Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXIII (29-Sep-2023) - POEMS
Title : Hope (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,
I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 133rd edition of LiteraryVibes which comes with an astounding collection of enchanting poems and beautiful short stories. We have been lucky this time to add to the family of LiteraryVibes four new contributors. Shri Pramod K. Padhy, a retired officer of Indian Economics Service from New Delhi has written a beautiful piece of memoir from his days at Naples, Italy, which will strike an emotional chord in many readers. Shri Asis Pati, a retired bank officer from Bhubaneswar, writes excellent stories and anecdotes and pursues literature with a rare passion. Ms. Sreechandra Banerjee from Kolkata, a Chemical Engineer by training, is a prolific writer of poems and short stories who has contributed to many prestigious magazines and journals. Ms. Gargi Shah from Varanasi is also a scientist by profession and takes abiding inter st in literature, writing excellent poems. Let us welcome all of them to the LV family and wish them the very best in their literary and professional career.
September has been a great month for our country. We have hosted a spectacular international event in the form of conference of G-20 heads of states. It was an all round success, showcasing India's economic strength and cultural richness. The profuse encomium received from leaders all over the world have enhanced our international stature. The team of diplomats, officials, economists and political leaders chosen by the Prime Minister have acted in a well-orchestrated manner and produced memorable results. It was as if a Guru guided his disciples to scale insurmountable heights and achieve commendable success.
Speaking of Gurus, September is the month that contains Guru Divas, the day on which teachers are worshipped all over the country. It is an accepted fact of life that a teacher contributes immensely to the making of a person. And a nation which has mastered the art of harnessing the skills of its teachers rises to great heights. Teachers are the backbone of our education system and make all the difference to what we become as a nation.
Recently I came across two beautiful stories in social media about teachers. I would like to share them with you.
1.
The Dinner Guests Were Sitting Around The Table Discussing Life.
One Man, a CEO, Decided to Explain the Problem with Education.
He argued, "What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in life was to become just a teacher?"
To stress his point he said to another guest;
"You're a teacher, Mrs Sharma. Be honest. What do you make?"
Mrs Sharma, who had a reputation for honesty and frankness replied, "You want to know what I make?*
She paused for a second, then began.....
Well, I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I make a C+ feel like the President's Medal of Honor winner.
I make kids sit through one hour of class time when their parents can't make them sit for even 5 minutes without an I- Pod or movie rental.
You want to know what I make?
She paused again and looked at each and every person at the table
I make kids wonder.
I make them question.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them have respect and take responsibility for their actions.
I teach them how to write and then I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them show all their work in math.
They use their God given brain, not the man-made calculator.
I make my students learn about other countries while preserving their unique cultural identity.
I make my classroom a place where all my students feel safe.
Finally, I make them understand that if they use the gifts they were given, work hard, and follow their hearts, they can succeed in life.
Mrs Sharma paused one last time and then continued.
Then, when people try to judge me by what I make, with me knowing money isn't everything, I can hold my head up high and pay no attention because they are ignorant.
You want to know what I make?
I MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN ALL YOUR LIVES, EDUCATING KIDS AND PREPARING THEM TO BECOME CEO's, AND DOCTORS AND ENGINEERS.......
What do you make Mr. CEO? Only money?
His jaw dropped; he went silent.
2.
A young man approached an old man and asked him: “Do you remember me?”
And the old man said no. The young man told him he was his student. The old man was surprised and asked: “What do you do now?”
The young man answered: “Well, I am a teacher.”
“Ah, how good, like me?” Asks the old man.
“Well, yes. In fact, I became a teacher because you inspired me to be like you.”
The old man, curious, asked the young man at what point he decided to become a teacher. The young man recounted the following story:
“One day, a friend of mine, also a student, came in with a nice new watch, and I decided I wanted it. I stole it.
Shortly after, my friend noticed that, his watch was missing and immediately complained to our teacher, which was you.
Then you addressed the class saying, ‘This student's watch was stolen during classes today. Whoever stole it, please return it.’
