Literary Vibes - Edition CXXII (28-Oct-2022) - POEMS
Title : Frightened Horse (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 122nd edition of LiteraryVibes. We have come to you with a platter of superb poems, fabulous stories and brilliant essays and anecdotes. Hope you will enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed creating them. Do give your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
We are lucky to have two new contributors to our literary efforts. Dr. Iti Samanta is one of the leading celebrities of Odisha, and a household name, thanks to her multifarious engagements. A writer, an essayist, a critique, an award winning film producer and an entrepreneur, she is the editor of Odisha's largest monthly family magazine Kadambini and Children's magazine Kuni Katha. A recipient of multiple awards for her success in different fields, she is a living embodiment of women's empowerment, a cause for which she dedicates her time and efforts with a rare passion. Her story in today's edition touches the heart with love and compassion. Ms. Sheela Luiz from Ernakulam, Kerala, is a passionate lover of literatire and writes with an ardent fervor. Let us welcome both of them to the LV family and wish them succcess in their literary career. We do hope we will continue to be blessed with their writings in our future editions also.
Ms. Maya G.K., a retired banker and a regular contributor to LiteraryVibes, did a wonderful favor to me four days back. She sent me from the internet a beautiful peace of writing which seeped through my mind with a rare bliss. I realized how it is important for us to let go of our multiple inhibitions and embark on a journey of self-actualization. We should follow our heart and do what pleases us. Let's take a look at the story first:
*Let’s Go & Fly A Kite..!*
It was a week after the funeral…
She had buried her hard-working accountant husband, who had painstakingly worked from morn till sundown, risen from clerk to bank manager, sent two children to college and jobs abroad with the income, and given her a comfortable life style.
It was a week after the funeral, as she rummaged through his cupboard, looking for documents and files he had meticulously kept, and it was then that she saw the secret compartment.
She opened it trembling, she did not want to know any secret about her husband, she did not want to find anything that would disturb memories of the solid, dependable, hardworking man he’d been.
But she opened the compartment. She felt something light and papery to the touch, then slowly, carefully pulled out, not one, not two but a dozen kites. They were fresh as if just bought from the kite shop down the road, and she wept as she saw them.
.
.
.
“One day,” he’d told her, “I’ll have time to fly kites on the terrace!”
“You seem to have flown them before?” she’d said.
“I loved them when little,” he’d said, “I loved the feel of *the kite in the heavens rising up and reigning like a king!*”
“Why don’t you do so this Sunday?” she’d asked.
“Overtime, I have to work overtime this Sunday!” he’d said, “But maybe next Sunday or the holiday that comes after that!”
.
.
.
She wept as she felt the crisp paper. She wept because the kites represented a dream of a dead man, who’d wanted the simple pleasure of flying them, up in the sky.
Her sons came home the next day. They saw the kites fixed on the sitting room wall. “Ma,” they protested, “This is not the time to celebrate, this is a time of mourning!”
“Yes,” she said, “I know it is, and that is why I’ve put them there!”
They felt the paper, they stared at the lovely designs and they listened to their mother as she told them where she’d found them. They had tears in their eyes, as they thought of their dad, and the kites he’d never flown.
“Ma, I’d like to take one home!” said her eldest.
“And I want one for my home too,” exclaimed the second.
She gave the kites to them, and her heart gladdened as they called her the next week, “We’re picking you up mother, we’re going to spend the weekend camping!”
“Camping?” she asked, “I’ve never camped before!”
“Nor have we, but *that’s the kite we want to fly* mother. Come along!”
She smiled as they drove down the mountain track, she looked at the car of her second son behind, and as she looked out of the window, she felt she could see her husband, laughing as he flew a kite, higher and higher into the wind, reigning like a king.
His sad kites in the cupboard had made his sons fly theirs…
_What about you my friend, are your kites going to be found in your cupboard, or do they fly in the sky?_
*Go fly a kite..!!*
.....................................................
Friends, there are so many dreams that we failed to pursue, so many kites we kept hidden in a secret chamber, as we remained busy with our work and family responsibilities. When I was a young student (in the last century!!!) and used to live in Bhubaneswar, the town was fairly small, the roads deserted and the air cool. On moonlit nights I used to roam on a bicycle, an aching emptiness throbbing in my heart like a nagging melancholy. I was in love, but with no one in particular, no beloved waited for me on her terrace with a rose in hand and a smile on the lips. I just loved the moon, the azure sky, the moon light falling on the empty streets, the vacant fields, the green trees in cascading splendor. I pined for some company, wanted to speak to someone, pour my heart out and go home fulfilled. Loneliness, unfortunately, is a festering wound that never heals. I wanted to write, to sing, to dance and be noticed. Nothing like that happened and in a few more years I got onto the roller coaster of a job, a family and all my kites remained hidden in a secret chamber. Till I wrote my first short story in 2009, at the age of 57. It was a small, tentative kite, released in firghtening hesitancy, the fear of failure and rejection haunting the mind. The story was published in January 2010 in Kadambini whose editor Dr. Iti Samanta has made a debut in our LiteraryVibes in today's edition. After that I have written more than 130 stories in Odia and about 100 in English. I still love my moon and want my kites to touch her and caress her in soft gratitude. As a tribute to her I am re-publishing my story The Fourteenth Night Moon in today's edition of LiteraryVibes, in addition to a beautiful novella Moonstruck in Mumbai and a poem A Song for the Moon.
