New owners
with money making schemes
can chip them off
for building riverside resorts , that recline on the sad melodies of yore
that thy winds carry
through you my sweet, sweet river...
Out, out they resonate
on
the sweeping shores of eternity...
How it blooms
even on arid planes...
nature
irresistible
braving odds...
just a sprinkle
they come out
with smiles!!
how well they
know
that sighs
of seas only,
go up
as vapours
to fall down,
hugging the earth
to enliven...
how anaesthetised
autumn beds
await
a splashing
spring.
be it love
or the severity
of the season
its the wait
patient wait
that matters...
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 UNIQUE CELEBRATION (EIKAKA UTSAV)
English version – by Prabhanjan K. mishra
This celebration is only mine,
I alone hold all its cards without brouhaha,
carry it on like a game of solitaire.
I am the host, and also the guest,
the usher, the attendant
and the priest of this festivity.
None is expected to attend it anyway,
all of them, the fair-weather friends who pull
vanishing acts during the hard times.
An occasion, like an irony, a celebration
of my loss, my ruin, like the last rites of a loved one,
a living-hell, a wound on the underbelly
like the holy month of Muharram to a Maulana,
unlike a jungle-fire, seen and talked of by all;
a spot of blood not wearable on sleeves.
Had the friends and dear ones come,
I could possibly be the butt of their jokes
over their goblets of champaign.
This is my festive dark, in my insular décor,
my wounded pride, inside my sacristy
where I hang my blood and tear-soaked inner wears.
I feel so cloistered and sheltered here
within the four walls of my anguish,
with myself, my own wounds, my secrets.
(The poem is from the poet’s book of Odia poems ‘UDVASTU’)
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
1. SEPARATION!
Because of the poor
Connection
They got separated and
Chats shattered.
If free connectivity offered,
It would be by and large
Alright!
2. BLURRED VISION
Link is available
But, Vision is
Completely blurred
As Screen Shot is too
Short, and not clear
Could I become larger?
3. EXTENDED CALL!
If You come down,
dear,
We can have our exchanges of
Views
Otherwise
It would be quite difficult.
We can have a video call
Still.!
4. LOSS
'Have a Nice Day',
Offered
Was of no use!
Was it on the very same day I lost my flat- bellied money purse with the ATM card?
5. IN THE QUEUE
Waited for a long time
In the lawn,
Lane,
alone,
Didn't you forget
Yourself to appear?
P.L.Sreedharan Parokode is a bi-lingual poet and lyricist from Malappuram district, Kerala. He has a Master's degree in English literature and Population Studies and a Post Graduate Diploma in Parental Education. Sreedharan has thirty books of poetry to his credit, including 'Weeping Womb', 'Slum Flowers,'Mahatma Gandhi' 'Nelson Mandela',Poems', 'Don't mum Please' etc. He has also written songs for professional dramas, for albums, songs for competitions, devotional songs etc. He has written songs for animation film also.
Sreedharan has attended various literary conferences in India and abroad. He presented his poems at World Congress of Poets, in Taiwan, 2015, China, 2018, and literary conference in Serbia, 2007.
He has received awards and honours from various organisations, such as, Sahitya shree Award, Sahitya Shiromani Award, Shan E Adab Award etc. He has also received an Hony.Doctorate from the World Academy of Art and Culture
Sreedharan is currently engaged in Doctoral Research in Population Studies from Annamalai University. Earlier he was working in the Administrative wing of the University of Calicut.
I took my quill last night,
Lost in postulation , I speculated
What shall I scribble ?
The dreams that we dreamt ?
The ecstasy and anguish we shared ?
Or the pang our little hearts felt ?
I propounded to open up my
Undraped Inklings for you.
Those pure, untouched, unexplained feelings.
The ones those were as fresh as
Flowers engulfed with the first morning dew.
The sweet twinkles, the honeyed laughter
The soulful compositions, those silent lyrics...
They are still concealed in my heart,
'Cause I mended it to store,
Those reminiscences I cherish.
But yes, I chose to adore those moments of ecstasy
And not the jiff of anguish
When my heart got shattered into fragments
When the splinters pierced my eyes
And brought out those Tangy tears..