I didn't give it back because I didn't want to. You closed the door and told us all to stand up and form a circle.
You were going to search our pockets one by one until the watch was found.
However, you told us to close our eyes. You said you would only look for the watch if we all had our eyes closed. We did as instructed.
You went from pocket to pocket, and when you went through my pocket, you found the watch and took it. You kept searching everyone's pockets, and when you were done you said “Open your eyes. We have the watch.”
You didn't tell on me and you never mentioned the episode. You never said who stole the watch either. That day you saved my dignity forever. It was the most shameful day of my life.
This was also the day I decided never to steal again. You never said anything, nor did you even scold me or take me aside to give me a moral lesson. I received your message clearly.
Thanks to you, I understood what a real educator needs to do. Do you remember this episode?
The old man answered, “Yes, I remember the situation with the stolen watch, which I was looking for in everyone’s pocket. I didn't remember you, because I also closed my eyes while looking.”
No words of praise are enough to pay homage to our teachers and LitaerayVibes is proud that we have many teachers, professors and scholars in our group. I take this opportunity to pay my humble homage to all of them and to teachers everywhere (aptly described as the incarnation of Brahma, Vishnu, Maheswara, and therefore equal to Parambrahma).
Hope you will like the offerings in LV133. Please share the following links with all your friends and contacts so that they can also enjoy the beauty of LiteraryVibes:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/506 (Poems and Book Review)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/505 (Short Stories, Anecdotes and Miscellaneous Articles) and
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/504 (Young Magic)
There aew also two medical related anecdotes from the pen of Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo, the eminent Gyanecologist at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/503
Relax and enjoy the Pooja looming ahead of us.
We will meet again on Friday, the 27th October
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
SILENCES
02) Haraprasad Das
DVAPARA
03) Dilip Mohapatra
WHO KILLED THE MOON?
PHASED OUT
04) Abani Udgata
A DEAD POET’S VOICE.
05) Gargi Saha
QUEST
INVISIBLE
PEACE
06) Sundar Rajan
LOVE
HAPPINESS
NETHER WORLD
07) Madhumathi. H
TO YOU...
08) Hrushikesh Mallick
FOR YOU, IMRAANAA, ONLY FOR YOU
09) Bijay Ketan Patnaik
GRIEVING IN THREE DIMENSIONS
10) Kuntala Kumari Sabat
SHEFALI PRATI
11) Sudipta Mishra
REMEMBERING THE DOYEN OF LITERATURE
12) Nandini Mitra
ONCE BORN GOT TO ACCEPT DEATH
13) Tamali Neogi
LOSER
14) Bhagaban Jayasingh
LIFE WITHOUT POETRY
15) Soumen Roy
ODE TO LIFE
16) Setaluri Padmavathi
DANCING STARS
17) Ravi Ranganathan
NOCTURNAL NICHE
18) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
EARS TO HEAR
19) Leena Thampi
THE CHILD IN ME
20) Vidhya Anand
TO BE OR NOT TO BE!!
21) Sujata Dash
DARK CLOUDS
22) Bipin Patsani
THE BRAVE LIVE BEYOND GRAVE
23) Aneek Chatterjee
HIDE AND SEEK
24) Bidyutprabha Gantayay
THAT AUGUST AFTERNOON
25) Anjali Sahoo
WHERE DOES HAPPINESS STAY?
PEACE
26) Sharanya Bee
FORGOTTEN ADIEU
27) Arpita Priyadarsini
THE MAGIC OF LOVE
28) Prof Niranjan Barik
THE FIRE, A SOLILOQUY!
29) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A NEW LIFE
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
THRONES
01) Chinmayee Barik
SALVATION
02) Ajay Upadhyaya
THE CROW AND THE CROCODILE..
03) Ishwar Pati
SOMETHING WRONG?