I have many more kites kept carefully in my cupboard. Dear readers, let's all take out our kites and fly them, up into the sky, to reach new heights, to touch the moon, and the stars. If you think LiteararyVibes can be a part of that journey, please come to us, we will be happy to hold your hands and accompany you.
Do share today's edition of LV with your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/462 (Poems)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/461 (Short Stories and Miscellaneous articles)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/460 (Young Magic)
There are also two brilliant articles by Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo, the emininent gyanecologist at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/458 and https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/459
Let me also remind you that on 5th October we published a special Puja Edition of twenty absolutely scintillating stories. Those who have not read them can do so at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/457
Take care, be safe and keep smiling. We will meet again on 25th November with the 123rd edition of LiteraryVibes.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A DEVADASI SPEAKETH
SALEHA
02) Haraprasad Das
JESUS CHRIST (YISHUKHRISTA)
03) Dilip Mohapatra
SALVATION
TRACES
04) Bibhu Padhi
THE ISLAND
05) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
WHERE
TURN
06) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN
07) Abani Udgata
SHABARI
08) Pradeep Biswal
THE WALL
09) Madhumathi. H
MENTOR IN A FALLEN FLOWER...
10) Dr. Kondapalli Neeharini
THE DARK NIGHT
11) Pradeep Rath
LABYRINTHS
AS THE TIE WAS TENUOUS
12) Seethaa Sethuraman
THE CALLING
THE WALK
13) Akshara Rai
PARANOIA – A CLOUDY HEAD
14) Padmini Janardhanan
THE FLORA OF MY MEMORY LANES.
15) Sundar Rajan S
A NEW BEGINNING
16) Kamar Sultana Sheik
MANTHAN - THE CHURNING
17) Setaluri Padmavathi
BLESSINGS OF GOD
18) Alexandra Books
FLYING 11
19) Dr.Snehaprava Das
AUTUMN IN PAINTING
20) Col (Dr) Rekha Mohanty
NOORIE
21) N Rangamani
TIRED....OR RETIRED?
22) Arpita Priyadarsini
MIRAGE OF SELF
23) Dhivya Rajan
YOU
LIFE'S PROPOSAL
24) Prof Niranjan Barik
GODS IN THE OPEN..
25) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A SONG FOR THE MOON
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Dr. Iti Samanta
THE LAST TOUCH
02) Pabhanjan K. Mishra
APPU, THE ALIEN
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THE PLEASURES OF BEING A...
ONE AMONG THEM
04) Ishwar Pati
LOST IN PARADISE
05) Chinmayee Barik
THE GIRL NAMED GANGASIULI
PARTITION
06) Meena Mishra
TORMENTOR, NO MORE!
07) Sheela Luiz
FATHER THOM’S REVELATIONS
08) Snehaprava Das
WINNING WINGS
09) Lathaprem Sakhya
KANAKA'S MUSING:: MY TRYST...
10) Arpita Priyadarsini
UNDER THE MOON
11) Ashok Kumar Ray
DETACHMENT
12) P Suresh Kumar
THOSE …HELPLESS EYES…
13) Dinesh Chandra Nayak
THE CHICKLING
14) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
MOONSTRUCK IN MUMBAI
THE FOURTEENTH NIGHT MOON
Table of Contents :: MISCELLANEOUS
01) Ramesh Chandra Panda
GLIMPSES OF OUR HERITAGE
02) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
TWO LITERARY PRIZE WINNERS
03) Pradeep Biswal
HARA PRASAD: THE PHILOSOPHER POET
04) Sundar Rajan S
DRIVE TO DOWNTOWN - COLUMBUS...
05) Jayshree Tripathi
MOTHER TONGUE.
06) Gokul Chandra Mishra
A NIGHT AT SATAKOSHIA
07) Gourang Charan Roul
MY FIRST GOLD SEIZURE CASE
08) Sumitra Kumar
DREAMS HAVE NO LOGIC, DO THEY?
09) Seethaa Sethuraman
SMARTPHONES FOR THE ELDERLY:
FOR IPHONE LOVERS:
10) Sheena Rath
VISIT TO THE PANDAL
11) Prof. (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
THE AMATEUR DOCTOR- SCIENCE...
12) Punyasweta Mohanty
SCANDALOUS RAMBLINGS OF A ....
13) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: MY MCG...
14) Sanjit Singh
MLM SCAMS, PYRAMID SCHEMES...
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Trishna Sahoo
DIWALI COMING
POEMS
God's wife, a metaphor,
rather a euphemism,
better than improvisation.
Do I know, or does my God,
the names of my children's fathers?
My travesty, people's Puja, a jigsaw.
Men come and go reminding me
of a verse, "...women come and go.
Talking of Michelangelo...."
Into and out of my room
leaving their footprints in my sanctum,
"Am I too erudite for a Devadasi?"
Good for the goose, good for the gander.
Once my doors and windows are shut,
what's a day, what's a night!
Enter my holy sanctum,
my mother put me here many a winter ago,
garlanding me, God's sacrificial goat.
Light has never entered my black house,
my twilight is a hush, a sullied mix
of romance, gore, and my withered daughters.
(Credit - Reacting to Anuradha Vellat's review article in the Sunday Express, 9th October 2022 on Vaasanthi Sundaram's "Breaking Free: A Novel", a story based on Devadasi custom.)