Oh what about the heartache ?
Well, the saline dew drops took care of them,
And they brushed away into the ocean of infinity...
I am in love with my
Solitude
Roaming in a solitary night
Searching my bygone adoration
Amidst thousand rumbles
In the gloom of hostile duskiness
Pangs of my contour
Is within myself
But the agony of segregation
Besieges every juncture of my life
As a Savory from the inferno
Exploring like a lunatic
For my blue moon
I glide like a soul
For my bygone apparel
And I perish like a gladiator
In a combat lost !!
Meenakshi Goswami is the Principal of CNS Higher Secondary School, Tezpur , Sonitpur, Assam. She has been awarded on International Women's Day 2007 by the Indian Medical Association and on India's Republic Day 2019 by the Govt. of Assam for her dedicated service towards human resources, arts and culture. She has been awarded The State Award for Teachers by Govt.of Assam on 5th of September 2018. Meenakshi is a proud recipient of the prestigious OIL SHIKSHYA RATNA PURASKAR - 2016' , In recognition of all round excellence as an educationist . Meenakshi Goswami also participated in many International Poetry Festivals. Her poems are published in many National and International Multilingual Anthologies. She is a prolific Anchor and has been into Editorial Boards of many International poetry Anthologies and Short Story Collections
Pain is everywhere,
Here and there.
Sometimes found concealed
within a smile,
sometimes drops down with a tear. [1]
No one is yours, nothing is yours.
Utterly or fractionally, wittingly
Or unwittingly,
I, you and everyone is responsible
For someone’s fear. [2]
At times the pain creates interspace,
Or may be the glue for soulful
attachment.
It can restore or destroy,
By virtue of curse or bless. [3]
It’s a never ending journey
On the way from illusion to devotion.
From birth to death,
From poor’s cottage to king’s palace. [4]
It may be mental, physical or Psychological.
It can be the weak point or strongest power.
So let the pain move closer to your way,
To make your achievement
Time – honoured. [5]
Ms. Twinkle Sasmal is a graduate and a professional web designer, based near Konarak in Odisha. She works for the Reliance Retail Company and also free lances for Mosahay Techstsin Pvt. Ltd. She is a Director of Mosahay Art and Crafts Academy. She is passionate about literature and writes poetry both in Odia and English.
Waves lashing at the shore
in a never-ending race
overlapping, overtaking
heading for victory over the other
thunder clouds roaring
menacingly to rupture out
and lash at the earth
with all fury and ferocity
Forest fires raging
destroying flora and fauna
with all strength ad vehemence
the river in spate
devastating all and sundry in its path
the turbulent mind operating
brewing storm in teacup
conniving new strategies and tactics
the tumult and turmoil
will it come to rest?
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’
She was a guest faculty trainer in the Virtual Communication Skills Program for the Undergraduate Students of IIT Madras in July 2021, also resource person in the National workshop 'English Language Skills for Academic Purposes at Sastra University, Kumbakonam (2019).
She was the Guest of Honor and esteemed panel member for a panel discussion with faculty members and children on the topic of Creative Writing in the Virtual U R A Writer Award Panel Discussion (Gear International School, Bengaluru in Feb. 2021)
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021)
She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020)
She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
As event organizer of Connecting Across Borders (CAB), she has played a predominant role in organizing the International Poetry Conference on March 8, 2021, in collaboration with the CTTE College, Chennai. Earlier, in July 2020, she organized an international poetry webinar ‘Connecting Across Borders, featuring women poets from India and overseas.
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort.
As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently.
The bridegroom acquired a chance
In the place of a well-known fiancé
The bride never had any real priority
Infidelity ruled out her valid authority.
Parents intended for her marriage
She never thought of a remarriage
The man became her honest master
The woman held the role of a servant.
The master and servant’s lifestyle
Can never progress any further mile
Whilst they lead it with compulsion
Lack of love makes living as an aversion.
Today’s world becomes her playground
Present life pushes her swing around
The woman gains a suitable opportunity
That voices her acceptance in community.
An educated and experienced woman
Excels in the field that she’s chosen
She requires her prominence to be proven
That struggles in making home as a heaven.