04) Snehaprava Das
THE DREAMS SHE NEVER TOLD
05) Asis Pati
LET’S GO HOME
06) Sreechandra Banerjee
THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING DIAMOND
07) Pankhuri Sinha
ALLAH HO AKBAR
08) Lathaprem Sakhya
TRUE LOVE
09) Sujata Dash
A PAIR OF GLOVES
10) Ashok Kumar Mishra
DOSVIDANYA
11) Anasuya Panda
WHEN DEFEATED YOU ARE SMASHED
12) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE WAIT
Table of Contents :: MISCELLANEOUS
01) Pradeep Biswal
JAYANTA MAHAPATRA: CONNECTING..
02) Hema Ravi
TRYST WITH RIVER HAWKS
03) Sreekumar T V
LIVING FOR LOVE
04) Pramod K.Padhy
DOWN THE MEMORY LANE.
05) Bankim Chandra Tola
UNSOCIAL AND ANTI-SOCIAL
06) Satish Pashine
LIFE A CONFLUENCE OF AGONY AND ECSTASY!
07) Gourang Charan Roul
A NOSTALGIC TRIP TO HISTORIC..
08) Sheena Rath
THE NICHE
09) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: ABOUT ..
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) G. Saratha Kamakshi
CONFIDENCE
02) Ashmanth. A
GUESS, IT IS CHESS!
03) Trishna Sahoo
LETTER FROM MY JEJE (GRAND FATHER)
04) Anura Parida
A PROTEST FOR THE SEA
POEMS
(A tribute to poet Jayanta Mahapatra)
We crowded you, your room,
your personal space
by the Mango tree, clucking hens,
we three made
the commotion of thirty.
And you sat in your bubble
of solitude, silent, wearing
an indeterminable mood
between downcast and detached,
a praying Buddha, but eyes ajar,
encompassing the silence
of eons, of humans, animals, plants;
living, dead, spiritual, feral;
on the earth, in sea, and the sky,
visible, sentient and beyond.
After the informal tea, Sarojini,
Nani, and me, we three,
making the hubbub of thirty;
Sarojini, Nani and you stood
beneath the iconic Mango tree,
that was no more there
but still existing like the river Saraswati,
a benign myth; resolutely dead
but living indelibly in memory like
an unfinished yawn, a dodging sneeze.
Gone were the tree’s nesting birds
the scurrying ants, but their ghosts
hobnob like the fruitlets that once
lent freshness to the swishing wind.
I joined you three to bask in its aura.
For a change, we fell silent, the infection
from you was catching us up, late
perhaps, like a footnote.
Nani and Sarojini appropriately wearing
their moods, to say 'bye' to me.
But, you, the Buddha, parted your lips,
making me, the poor greedy devil,
spread my napkin to collect
the crumbs. But you said,
"I love the cacophony you bring."
(The poem was written for Jayanta Sir, many years ago.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
If you have no knowledge
of how the divine couple
spent their night
by Yamuna in their lush arbor,
their bower lit by a star’s glow,
an excuse for light.
If you are not privy to the lust
that dragged them
by hand to the amorous
land of ecstasy,
then, steel your heart
to hear the truth.
It’s nothing less or more
than the ubiquitous game
played in the secret garden
of flesh, in the name of divine.
Neither a wrap was spared,
nor a fig leaf; not the unabated
flow of sweat and spit,
until they won the promised land.
The flying of sacred flags
atop the holy shrines,
is a ploy for the blind believers,
much ado about nothing.
It is rather the wounded time
hanging on the crucifix of a suspect saga.
Its arrow, having hit a wrong target,
lying blunted, thrashing in pain.
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)”
The bejewelled and bedecked bride
in her new home
still waits with her god-sisters
for the immortal moon to descend
and dance on the ripples of water
imprisoned in a clay pot
and to view her husband's weather beaten
face through the sieve
and for him to offer her
the first sip of water so that
she may break her fast
that she kept to confront and defy death.
The Hadith still dictates
the sightings of the crescent
that mark the beginning and end of
Ramadan fasting.
The mothers in the remote villages
still sing to their little children
the glory of their brother moon
while feeding them their daily gruel.
The lovers still look into the soulful eyes
of their fair maidens
in search of a moon on fire.