Footnote - a Devadasi is a Virgin given in marriage to God. A Wife of God, she cannot marry a human. But she can sleep with men to earn a living. A fanatical and beastly socio-religious practice, prevalent in parts of India until late, as reported by sources.
On Sabarmati sands
I search my toddler footprints
no more soft like autumn leaf falls,
they smoulder and blaze like scalding coal.
Time's toll reverberates a 'Scream'.
The 'Scream' hung on your wall
would run gagging itself, feeling
ashamed and stunned to hear
my innocence trampled, pulped.
Conscience stands, hanging head.
In my mother Bilkis' bloated tummy,
her five-month-foetus turns fearfully
when a dozen monsters rape her.
I lie dead, a mass of splattered brain.
Humanity loses face, voice.
Before my welled-up eyes, their mirror,
the marauders put make-up
on sobbing Ashram's face, its salty tears turn
turbid Sabarmati into a brackish comfort,
Bapu's statue wringing helpless hands.
(Note - Saleha was the three-year old daughter of Bilkis Bano. She was killed just before her mother Bilkis was gangraped by a dozen of people.)
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.
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Where are you, little one?
I sense your footfalls
in the wind’s rustle
across our bereft courtyard.
Be happy, my child,
wherever you are.
Let my conscience,
that moved heaven and earth
to recover from you the cost
of my few drops of blood,
carry the burden of that cross
a while more, penance for my blunder.
I dream of the day
I may pass the litmus test
to stand neck to neck
with your moral benchmark.
You would be the chosen one, I know,
for the Lord’s Holy Shroud,
even if the history would lay the Lord
differently in His immortal coffin.
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)”
Sentenced to solitude
I merge myself in you
the master mariner
and you envelop me
and absorb me in you
and I know it's after all
tested waters
known territory
that is engraved in my memory
and I don't need a compass
nor a chart to mark my position
from time to time
and safely sailing within you
one day surely I will find myself.
I rest for a while
on the uncertain shores
and look back to count the footprints
that I left behind inadvertently
on the sands of time
but before I could arrive at a figure
they get obliterated
by one sudden sweep of
an unexpected wave
of consciousness
leaving in the wake a complete chasm
an unfathomable black hole.
I open my haversack
and take out my half finished bottle
of wine
and pour it over the receding wave
and throw few bread crumbs for the fish
soaked in few drops of blood
from my veins
in an act of propitiation
and cascade myself
into the opening arms of the eternal sea
taking with me the hook
line and sinker
all of it in one go
never to be caught again
and then I see no sea
no ship
not even you at the helm
and surely there is
no need
to triangulate and fix my location
and find out who I maybe
and where I could be.
Everything that existed once
leaves its traces behind
a bit of my fear of the ghosts
that still haunts me once a while
a bit of your loathing
that lurks behind your affable smile
a bit of my sweat
still sticking to the inside of my hat
a bit of the fresh fragrance
wafting in the wilted roses in your vase.
A little remains of your nose
in the nose of your daughter
a strand of hair or a smudge of red
on your sleeve
a little tenderness and compassion
behind the cruel eyes of the assassin
a few buttons ripped off
your ravaged blouse
strains of nicotine
unwilling to leave your ashtrays
brown tea stains left by your tea cup
on the table cloth
a few grains of beach sands
that hide between your toes
a few scars and blemishes
the signatures of pain
and in handfuls of ash
from your funeral pyre
a little always remains.
Everything leaves behind
its telltale marks
some make into the books of history
some fade into
our translucent memories
some appear as epitaphs
on your tombstones
some appear as reflections
on water sometimes calm
sometimes agitated
some strains of old music
reappear in the new compositions
some silences linger
amidst a riotous cacophony
a little remains of everything
the residues never die
and eternally pulsate.
Since everything leaves
its residues
why shouldn't I leave mine
in the heat of the summer
in the cold of the winter
in the drizzles
in the breezes
in the breakers
beating against the beach
in your tears
in your sighs
and in my garlanded portrait
hung on the wall
and in as well as
between the lines
of my writings
that I leave behind?
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 shall stay back
on this island
long after we leave?
The tall mountains shall
stay on until they collide with
a heavenly star
The talks of our own
childhoods, the transient
phrases, their lack of conjunctions
Those many who could not leave,
because they were never meant to,
so early, before their full powth
And a few who were Ionefy
like us, looked down upon
because of their deep griefs
always with us, deep in
the sea cavities of our minds,
floating in the salt water, like tears
Who will remember us, feel sad
about our going, consoling each other,
trying desperately to forget it?
A two times Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published seventeen books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the world, such as Contemporary Review, The London Magazine, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, Wasafiri, The American Scholar, Commonweal, The Manhattan Review, The New Criterion, Poet Lore, Poetry, Rosebud, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, Xavier Review, New Contrast, The Antigonish Review, The Dalhousie Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Bombay Review, and Indian Literature.
They have been included in several anthologies and textbooks. Six of the most recent are The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poet s, Language for a New Century ( New York: Norton) Journeys (HarperCollins),The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry, Converse: Contemporary English Poems by Indians ( London: Pippa Rann Books), and The Penguin Book of Indian Poets.
There was.
For sure.
Rooted, earthly
Now limitlessly lost
To the high sky
Left it
Or did it leave me
Depends
Whose choice was it?