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
I put to my ears the conch shell
that spirals to the right,
the one Arjuna blew
after his prudent victory,
to hear the Pranava Natha, ‘Ohm’,
the first sound of creation.
Having emerged from the sea
during the samudra manthan
it might have heard
the roar of the waters
with untiring anger,
the cries of the rocks underneath
with brown wrinkled face
which take the blows on their heads;
the gossips of the brazen waves,
wails of people
drowned in ghastly depths,
the howls of races
that crossed the Indian Ocean,
the mutterings of Vedas
by the saffron clad monks
and prayers of people
offering rites to their forefathers.
It might also recall memories of people
who wanted to make fortunes
at the farther coasts of the sea
which were shattered to smithereens
and the sorrows of the distressed
whose footprints multiplied on its shores.
In its nothingness, I hear everything.
samudra manthan=Churning of ocean
Pankajam, retired from BHEL as DM/Finance is a bilingual poet and novelist settled at Chennai, India. In addition to several poems, book reviews and articles published in national and international journals, she has twenty-eight books to her credit, including fifteen books of poems, a translated poetry collection in French and three fictions in English. Three books on literary criticism viz., Femininity Poetic Endeavours, History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry-An Appraisal and Socio-Cultural Transition in Modern Indian English Writing & Translation discuss her works in detail. She has won many awards for poems and short stories including Rock Pebbles National Literary Award 2019.
I’m vulnerable
I’m fragile
I need love and care
That, too, in style
Coz, it’s not
Pity that I want
No obligation
No condescending attitude
I am proud, of myself
And of my aptitude
Like it or not
You’re no angel
Give it a thought
I’m not really
A maiden in distress
And you’re no shining,
Armoured knight
So don’ take stress
Be chivalrous and polite
Anything preposterous
Don’t you dare
I am delicate & precious
Handle with care
How do I fly with sodden wings?
Give me the Sun give me some breeze
So that I may dry my wet wings
On the roof top or on the trees
Clouds hovering over the horizon
Dripping nectar up on the Earth
Helping moisture to increase
And germinate the seeds
Growing crops, spreading mirth,
I’ve walked upon the grass
I’ve raced around the environs
Through Summer, Fall then Winter
I’ve enjoyed all these seasons
Yet I look up at the sky
Colouful rainbows do I espy
And then in my heart
A desire takes birth
A wishful thinking
To reach the horizon
From the terrace, over the ocean
Fly with Angel’s wings
Ambition plays a strong role
It helps, in life, to reach a goal
I find my wings through dreams
And soar high above to all extremes
Sudha Dixit, was born and brought up in UP. Presently settled in Bangalore.. She is doing what she always wanted to do - painting landscapes and portraits & writing poetry / articles on net and various magazines, including print media.
She looks at nature with myopic eyes & paints it wearing tinted glasses, with poetry in her heart. Poetry just happens. It acts as catharsis in her life, removing the toxin from her heart in the form of words on paper. It’s therapeutic. This high spiritedness reveals itself in both, her poems & paintings.
AS I SEE, I HOPE! AS I HOPE, I SEE!
When everyone stares into the distance, at the shadow, dark
I sincerely look for the light-source that cast it stark!
When everyone gazes at the darkness of the thick night,
I wish to bathe merrily in the cool, lucent moonlight.
When everyone feels the misery of scorching heat on a mid summer day,
I refresh in the awesome shade of the big banyan tree, to be happy and gay!
When you find your eyes are blinded by the gusty, dusty wind blowing,
I watch with wonder the dancing, swirling leaves,off the trees unwinding.
When you're stranded in the vast expanse of the desert dunes, gripped in fear,
I revel in the quiet, counting the spectacular sand-sketches of nature, drawn clear!
When on an unheralded rainy day, you run for an umbrella to shield,
I enjoy getting drenched, looking at the effacing cracks on the barren field.
When you fritter the night away in reverberating boisterous ambience,
I sleep peacefully in my dream at the doorstep of still silence.
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
Can you conjure a famished day of summer
With farmers looking aghast at the skies
Or read despair in that villager’s cursed murmur
When he spots a dry sun with his roving eyes?