But a soul-less moon no longer breathes
nor does its heart beat any more
its carcass still doing the routine
rising setting and crossing the meridians
in tandem with the earth's spin
its white skull half buried in the grey ashes
that carry the footprints of the assassins
from Mother Earth
while the impressions of man's small steps
define the big leaps for mankind.
I distinctly remember
when in class seven
the water colour painting that I made
for a children's art competition
and which had won the third prize.
The highlights were the dark fringes
of the coconut frond
that slightly encroached into a
luminous full moon hanging
on a somnolent grey sky
undeterred by a thin film of
cloud floating over
the silhouette of a range of hills
while its reflection shimmered
over a flowing stream
interrupted by a black blotch
of a coracle paddled by
a lone traveller.
Now I open my window
to be faced by another window
and I crane my neck to
get a glimpse of the magnificent crescent
but a disc TV antenna stares back at me.
Not to be deterred I venture out
to the open through the narrow lane
encapsulated by a phalanx of
tall buildings
till I reach
the bridge on the local river
that is almost dry and that waits
for the monsoon rains in the
catchment area to fill her up occasionally.
And here also I have no joy
but to be satisfied with
a diffused translucent patch
behind the thick curtain of smog.
With romanticism sacrificed
on the altar of knowledge
the magical mystery
has melted and sublimated
over time and with it gone
the celebrations of fertility
the baying of the wolves and
lunacy has become just an
etymological legacy
and one doesn't get
moonstruck any more with love
that has devolved to an
arrangement and perhaps more
of a transaction.
The 'Eids' come and go and so do
the 'Karva Chauths' but meanwhile
the time has lost its rhythm and rhyme
and the moon reduced to
just a vestigial habit.
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.
Goddesses come and go
the soft calls of birds in
early hours evaporate.
Time does not arrive,
if it has to.
Blood that drove
the king away at Daya
returned in the evening
a rampant tusker to paddy-field.
A forlorn stump stands
Konark in hot summer day.
The abandoned coaches of
Bahanaga drench in rain
in the dark eye of
the river in spate.
Lepers slouch mid-day
towards the pearl - gate.
Drops from bamboo leaf
mirror the harsh face
of the sky in talkative rain.
What do I tell those
school kids on whose
soft palms the moon
will die a terrible death?
And those women
terrified by the cries of
hyenas across the land
who stare at the blank sky?
You saw the other day
a shadow walk across
the narrow by-lanes of Cuttack
on hot summer noon while
an old, woe- begone father
crushed the ashes of young son.
The river skirting the old town is
white as the belly of a dead fish .
While the evening falls like tear-drop,
the empty nest of birds hold on to
a pile of feathers shed by
their soft, inscrutable songs.
An old listener now stands
below the shady tree
rooted in his childhood.
One feels the absences poised
on the fine line when the day ends
and the night yet to begin, when
the hungry chicks screech in to
the empty beyond waiting for
the universe to arrive in wings,
when a poem ends and another
is yet to be written.
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
I am what I am
I am not, what I am not
I am ebbing on the surface
In search of humanity.
Somethings cannot be seen
Some voices cannot be heard
Some realities can't be smelt
Some dualities can't be felt
But it is there
Invisibly lingering
Try to discover the enigmatic phenomena.
Give me peace, give me peace
I am utterly shattered
A little peace can mend lives
I crave not for name, fame, wealth or power
But a little peace
Can mend broken homes,helpless beings
Crawling, stumbling, staggering
On the staircase of life.
Ms Gargi Saha is a creative writer. She has published two poem books namely, 'The Muse in My Salad Days 'and 'Letters to Him '. Recently been awarded the Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Award and the Independence Day Award for poetry. Presently she edits several scientific research papers.
If one cares to enjoy each task,
To love oneself, gets to unmask.
Magnetised with love, unbridled,
Reach out to spontaneously build,
An avenue of harmony,
Driven by true love's symphony.
Anger, hate, greed, jealousy,
Make life too melancholy.
Give space for humility,
Love and generosity,
Willing smiles begin to glow,
Causing HAPPINESS to flow.