Held on, held in
Sweet, the memory
Bitter, the real
Experiences, untrustworthy
Sky is fun
Even when not blue
but grey
But I miss my roots
I miss that other one
A boy
Who never looked up
An ignorant self
Blessed
Life meant nothing then
Life has no meaning now
Between then and now
A wave rises to the sky
Where clouds become hail
Trapped in clay
Roots dream
Skies don’t have roots
That dream of
Being anchored
Sky is fun
Anchors, funny
Turn this way,
I miss your smile
I remember
You smiled a lot
And hope you’re
Still the same
Or stay like that
In Keatsian mode
And let me
Fill in the blanks
Takes time
I’m old
Was never good at
Recalling faces, anyway
Now that you say
Yes, you’re Jenny
Jenny who?
You should tell me that too
This picture is
All I’ve on you
And that
You’re a total stranger
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.
Two steps and the walker.
Two steps and the walker.
She was breathing
heavily,
her grocery bags hanging
loosely
from her rickety walker.
Hunched over, knobbly,
her demeanour crotchety, sniffling,
she seeks to disengage from her
walker,
to let herself in to the high-rise.
But I, smiling,
was holding the door ajar.
Two steps and the walker.
Two steps and the walker.
Once she was in, I swoosh past,
a graceful
gliding Baryshnikov,
on a lone note
of a shimmering violin
(or so I thought)
and pressed the elevator button.
Still hunched over,
still wobbly,
she acknowledges my gesture
with heavier sniffling.
Nemesis of one,
nemesis of all
who live long enough -
The Wrinkled Angel
doling out his wares,
reminding one,
reminding all
to prepare for Closure!
Still hunched over,
her eyes studying patterns
on the foyer carpet,
she wheezes patience,
her plastic bags
rustling impatience.
Live long enough
and
The Wrinkled Angel
doubles you up,
before singling you out.
The elevator doors slide open,
my arm keeps the door at bay.
Still hunched over,
Two steps and the walker.
Two steps and the walker.
She strains a curt ‘thenk-yoo’
that is almost drowned
by her wheezing.
We rise - with a sudden jerk
that rattles me,
rattles loose mirrors
in the elevator.
But she! She straightens
- ramrod in a sudden!
Casts a dagger-eye
at her cadaveric,
then turns to eye her profile
with a sideways glance.
Her left hand
vein-knuckled
around the walker,
her right
pats her hair,
her waves,
in soft,
swift,
surgical,
short caresses.
Then
a chalk-white,
bony forefinger
prods her pearl necklace,
hidden beneath
her loose folds
of skin drooping,
revealing
an aesthetic grace
adorning her.
And she wheezes.
Not
once
looking my way.
Hunched over,
Two steps and the walker.
Two steps and the walker.
Jairam Seshadri is the author of MANTRA YOGA ( 2021 Rupa Publications) WOOF SONGS & THE ETERNAL SELF-SABOTEUR (2019 Partridge) and JESUS SAHASRANAM - THE 1,008 NAMES OF JESUS CHRIST (2018 Authorspress). He is a CPA with an MBA from the US and has worked in the U.S, Canada and England for over 30 years before returning to India to take care of his father.
He founded the India Poetry Circle (IPC)) six years ago, which has seven anthologies to the group’s credit, in addition to two more in the pipeline to be published this year. IPC, through its offshoot, IPC PLAYERS, has also produced and staged several skits, as part of its ‘POETRAMA’© series, including a production of Shakespeare’s MACBETH online. Shakespeare’s KING LEAR will be staged online this Christmas 2022.
Jairam lives in Chennai and can be reached at 9884445498 or jairamseshadri@hotmail.com.
And you came at last that day
when everything turned white .
The courtyard was strewn with
dead years, the hearth smouldered
in quiet flame when the door opened
inside me, and there you stood.
You stood outside my doors , a white
rainbow in the space in my galaxy.
Nothing really happened, all that
expected by me and others.
To see the world dissolve in
a vertiginous cloud never happened.
Just it turned white as the colours
escaped in to a void, a nothingness.
We sat together by the brook dancing like fawn.
Holding hands and stared in to each other.
Lovers from a distant past, we gazed in to eyes.
Some half-eaten fruits, nuts and dried roots
left with me, was all that I could offer.
Your touch was a beautiful kiss of death.
That it was coiled within I sensed in your
heartbeats when you held me close .
( Lord Rama went to Shabari’s aashram as depicted in the Ramayan)
Abani Udgata lives in Bhubaneswar. Writes poems both in English and Odia. Udgata has been awarded in all-India poetry competitions and published in anthologies. He has been a regular contributor to LV. Email: abaniudgata@gmail.com
It’s made of mud
Or brick and cement
At times plastered with mosaic
Some decorated with mirrors
Or painted with colours
The tapestry
Looking brightly vivid
But wall remains a wall
Against all odds
And fear of loss.
Nothing penetrates
Beyond the wall
The cryptic questions
Go unanswered.
Back to the wall
You fight with the enemies
Regardless of the outcome
May come out with a V sign
Or get vanquished
At the end.
The wall expands
In all directions
The meadows
The horizon
The sky
Come closer
Distance disappears
The wall appears invincible.
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
Everything is beautiful
As long as we pass by
Leaving just glimpses behind...
Always in a hurry
Not willing
To quit the mindless rat race...
Pause! see! sense!
Churning compassion from the soul
One could smell the blood
Seeping from the fallen flower...
Aren't they, the tired petals
Left on the pavement to be crushed
The children of the Earth
Deprived of the joy, of living?