Are you strong enough to console his mind
As he grimaces, glancing gloomily at his parched field
Can you puff life into this arid land unkind
That once prospered with a bountiful yield
Are you strong enough to pump a speck of spring
Into the dried up autumn of his stunted hopes
Or tie his dreams with a silvery string
And stir his battered, bruised soul with sugary sops.
Can you ever paint the clouds black to whet his wishful reverie
Or extract sap from the roots of his endless penury?...
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.
Let me inhale the mists
sitting pretty on leaves and flowers,
tenderly touch their shining texture
and marvel at the splendours of sky and try to sing a song
when there is still some time.
Let me wander aimless
on the cliff of a nearby hill
gaze at the town and stars and sit upon a rock,
cry 'holla' and run and run in joy when there is still some time.
Let me walk on roads of my village,
whistle soft on the banks of the river,
listen to the tales of my folks
and sit on steps of village temple and pray, think of the greyish past
when there is still some time.
Let me fly on the wings of poems, find tales on the brows of my long lost friend,
go on a distant journey as the world whirls and whirls
laugh and cry to heart's content when there is still some time.
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.
THOSE FLUTTERING WINGS ARE LOST, ALAS!
Those fluttering wings are lost, alas!
They drew smile on any face
Found in gardens lost in a joyful race
Loitering on the terrace even on sunny days
Peeping out from stories stashed in a bookcase..
Those fluttering wings are lost, alas!
Day and night mobile screens we stare
A.C.'s chill has replaced the breath of fresh air.
Although we have a skyscraper to call home,
Whole life we are stuck inhaling traffic fumes.
Maybe... The wings are just dormant... Awaken them
Away from routine, talking to friends
Lost in the woods, camping in tents
Climb a tree even today,
Feel the wings giggling away
#childhood
A numb me, awakened by a chill touch-
A snowflake, twirling on my nose,
It's fractals, mirroring two eyes unknown!
A questioning void, I look past!
See memories dance in that crystal ball
This moment that went still
weighs me down, I sink, back in time
Through layers of fallen moments.
I feel a solid ground,
It has stayed the same
as before the storm
I am taken aback
By a push from stubbed howl,
In my footprint, I see
My past valor, pinned like a medal
On white expanse of nothingness!
I seek a full moon
To transform me to my old self!
Can I just take a plunge
Down this rabbit hole?
I howl out my emotions
The world is stirred, a resonance!
It has finally shaken off dead moments
To live beyond....
Painting Credits (Numb Awakening):
Artist: Kavya Rajesh
(Kavya is pursuing her junior college from Christ college. She loves to express herself through her artistic strokes whenever she can find time. )
Ritika likes to find an unusual angle in the usual things. Her work is mostly written in hindi and english, but she likes experimenting in other languages as well. Her articles are often published in the newspaper ‘The Hitavada’. Her poems can be found under the pen name ‘Rituational’ in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rituational and in her blog: http://songssoflife.blogspot.com/ & Her Contact: ritika.sriram1@gmail.com
Let go…
Of the flowers in the vase,
Shriveled and lacking a life;
Let go…
Of the old wall hangings
Tethered and dusty;
Let go…
Of your faded dresses
Shredded shoes,
Trinkets that have turned black.
Let go…
Of your grief
For ‘This too shall pass’
Life is a dream within dream.
Let go…
Of your anger
For it is burning you,
You but no one else.
Let go…
Of your fear
For it is a shell made by you
Encaging you in delusion;
Let go…
Of your avarice
For none can you take,
When you go from here.
Let go…
Of the tarnished relations
You were destined to walk a while together
Now YOU have to tread alone.
Let go…
When time demands
For all of them have an expiry,
The sooner, it is better;
For YOU are a soul to fly free!
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.
English version by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
My limbs may be crushed,
making me a handicap
but let my soul be burnished
by your cleansing fire.
My dreams may die,
please lord, keep my heart alive,
let it keep beating in your love,
your love’s signature bloom in my garden.
Without a voice,
let our two souls unite,
be tied in a knot
as lasting as the ‘Gordian one’.
My life-threatening sorrow
deluges me; lord,
bless our love to be immortal;
let tears open heart’s gate.