As unfinished agenda expands despite,
Adopting a punishing pace, sans respite,
Lest creative ideas go to the grave,
Which, else, would create a phenomenal wave.
For, without a warning, the journey begins,
To the unfathomed Nether World, it takes wings.
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.
Can I call you, "Wednesday"
Calm, unruffled, like a cosy boat
That helps me cross the chaos
Await in patience, to sail towards lighter days...?
If I have to name you after an instrument
I would call you, "Flute"
You are the peace, tranquility, ecstasy
A bamboo and breath can gift
Are you, the sea shells, old tickets, chocolate wrappers
I cherish, and treasure
Would never bear losing?!
The thought, sight of them, make me smile...
Are you the voice, of a waterfall? A stream, a river?!
Or all of waters' tones?!
You quench my thirst, and drench my soul, like elixir...
Water heals...
I love the way some bookmarks are
You are one
In an important page of the book of my life
I love to read often...
Can I call you, my song?!...
A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi. H is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry, Photography, Music. Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), CPC- Chennai Poetry Circle's EFFLORESCENCE, IPC's(India Poetry Circle) Madras Hues Myriad Views, Amaravati Poetic Prism 2015, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes - LiteraryVibes, Storizen, Science Shore, OPA – Our Poetry Archives. e-Anthologies Monsoon moods - Muse India, Green Awakenings - On Environment, by Kavya-Adisakrit.
Ignite Poetry, Breathe Poetry, Dream Poetry, Soul shores that have 10 of her poems published, Soul Serenade, Shades of Love-AIFEST, Arising from the dust, Painting Dreams, Shards of unsung Poesies, are some of the Anthologies her poems, and write ups are part of. (2020 to 2022). Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, to create awareness, break the stigma, believing in the therapeutic, transformational power of words. Contact: madhumathi.poetry@gmail.com :: Blogs: https://madhumathipoetry.wordpress.com :: http://madhumathikavidhaigal.blogspot.com/?m=1
FOR YOU, IMRAANAA, ONLY FOR YOU (IMRAANAA, KEVAL TUMAPAAIN)
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Neither a god, big or small,
nor a prophet, eloquent or silent;
neither a man, nor a woman,
it’s me, a humble word-smith.
The moon plays hide-and-seek
among patches of clouds, “Catch me
if you can…”, a merry-go-round.
But the game reminds me of a pale hand,
your hand, bloodless and hanging out
of your flower-bedecked coffin.
How does the decoration matter
to your unseeing marble-eyes?
Your subdued Nikanama got
drowned by the roar
of a rampant tiger at large,
a two-legged (wo)man-eater.
What time is it, Imraanna?
Night seems unending,
my pretended sleep
is ajar behind closed eyelids.
Lonely nights chase me, urge me
to wake you up from your grave,
take you for a leisurely walk
in silence along the riverbank.
What would we talk about? Almost everything
is a no-no, having lost their relevance.
Don’t cry Imraanaa, the tears would
soak your shroud, sobs crush your chest.
Why did you surrender to death
so quietly, Imraanaa, without giving a fight?
Wasn’t anyone there by you to help
when the old tiger went berserk
in your bed? Couldn’t you find
a shard of broken glass to stab him?
Use your sharp teeth to pull out
his entrails, a woman’s ultimate tool?
Might be your husband was looking
for salvation at a country liquor bar,
your amma-in-law had gone out
to earn her daily wage, children playing
with marbles out of earshot.
You knew, it would be a waste of time
to ask for help from a hymn-buff Ishwar
or a Namaz-addict Allah, anyway.
Why did these saviors of humanity,
turn a Nelson’s eye, when the tiger
ravaged your soft bosoms, muddied
the serene stream between your thighs?
It was like disrobing Panchali
in open Kuru-court, like unleashing
a desperado and feeling safe after
putting a few crumbs in his pocket.
The activists shouted slogans,
held candle-marches; the leaders,
visiting to console your family,
slyly groped your minor girls.