Of even existence?!
Each petal is a quivering child
Dreaming about a nourishing meal
A slice of bread, or a crumb at least
Longing to inhale the scent of books
Playing with the alphabets
To grow a garden in the mind
At temples called ''school''
A roof above, to shelter them
From the scorching sun, or
The downpour, that washes away
Their paper boats
Made from the crumpled papers
Picked from the roadside trash...
A cloth without stains, patches
or broken buttons...
Everything can be beautiful
Only if
We stop building walls
And start building bridges
Before a speeding vehicle crushes them!
Let the leftover dreams
Be restored, watered
And the pigments of hope, bloom again...
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
(Translated by: Elanaaga )
I know not where from
this heap of pitch darkness has dropped.
And why is it silent?
It entered the pot of heart,
but brain-churning hasn’t happened.
The war of life did not end either.
What is this dark night whispering?
No flames of hunger,
nor are the piles of food in dearth.
No evidence of holes in the body as well.
Death is walking fast like floods
that inundate corpse-filled streets.
What is this dark night whispering?
Alleys, lanes became mute;
tools are lying idle in the corners.
Mouths, noses covered by nets.
Embraces are not to be seen;
distances are ruling the roost.
Lists of signs are not being opened.
What is this dark night whispering?
Bugles of war are not heard;
the preaching of equality is not
standing by the side as a support.
Word bullets are not firing properly,
the missiles of civic plans are
not hurtling into the sky.
What is this dark night whispering?
On whom is the anger vented?
Where are the sacrifices?
All the harshness of the heart
is becoming a queer aquatic animal.
A small microbe ready with a net
is not being discerned even by brilliant brains!
The fright that is robbing have-nots
is laughing monstrously on lakhs of graves.
What is this dark night whispering?
Dr. Kondapalli Neeharini was born in Chinna Pendyala village of Jangaon district, Telangana State on the 8th of December, 1963. Her father Pendyala Raghava Rao was elected to two MLA constituencies and an M.P. constituency in the 1952 general elections. He had to quit his MLA posts as one can hold only one at one time. His father-in-law, Kondapalli Seshagiri Rao is a famous painter.
After completing her B.A. course, she had to work as a school teacher due to some family circumstances. Later, she got through M.A. (Telugu) and succeeded in getting a Ph. D. awarded. She is now, one of the leading Telugu poets besides being a story writer and critic. She published 3 anthologies of poetry, 3 biographies, 2 criticism books, 1 collection of stories, 1 travelogue, and so on. In addition to these, she was the editor of 2 books. The total number of her books is 14. She is now the editor of 2 online Telugu magazines, viz.: Mayuukha (cestus) and Tharuni (a woman). She won some prizes and awards for her books. Currently, she is rendering literary service through these magazines, as well as other activities.
Dr. Surendra Nagaraju, Born in Elgandal village of Karimnagar district, Telangana State in 1953, Elanaaga is a poet, translator, and critic. He is a pediatrician, but is only pursuing his literary interests now. He penned 30 books so far. Half of them are original writings, while the other half is translations. Among the latter, 8 are from English to Telugu, 7 are vice versa. He published 5 collections of poems, 2 language-related books, metrical poems, experimental poems to name a few. He rendered Latin American stories, African stories, Somerset Maugham stories and World stories besides Pavan K. Varma’s Ghalib: The Man, The Times and so on. Also, he rendered story books of Telanagana’s literary luminaries into English, besides books on Indian classical music, standard crossword puzzles etc. He translated innumerable English and Telugu poems into Telugu and English respectively and published them as books. He received a few State level prizes and awards for his works. His poems and translations have appeared in Indian Literature, Muse India magazines etc.
A thin veneer of self separates your essence from me
and I am lost.
It was never like this,
you freely entered in into the labyrinths of my heart,
found ready acceptance,
no doubt lingered in your mind,
you sang filmy songs of latest vintage and laughed,
I talked of politics, of changing times and values,
and of hopes and despairs.
We searched for a good, cheap restaurant
and Everest Hotel suited to our bill,
We read a little,
dreamt a lot, slept like morons, achieved nothing significant.
Life pulled us in different angles,
we stayed in big houses with lawns and gardens,
of cars and attendants
and after a passage of almost forty years
of whines and whimpers
found us lying on the banks of a shallow river.
The red sun rises over east as usual,
we are left brooding over the things past
when silvery moon caressed the silken sands when no one looks,
and gales and storms beat us black and blue, cast a lingering pale
and we stealthily caress the bruises.
When the cool breeze of the evening sky caressed our soft limbs with silent tenderness,
the blue waves rose and fell and mingled with one another at the foamy white beach,
our infinite tales of longing and despair
found no outlet,
no word erupted, tongues were held in a tight lease.
Moments ticked by, we espied the future, hazy and dark,
the tie was tenuous, lacked strength of stern fibre, was of doubtful worth,
Didn't know whether elements conspired against us in the dark environs,
whether the feeble souls constantly
prey to discordant noise lacked will and significance.
Yeah, the ties snapped
and we were drawn apart on the impact of mighty gales,
the whole horizon was blackened with noise of feeble thunders, silent turmoils,
pearls are not caught by fearful puny mortals, howling monsters,
All are not moulded in the frame of tragic heroes, lack the heights of passion and grandeur.
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.