I do not believe
in ‘wearing one’s heart
on sleeve’ in a show off,
it wounds my soul.
Let our bond under
the relentless social hammer
prove itself tough,
a piece of diamond;
but our souls cherish
love’s delicacy
softer than the
softest rose petals.
The flesh may decay,
the spirit should soar high;
in pain and hurt
the path not lose its way;
let our love keep
us enchanted in its magic,
let not the moon beams
lose their charm in our life.
Oh lord, if you decide
to leave me to my devices;
pray, let not my beloved
leave my side, leave my heart.
(The poem is from Runu Mohanty’s Book of Odia poems ‘MOHINI’)
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.
[My humble dedication to my dearest Latha Prem Miss]
A vibrant beauty with divine eyes.
Flowing air with soothing love.
Glowing sunshine with gracious smile.
Caring mother with blessing hands.
Fantastic motivator with scintillating words.
Surpassing aficionado with artistic talents.
An optimist, through spiritual words.
‘She’ is the one who-
Spreads golden light on me.
Dig out the hidden talents in me.
Emboldened me to enter the world of writing-
A tryst with knowledge and wisdom.
No words are enough-
For me to say thanks to you.
Heart full of gratitude.
My stunning role model.
My greatest inspiration.
My dearest teacher.
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.
Your sudden departure
Without even a faint goodbye
In the flash of a moment
Came as a lightning blow,
Burnt and ruined,
Singed and scorched,
Struck and smashed
So many hearts to smithereens.
Among the broken fragments lay
A mother's love
A wife's youth
A father's hopes
A sister's memories
A four year old's laughter:
The only thing intact
Was a two-month old babe's smile
Blissfully unaware
Of the horror of
A terrible cloudburst
Inundating multiple hopes
Reducing them to nothingness.
The fragrance of Champa flowers
Emanating from a nearby house
Captivated me, bewitched me.
Slowly, it became a routine
To imbibe the mesmerising fragrance
Into my hungry breath.
The heart absorbed the sweet smell,
Though the tree had its roots
In a stranger's courtyard.
One day, the stranger decided
To cut down the tree,
And taking an axe
Struck a deadly blow
Not just to the swaying branches
But also to some silken threads
Hanging precariously to them.
Seema Jain is a bilingual poet, a short story writer and a translator who has recently retired as Dean Academics, Associate Professor and Head, P G Dept of English from Kanya Maha Vidyalaya (KMV) Jalandhar after having taught English Literature and Language for 39 years. Her areas of academic interest include English Phonetics and Phonology, Indian Writing in English and Contemporary Literary Theory. She has acted as Chairperson and Convener at many international and national conferences, has widely presented and published research papers.
Her published books include four books of poems titled Silent Letters, An Apology to my Father, Mom ke Pankh and Dhoop Chhanv, a recent book of Hindi to English translation Poetic World of Narendra Mohan and two edited Books on Women Empowerment and Higher Education and Cross Cultural Nuances.
She is associated with many poetic forums and her poems and short stories have been widely published, translated, anthologized and recited during International Poetry Conferences, Webinars, and on TV and radio. She has contributed to about 50 Anthologies and has been giving live poetry shows and winning many prizes in online poetry competitions on social media.
She has received Purvottar Hindi Sahitya Academy Award and the ‘Master of Creative Impulse’ Award by Philosophique Poetica and Grand Productions Canada for her contribution to Literature, Creative Writing, Education and Research. She is the Founder President of Litspark: A Literary Forum, a member of the prestigious international body English Scholars Beyond Borders (ESBB), and a life member of Shakespeare Association (India).
Ride, the last ride;
The most tranquil trail,
Full of peace, full of calmness,
Full of pain, full of sorrows,
Full of heartache.
And void of character forever hollow.
Ride, the last ride!!
In deep slumber for eternal age,
The one decree applicable for all,
The shortfall of life,
The End for A new Start,
The Odyssey to the Stars.
Ride, The last Ride!!!!!
Ms. Akshara Rai is an MBBS student at the Institute of Medical Sciences and SUM Hospital, Bhubaneswar. A winner of multiple awards for poems, short stories and elocution, she is passionate about Drawing & Painting, Writing poems& short stories, Reading books, Acting, and Oration.