Like the weaver bird least bothered
of its nest against the strong wind,
your neighbor Chaitaa, the rickshaw-puller,
visited his routine liquor shop after the day’s work.
It is only me, whose head hangs
in shame, as you gave up fight
like the ever-tolerant Sita and sought
your peace in the mother earth’s lap.
So, I would invoke you by
the long arm of my pen,
not of law, Imraana, to rise
and fight for your peers in pain.
Neither a god, big or small,
nor a prophet, eloquent or silent;
neither a man, nor a woman,
it’s I who invoke, a humble word-smith.
Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by post-eighties’ Odia poets of the last century, has translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs and dregs of the society.
GRIEVING IN THREE DIMENSIONS (SHOKARA TINOTI PANKTI)
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
When My Youngest Daughter Died
Your arrival was fortuitous,
neither desired, nor intended;
yet, you came bringing us
a spring in our lives’ winter-days.
An unexpected of happy sequel,
that but ended unceremoniously.
“Good things don’t last, que sera sera.”
our mutual consolation bleeds!
When My Eldest Son Died
You always seemed to me
as my just-born baby, out of my womb
after nine-month-gestation.
Even in death, you seem
to be there, as a spark of my soul,
a chip of my block, a habit of my habits.
Your throbbing memory
would keep you alive in me,
but what of your new bride?
She shared your life just a night,
her night of consummation
spent in your bed, the first ever with a man.
Would that give her a memory
to last the lifetime? Or too inadequate
to long for you, to yearn for you?
When My Husband Died
I recall, our birth-charts
being matched by astrologers
for good luck and hefty nuptials
before getting bonded together.
The priest blessed, “Live endearingly
in this everlasting togetherness.”
My father emptied his purse,
for celebrations matching
the priest’s predictions, but
you left unannounced.
What a travesty! What a hoax!
Our nest lies in tatters.
A bond is broken.
Long live the bond!
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
(Translated by Snehaprava Das)
(1)
Where are you, O’ Shefali
Blooming in some hidden, distant tree
The breeze wafts about carrying your touch
Rippling the air in a fragrant spree,
And I sit fancying by the window
Lost in reverie;
(2)
Half asleep and half-awake
I roam in a dreamland
Gazing at the flooding panorama of beauty
In sheer wonderment,
Are you O’ Shefali, pouring down there
The nectar of your magic sent?
(3)
I sit by the window in this autumn twilight
With a heart drenched in Love’s delight,
In some strange rapture
Down from my eyes, tears roll
A divine tune plays on the chords of my soul
Have I reached up to the heavenly height?
(4)
The struggles through the day,
the endless ache
All the stress, all the worries
making life a wreck,
And now the sun slowly slides don the west
Singing a twilight carol
The birds return to the nest,
Evening has smeared the earth’s face
With a black paste;
(5)
Their eyes sparkling bright
Stars have appeared in garbs of light
Embellishing the blue height,
The moon comes up slowly
Wrapped in an ambrosial white;
It saints drops of nectar trailing below
Making Queen Earth forget her woe;
(6)
She had shed silent tears
in the sun’s absence
gloomy contoured, eyes downcast
in the thickening darkness,
when the moon rose
and the moonlight kissed her face
she smiled, clad in a shimmering white robe,
o’ Shefali, then you bloomed there in love;
(7)
From afar the fragrance comes
floating in the breeze
sweeping my solitude
with a euphoric bliss,
All my pent-up sorrow has instantly vanished
My fancy-filled mind prompts me to surmise,
As if at this moment
I wander in paradise!
(8)
So much nectar in a tiny body,
how strange!
Mysterious are God’s ways
Beyond logic, beyond the mortal knowledge;
Sweet, hidden flower
Blooming in some secret bower,
You fill my soul with joy and elation,
O’ Shefali, of what artist
You are the creation?
(9)
Blooming on a tree with leaves
Rough and crude
With enchanting smell
You adorn the woods,
O’ Shefali! Hiding amidst dull, harsh leaves
You enthrall the world with
your divine merit
Perhaps that is the way it happens always,
That Beauty blooms amidst ugliness!