(Collage of paintings by Seethaa Sethuraman)
Those slightly undulating roads of cement, tar, cobbles, rubbles and some uneven patches are calling me...
Those flowers with the yellow, purple, off-white, orange and a kaleidoscope of hues are calling me...
Those leaves in different shapes, sizes, striations and shades of green are calling me...
Those gentle breezes and strong gusts of wind that caress my face are calling me...
They all earnestly beckon me and thereafter soothingly listen to me - to my joys and sorrows, to my pains and reliefs.
Nature embraces us, however we are, without ever failing,
And, stimulates us to actively listen to our inner calling.
That calling is the raison d'etre of our very existence...
So, let's passionately answer that with a smile, grit and perseverance.
Walk more, Talk less...
Coz, a regular walk is enabling as you become fit and shine,
While an incessant talk is disabling as you sit down and whine.
Walk more, Talk less...
Coz, a brisk walk aids you to think clearly,
While a hasty talk can jade you to blink dreary.
Walk more, Talk less...
Coz, the walk invariably cheers you up,
While the talk eventually wears you down.
Walk more, Talk less...
Coz, the walk itself "talks about you"; filling you with joy,
While the talk, several times, "causes baulks in you"; dulling you dry.
Walk more, Talk less...
Coz, the walk can, oftentimes, lift you to float with the vibes,
While the talk can, sometimes, drift you to gloat and jibe.
So, Walk more, Talk less,
But, always, "Walk your talk".
You can then get to walk on many a red carpet endearingly rolled out for you,
And, you can aspire to become the talk of many a town welcomingly opening up to you.
Seethaa Sethuraman has had a creative orientation right from her school days – dabbling in writing,drawing and painting as well as learning Indian dance forms and Carnatic music. Thereafter, the usual suspect in professional education and corporate pursuits assumed centre stage (B.Pharm, MBA by education and a Health market researcher by profession); till the pandemic strongly nudged her to delve back into her creative side; alongside her continuing corporate endeavours. While formally learning Bharatanatyam had already begun since mid-2018; writing poems and drawing-painting turned somewhat prolific since the last 2 years.
As per seethaa, she writes/ draws-paints when the calling within her turns so strong at that moment; that it just cannot be brushed aside till it has been acted upon. So far, she has been doing them for her own self without giving much thought about publishing them. Coming across the Literary vibes platform has, however, enthused her to share this creative happiness with the outer world. Through this process, she also looks forward to receiving feedback/ comments that will encourage her to keep creative expressing; always.
When the painful bitter wind whipped,
And eleven o’clock morphed to one,
A cloudy head so full of doubts,
Irrational thoughts just screaming out,
Of if's ,and what’s and where's and how's
The brain won’t rest,across this brow.
A tortuous mind that’s in a spin.
The beast of rage still dwells within.
When evil twists with pure emotion,
No satisfaction comes with devotion.
Confrontation is what’s needed,
To calm the beast,
Unrest displeases.
Going to therapy
This is supposed to make me happy,
I sometimes get very angry,
And for me this is a worry.
I see a shrink every two weeks,
He sits and listens as I speak,
I hope this helps me gets over,
All the worries and paranoia.
I have an illness that cannot be seen by a normal human being,
I have post traumatic stress disorder ,
That is the worst kind of disorder.
I try to be normal but my brain won’t let me,
This makes me tired and angry,
Sometimes I get a bad depression,
As you can see Iam making progression!
Hopefully I will come out the other end,
All happy everything should mend,
With this poem I commend,
Anyone who has this disorder
And now the end.
Akshara Rai - Final year MBBS student from IMS &SUM Hospital, bhubaneshwar. Won multiple awards in poem, stories and elocution , passionate abt drawing and painting, writing poems, short stories, Reading books,Acting and oration.
Perched snugly on random thoughts
Memory bits of all sorts
From Paths travelled a-lot; some less
The ups and downs; turns and twists.
Experience trees abound
Belief creepers wind around
Thorny, prickly anger shrubs
Amind frustration grass spreads
Abandoned unflowered buds
Odiferous regret blooms
Dismay flowers sans fragrance
Sweet smelling success flowers
Musky love forget-me-nots
Pretty fortuitous bouquets
With the ever-)fresh pride blooms
Peace fragrenced tranquil blossoms.
Carefully nurtured flowers
And some serendipitous.
Stray pop-ups now intertwined
Engage the sleep challenged mind.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
The setting Sun, silently swims its way,
Shades of blue canvas envelopes the sky,
Viewed in total awe, by few passers by,
Thro' the horizon, to end another day.
A crown of gold envelopes the cloud, grey,
Awaiting the silver moon, shining shy.
Or is it a flickering flame, so high,
To keep misery and mourning, at bay?
Maybe, it's a positive flame, sparkling,
Dispelling within, pall of engulfed gloom.
The worst is over, to be left behind,
And in a way, coaxing and signalling,
Gone is the pandemic controlled vacuum,
To herald a new beginning, undefined.
A Petrachan Sonnet with sestet rhyming cde ,cde.
S. Sundar Rajan is a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy. He is a published poet and writer. His collection of short stories in English has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, Kannada and Gujarati. His stories translated in Tamil have been broadcast in community radios in Chennai
and Canada. He was on the editorial team of three anthologies, Madras Hues, Myriad Views, Green Awakenings, and Literary Vibes 100. He has published a unique e anthology, wherein his poem in English "Full Moon Night" has been translated into fifteen foreign languages and thirteen Indian regional languages.