When it comes to teaching,
No one can beat you,
When you see your students,
Never differentiate old and new.
From alphabets to essay writing,
You are always there for guiding .
You are like our parents,
To help us in every thing,
When we are breaking down,
You start consoling and inspiring.
As a human being,
You are different from the rest,
Oh! My dear Teacher,
You are simply the best.
I always pray for ,
Each one of my friend,
To be blessed with ,
A teacher like you, at the end .
This poem was written on the occasion of TEACHERS DAY 2021 .
Trishna ( Natuni ) , a class V student of Sai International School Bhubaneswar, born to engineer parents and doctor grand parents is a gifted child. A disciplined and determined learner she is, as a student, family member, speaker, writer and an Odisi dancer. She is blended with traditional and cultural values, spirituality, science and arts. A nature loving girl she has taken reading books and travelling as her hobbies. Her favourite dish is Chicken Biryiani prepared by her mother. Her motto of life is, " NEVER BE A DEFAULTER. " May God bless her.
The boy in the tea shop smirks,
as he squints at the flash on the screen
“ Where is this Kabul, sir”?
A slip of a boy, fresh as the rains falling now,
he has seen only today, not the shadows
that went before, vacating the pages.
And it goes on. The clouds gather
at the horizon like a marauding army
and for days it rains blood and gore.
The silent rivers stunned turn red,
meander in to hair- raising folklores .
Men in straw hats tend their cattle,
till their land, and hope that the guns
and the cannons stop blazing and then
the angry tide swamps their home.
Somewhere a bugle sounds in victory
drowning a vast field strewn with limbs.
And then a stranger arrives looking for
a place to stay for an uncertain period;
the buzz goes round that peace has returned.
The boy in the tea shop tries to catch
a spot of sun-beam in his palms.
Last night we left the balcony door open
not for the moonlight to stream in
not for the wind to have a smooth passage.
There was no moon nor the wind blowing last night.
A humid evening stretching in to a still night
choked in its own breath outside the drawn blinds.
The drooping eyelids were sure that the day after
nothing would be left outside these walls.
May be you might not need the walls anymore .
The walls fall off when a pandemic rages.
The walls though brutal define your longings
to live , to fight for your small desires, dreams.
It has been like that for a very long time .
We lisp and stutter, drown and stay afloat but live
through our insufficiency, our awkwardness.
The balcony door stood wide open in morning.
A smiling fresh rose bud stood as a guard
bobbing its head up and down, in the flowerpot
fully redeemed in the soft light.
The small mercies make the day.
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
NOT BORN A TWIN
Prof. Niranjan Barik
My mother did not give birth to me as a twin,.
Then why every year,
Nay every now and then
Is the moment of Spanish Armada?
Every day the clouds in the sky hover like marauding soldiers
Sun peeps in to show its bright face,
But the brightness is as fleeting as the fleeting cloud,
It’s face is darkened by the black clouds no sooner than it appears,
After a Day’s struggle,
Finally overpowered, it slips into a night's cover
In the darkness it secures itself.
The heart palpitates,
Not far a Church Bell tolls and tolls ,
Here the blaring of the sirens go unstopped
The fire tenders and the Ambulances scramble the road,
In their frantic competitions in reaching destinations.
Wood logs pile up as signs of good governance
To meet unprecedented challenge
of saying goodbye to people that like that way,
A drone in the day time has taken the place of a cloud,
It darkens the Sun and darkens the Day,
Its shadow, nay footsteps are heard in the civilian area
The wailing of men, women and children rent the sky.
When will end the moment of the Spanish Armada !
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.
Each day the sun rises
It is time for us to begin
All the things that we do in between
The sun sets and night sets in
We wind up and the day ends
To start all over again
Never do we stop and think
Will there be a change?
Things will happen mighty strange
It gives us no time to rearrange
We have nothing but the past
Clinging on to the present moments
The moments turn into memories
Be it happy or sad
It ends up as stories
We wonder what has happened
And realize it has all ended
Only to be reminded
That each day the sun rises and sets
The day goes on
Nothing changes
But everything is different.
.