An avid photographer and Nature lover, he is involved in tree planting initiatives in his neighbourhood. He lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon.
A mountain, a turtle, a snake,
In an Ocean of Milk:
Nectar of Immortality
And a fuming poison!
The making of the Neelakanta...
Of the Kalpavriksha
And the Kamadhenu,
Dhanvantri and Chandra..
Elephants, a bow and a conch,
Kausthuba and Parijata..
A disguise, a drama of diplomacy and deceit,
A reclamation and establishing of the rightful..
Should I ever churn
This Ocean of Milk, within,
May I hope to share the cup of venom with the One,
Whose magnanimity consumes it :
Let those who care for the Ratnas obtain them
My moksha lies in that cup.
Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in
Sitting in my luxurious bedroom,
I stare at the precious blessings of God,
Fashionably constructed villas on one side
Green carpeted grounds on the other!
The sun pierces the passing clouds to peep
Into the lively world and pass his bright rays
The azure sky changed in the whitish shelter
That becomes the roof of every species!
The chilly breeze gently passes through my nerves
Colorful leaves welcome me with warmth
The mighty trees around me spread an aura,
And mesmerize the globe with their beauty!
The lap of nature protects me from violence
And the damage that is caused by the inhumane
The chirping birds find a comfortable nest
And the wildlife discovers a peaceful habitation!
Sitting in my luxurious bedroom,
I stare at the precious blessings of God
which brings me good fortune and peace
And make every moment memorable!
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
Alexandra was born in the year of the horse of fire, in Greece, where she spent many years living in the wild mountains of the island of Hydra. Later, she attended St. Mary's in Wiltshire and studied European Thought & Literature at Anglia Ruskin in Cambridge. She lived in Paris and New York, before returning to Greece to settle. Her father was a renowned poet and author and had a successful publishing company in Greece. Her mother was a ballet dancer as well as president of the Dance Union in Greece. Her family social circles, ever since a little girl, were rich with artists, writers, and academics. She lives with her husband, a classical guitar soloist and four children near the Temple of Poseidon, Sounio, by the sea and publishes her own visual poems on Amazon.
autumn is painted
against a background of supine gray
a heat less flame burns wild
on the canvas
and tries to leap at the
slate blue wall of the sky,
autumn rains climb down
the callous trees
along the pavements,
rain-washed branches droop awkwardly
damp birds wrapped in tired wings
cluster by the stone benches
Picking at unreal hopes,
Beyond a slope
a row of rundown bungalows
amidst scattered mass of dying leaves
sit like lazy yoga practitioners
on threadbare mats,
like a ripeness shrunken and bony
autumn is painted
on the face of the pillars around
a desolate temple by the ochre yellow dabs along the fringes of the canvas;
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
One day she suddenly appeared at my door the 18 days old puppy curiously looking at us curled up
on lap of my son.
Instantly she stole our hearts with a light stripe on forehead like crescent moon,black shining eyes and
soft camel coloured fur.
The little German Spitz slowly grew to be a beautiful one with rhythmic oscillations of the wagging tail
and majestic trot,
Soon she became the darling of family and we had lovingly named her Noorie without giving a second thought…1
We loved all her mannerisms and tantrums she threw during meal time,
her attentively playing with a new toy or biting chew stick bone,
We never got upset with
foot wears she chewed
or clothes she tattered,
It was such a lovely time to watch
as she enjoyed the swing game with hanging door curtains fully
engrossed alone………..2
She waits for us when we
are not at home and as she hears the sound of wheels from a distance comes rushing jumping
to greet and escort,
When we are on bed
she always loves to
sniff and lick,
being a moody mischievous girl
she gets cuddled up at her own will undisturbed inside our quilt .…..3
She dreads and hides herself at the sound of crackers on Diwali,
She trembles with the vet
and never likes colours
thrown at her during Holi..……4
Whenever we pack our bags
she feels very uneasy and tense,
To be alone with a care taker she apprehends most and looks at
with unsettled suspense.………5
As we are back from market
with packets bought
she wants to explore if anything
is there specially for her
Holding the lease is a pleasant invite to go out for a walk for sure
for which she waits with eager,
If a carpet or sheet is spread,
she has to roll on and feel it
with great happiness
as if experienced never before,
She really hates to take bath
and shuns shampoo and water……6
She loved delicacies like
fried egg,chicken tikka,mutton curry,
fish fry,icecream,cashew nuts,milk,
mangoes,cakes and paneer,
she enjoys with the ball playing
catch and throw from terrace
and loves to be groomed for hours,
barks loud and alerts against
any intruder,
Time passed and she was
blessed with adorable cute pups.
Two of them were luckiest.
Tanzey and Misha lived with her to give nice company,
life changed there after for her
and she proved to be
a very caring and loving mother..……7
She lived a full healthy life before she left us and we remember her forever.