Indu Pooranan lives in Chennai and is passionate about literature. She started writing a few lines wishing her husband for his 50th birthday and from then on has gone on to making people feel special on important occasions by expressing her thoughts and the bonds they share. In addition to the photo grids that she tries to create, she also pens her thoughts on nature and current topics.
LUNCH HOUR IN THE CITY OF LONDON
Supriya Pattanayak
A busy street with paved sidewalks overflowing.
Soaring buildings, woven patchwork of old and new, of stone and glass alike.
The sky, a sliver of grey flowing above the road, offers some light.
The man in a blue suit with headphones over his head,
speaks loudly, to somebody about a particular delivery.
Others tune out, ignore him, worried for his deadline.
He crosses the street, walking briskly from one end to the other.
The signal is about to change, from orange to green
but the crowd keeps crossing, before the traffic rushes in.
A car honks, the man jumps out of the way.
The taxi driver shakes his head, unimpressed, as it passes by.
Unaffected, uncaring, people rush on to reach their own space.
Lunch hour is over, the clock shows past one.
Some walk back content, speaking with their friends.
The man runs back, a sandwich tucked in his soft hands.
One leans as another paces, smoking in the designated bay.
Heels click against the pavement, as a woman strides by.
The man walks around a cart with the sign, discounted pizza today.
It starts to drizzle. People who check the weather, pull up their hoods.
Others, ignore the drops running down or just, stoop.
The man stops, swipes his card and enters while others carry on walking.
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/ .
RIPPLES OF THE SEA
Ayana Routray
Look out into the deep turquoise sea
where the waves make the most melodic sound
they come crashing to the sandy lonesome shore
warmly embracing the sand all around
With their every touch they leave behind,
the treasures of the deep sea
Shells, pebbles and a lot worth more
To unlock the sealed emotions of ours, it's the only key
With the every uproar it splashes the essence of being free, resolute and bold
With it's every crash to the shore
it reminds us to always look forward to the new, remembering the old
The sea, these waves all of them teach us to be
as harmonious as they are
Learning to make space for others to co-exist
would be the greatest glory of ours
I again listen to whispering waves,
this music of the nature all soothing and strong
We are forever indebted to the nature
for this treasure, it dispenses with us all along
MIRROR OF GLORY - THE SUNFLOWER
Ayana Routray
I will always remember the sunflower
who always faces, admiring the sun
She reflects his beauty and glory on her face
and radiates the brightness, like her owns no one
She makes the dull dry fields golden,
embroidering the beautiful landscapes
She's the source of joy,
with her charm, a solemn world she shapes
This graceful bloom stands high giving so much,
even though fragrance she has none
She teaches us to always look up to the brightest,
just like she stands admiring the sun!!
(This is a small poem that I had written dedicating to my teachers on Teacher's Day, but I certainly feel that this poem is for each and every person out there who inspire us in some or other way in our everyday lives.)
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.
(Image by efes from Pixabay)
Even the evening walk in the gardens
Welcomed with thunder drum rolls
Celebrated by the celestial fireworks
As you rest on the park bench
Washed by the ten-minute rain
Pristine and clean for you
The clear twilight sky
Makes a reservation for you
In its billion-star hotel
The evening breeze blows
Switching on the air conditioner
Just mild to suit your moods
And the white daffodils nearby
Send a whiff of their scent
Just to add to the ambience
The white blob in the sky
Has its dents and flaws
Yet is an unceasing witness
That the universe does understand
That you were the missing piece
Just created to watch its miracle.
Ashok Subramanian been writing poems and stories since 2011. He is a published poet and fiction author. His published past work involves Maritime Heritage of India ( Contributing Writer, 2015), Poetarrati Volume 1& 2 ( Poetry series, 2020 - Ranked #8 on Amazon Hot Releases List in May 2020), A City Full of Stories ( Short Fiction, 2021) and Ponder 2020 ( Poetry Review Collection, 2021). Upcoming work includes Poetarrati Volumes 3 and 4, and a contemporary fiction novel in 2022. By profession, he is an investment banker and fund manager.
The butterfly is a great symbol for change, transition, adaptation, and growth.
I’ve always loved butterflies,
because they remind us that it’s never too late to transform ourselves.