But she is always with us and we feel the warmth of her soft wooly double layered coat,
She has been a teacher to us who crossed the rainbow bridge on teacher's day fourteen years ago
and showed us the path of light whenever we feel sad and lost......8
She is so close to my heart
She is around me even today
as if I am cuddling her
But sometimes my eyes get moist
and I miss her
I call her lovingly ‘Noo’
Noor meaning ‘beautiful’
Noorie is my twinkling star
I love her beyond me
when I will cross the rainbow bridge
and again meet her…….9
Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College.She worked in Himachal Pradesh State Govt as a medical Officer and in unit of Para military Assam Rifles before joining Army Medical Corps.She worked in various Peace locations all over India and Field formations in High Altitudes.She was awarded service medal for her participation in Op Vijay in Kargil.She is post graduate in Hospital Management and has done commendable job in inventory management of busy 1030 bedded Army Base Hospital ,Delhi Cantonment for six years and offered Sena Medal and selected for UN Mission in Africa.After the service in uniform she worked in Ex Service Men Polyclinic in Delhi NCR till 2021.She writes short stories and poems both in English and Odia as a hobby and mostly on nature.Being a frequent traveler,she writes on places.She helps in educating on health matters in a NGO that works for women upliftment.As an animal lover she is involved in rehabilitation of injured stray dogs.
She lives mostly outside the state and visits Bhubaneswar very often after retirement.She likes to read non political articles of interest.She does honorary service for poor patients.
Out on a morning walk heard the factory siren hooting,
Seemed to ask me, why I ain't heading?...
for work; knows not, the doors are shut behind me?
Now that I've already reached sixty!
Whole day is mine, and I've all the time to spend my own way...
Today, and everyday......, and enjoy doing anything- or nothing, come what may!
Taking detour, I walked towards the beach, to unwind...
That's when a few questions came to my mind.
If only the ever-flowing river, feeling tired, had taken rest along the wood,
The flood waters would have thinned down, for good?
And if the tides had become tired, man says
The oceans would have become still, with no waves?
And, if nature, an ever motivating teacher, decides to take rest...
With no air to breathe, we'd only fail the survival test!?
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
Amalgamation of thoughts
Bleeding through the nib
Carrying the memories and
Deciphering the moments
Eloping away with time
Forgetting the threats and
Gracing one self in sin
Hormones raising constantly
Incarnating love
Justifying their action
Keenly through eyes
Luxury oozing out
Miraculously from the moments
Normalising the gestures and
Occupying the
Proclivity of belongingness
Questioning the imaginaries
Rummaging around self
Scared enough to enter
The temple of tyranny and more
Underestimating the values
Versed in blue
Wiping away the miseries like
Xebec in the hue
Yet yearning for the arrival of
Zephyranthes and rue
Arpita Priyadarsini, a final year Post Graduate student of Department of Statistics in Utkal University, has keen interest in literature. She loves reading fiction and poetry. She started writing poems few years back and has been published by an international publication house twice. Her Instagram handle is @elly__.writes, which is solely dedicated to her love for poetry.
What makes you,"you"?
What shade is your inner hue?
Your portrait all shades right,
but your canvas stark white.
Is it the way you tread,
in that unlikely red?
Or is it the way you look away,
just before that day's replay?
I tried to put together the pieces
with one piece at recess
that one piece didn't make sense
under all those colors,a mess.
At first it proposed curiosity
But snatched it away with maturity.
Now that was a long road with no end
But with a lot of dead ends.
That road with a lot of flowers
It's beauty grows and towers
Little did we notice the withering and poison ivy
Nor the sun's temper for envy
All along beneath our feet
the soil, quiet with no beat
life's last proposal
Did you accept or ask for a renewal?
Dhivya Rajan has finished her schooling in the year 2022. She started writing poetry three years ago, which helped her to discover her artistic side and has been a major part of her growth and development. Her hobbies include reading, and painting, especially enjoy reading Rupi Kaur's poems.
GODS IN THE OPEN: NO FEAR, ALL DEAR, JOY SHEER!
Prof Niranjan Barik
They had no constitution Republican or the other,
All that they knew was seeing and playing
Playing from post to pillar,
Playing within rules of bliss nectar
Playing the game natural
Spontaneous in joy with each other
They jumped, they clapped
The wings the others flapped
A philosopher to call it idyllic felicity
There was no social compact for civility,
No veil of ignorance behind to emerge into light,
No fear whatsoever, no give and take calculus ever,
As they played merry go round on the temple floor,
Social credential renewal had just happened in the temple by the elders,
Winged volunteers got into filling the belly and cleaning the floor in the corridor,
The business with the left overs,
The Temples are vegetarian, sacred and secure,
Men, animals or birds feel no tremor, no fear,
The human child can be the world discoverer,
A Columbus or a Vasco da, a voyager first timer,
Without a compass to guide or misguide him or her,
Their search is not for land, but something ethereal, a thrill of joy pure ,
Without their dolls and Elisas , they had mirth and cheer!
Something for elders to look back to years yester,
And look presently at them with eyes wide in awe and wonder!
The children and their compatriots are gods in the open,
Love explorer and love distributer in all and every theatre!
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.
A SONG FOR THE MOON
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
There is such an evening
as balmy as fragrant bubbles
billboards sitting pretty,
demure as blushing brides.
Everyone glowing with smiles
there are promises in the air
of a good news coming
one can feel it in the bones.
The flowers swinging gently
to a silent music of joy
men and women moving gently
like toys in the hands of angels.
There are poems in the making
dreams waiting in the wings
songs forming like crystals
out of virgin snow flakes.
Ah, a moonlit sky
cascading rays pouring
through the glass ceiling
filling the room with silver hopes.
Here is a house,
a small, warm abode
full of ecstatic hearts
eager to sing for the moon.
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 . Two collections of his short stories in English have been published recently under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali and A Train to Kolkata. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He 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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