Happiness is like a butterfly:
the more you chase it,
the more it will elude you,
but if you turn your attention to other things,
it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.
Just like the butterfly, ...
Butterflies are nature's angels. ...
The butterfly said to the sun,"They can't stop talking about my transformation. ...
Butterflies can't see their wings. ...
When you find yourself cocooned in isolation and you cannot find your way out of darkness...
Think of yourself as a butterfly,
locked in your cocoon.
Your struggle gives you strength. Without the struggle,
you will not be strong enough for the next phase of your life.
At times you may want someone else to resolve your issues for you,
wishing for less on your plate.
But,like the butterfly ,
if someone solves these issues for you,
you will not grow strong enough to
move into the next phase of your life.
The Earth plane is equivalent to the butterfly’s cocoon.
This reality is designed to pull you down so that you have to struggle to get out of it.
This struggle teaches you about who and what you are;
what you can and cannot do.
The struggle is your path to freedom,
whether you consciously recognize it or not.
It is like a butterfly sucking nectar from the petals of a flower.
Humans are also gaining knowledge from one person from another person,
and it reflects the world.
Men use the butterfly symbol to sign their love letters,
and to express their love and passion.
If two butterflies are seen together,
they symbolize a long-lasting commitment and eternal love. Butterflies were used as an symbol of love even in ancient Chinese myths.
Butterflies are God’s confetti,
thrown upon the Earth in celebration of His love.
If you want to fly,
you have to flap your own wings.
Sukanya V Kunju is a post graduate student of St.Michael's College, Cherthala
The purpose of our life should be such that...
When I am gone
And burried six feet under
My marble epitaph would declare
Invariably in sunshine and thunder.
Written with lustrous letters,
The unanimous verse-
"He wasn't a king
Nor a fighter,
Not a hero
Neither a master
But he was the one
Who drove all these from behind
With words
True and kind
He showed courage and sacrifice
Few could imagine,
His work not just words
Made him shine.
His osseus frame
Is lost in the pyre,
But soul among us all
Burns like fire."
Chandan Chowdhury is a final year MBBS student at IMS and sum hospital, Bhubaneswar. To get in Touch: twitter.com/c_howdhury ; linkedin.com/in/c-howdhury ; Email - c.ku.chowdhury@gmail.com.
He drapes me this evening in blueish grey,
With orange pallu, making it my day.
I stand ecstatically, as a bride charming,
As he bids goodbye till the next morning.
With time still to pull the black blanket o'er me,
A flock of birds eagerly fly to see,
Along with the envious passers by,
The beauty that adorns the evening sky.
A positive deed I need to perform,
Before I retire to bed, this night, calm.
A lamp, down below, unlit, I espy,
To make it glow, I did serenely glide,
Akin to the majestic Olympic flame,
To recall Indian show in the Game.
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.
THE SONG THAT WALKED WITH ME
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I thought I would not cross this street again
the trees swayed to say bye
there was a nip in the air
trying to seep into my bones.
I looked around to find the shadows
the song floating in the air told me
perhaps my wait was over,
it was time to board my bus.
I had thought for days, planning,
to come to this place to catch the bus
that promised to take me away
to a never say never land.
The song kept playing,
I never knew a song
could bring so many memories,
but then, it had walked with me.
The song was a part
of my hopes and dreams
my deep anguishes and
torments of the soul.
I saw the crowd in the bus,
everyone had a booking for the land,
a ticket they held up like a trophy
and showed to me.
I thought of going back
and return after booking a place
but I had come a long way
to this midnight tryst.
I had passed many a kind soul,
friends goading me on
the passersby showing their flags
the mannequins blinking their melting eyes.
The snake charmer looking into my eyes
the fortune teller soothing my mind
the little girl offering her last balloon
the old lady blessing with her wrinkled hands.
The song, ah, the song
walked with me all the time,
picking up a tune or shedding one
making me think of the promised land.
I looked back to the path left behind
it was all empty, like a town shut down
all the roads had closed one by one
and the lights had gone off forever.
I missed my bus,
the roads were all closed,
only the song, ah, the song
remained to walk with me.
I wish I knew which would end first,
the walk or the song!
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . 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. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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