(Kuntala Kumari Sabat (1901—1938) - A poet by passion and a physician by profession Kuntala Kumari Sabat wrote during India’s freedom struggle. The spirit of flaming patriotism in her poems inspired and motivated people to join the movement against the colonial hegemony. Besides Odia, she too had proficiency in English, Hindi and Bengali. She contributed to several non-Odia journals and also edited a number of Hindi journals. Her writings were regularly published in the Samaja and the Sahakara under the title Delhi Letters.
‘Shefali Prati’, is one of her most widely appreciated and discussed poems which could be read as a eulogy on the night-jasmine flower that blooms in the night and withers and drops off the bough at the dawn. The poem glorifies the divine fragrance of the flower which though is granted only short span of life could infuse a fresh enthusiasm into the minds gone weary through the constant struggles of living. The poet uses the flower as a metaphor to celebrate life that is short but worthy and meaningful. Here are a few stanzas of the long poem in English Translation)
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)
REMEMBERING THE DOYEN OF LITERATURE
He is dead now
But I exist in his memories
That will knit my ideas toward the last breath
Knowingly I recollect some of his golden reminiscent
To relive in the lost moments
Like a dream, everything flashes away
As if he had a magical wand instead of a pen
The mesmerizing public is yet to recover from the trance
I am one of them
I rested under the boughs of a huge tree
Now I can see the withered branches
Everything is lost
That spirit has faded now
But while following the footprints, I will gather hopes
A creeper, I am
I long to meet with the sea again, you see
Deep down in my heart, I know
Now, nothing can complete me
Yet, as a poet, I will create!
The more I will create, the more dark corners will be lit up
Like a Phoenix ascends from the dead embers
Poetry will surge...
(As a post-colonial writer, Jayanta Mohapatra attained a world-famous distinction to his credit. From his contemporaries like A.K Ramanujan, and Nissim Ezekiel, he differentiated with the choice of imagery that reflected the picture of the rural Odisha. As a man of rural India, he concentrated on creating a national identity through his poems. Nature was glorified in his poems, especially rain invoked unique sensations in his creations. Though a latecomer in creating poems in comparison to other poets of his generation, he crossed the boundary of our nation with his enormous creations by evolving as a world-class poet. )
Sudipta Mishra is a multi-faceted artist and dancer excelling in various fields of art and culture. She has co-authored more than a hundred books. Her book, 'The Essence of Life', is credited with Amazon's bestseller. Her next creation, 'The Songs of My Heart' is scaling newer heights of glory. Her poems are a beautiful amalgamation of imagery and metaphors. She has garnered numerous accolades from international organizations like the famous Rabindranath Tagore Memorial, Mahadevi Verma Sahitya Siromani Award, an Honorary Doctorate, and so on. She regularly pens articles in newspapers as a strong female voice against gender discrimination, global warming, domestic violence against women, pandemics, and the ongoing war. She is pursuing a Ph.D. degree in English. Her fourth book, Everything I Never Told You is a collection of a hundred soulful poems. Currently, she is residing in Puri.
Dumb street lights,
Frail and lonely,
Rain pours in mad frenzy,
Mind's in a fix,
Thoughts linger,
I fail to understand
The story of life,
If it begins then
Why an abrupt end?
Tears dwell in my eyes ,
I hold them till the last drop,
Tomorrow the sun
Will rise again
Before going down
In that distant corner,
Hope drags me,
Wearied heart takes a deep breath,
A voice whispers within ,
"Once born, got to accept death."
Nandini Mitra is a poet based in Kolkata. A post- graduate in English Literature from Jadavpur University. She is in the profession of teaching for last twenty -five years. She has published her first book of poetry,The Road To Tranquility, recently. Has worked as a freelance journalist for a prestigious Bengali magazine published from Kolkata. She is passionate about Music and is a trained classical singer. However, writing poetry has become an integral part of Nandini’s journey of life since 2011. She believes in the religion of humanity, compassion and love. She has a rich sense of metaphors and imageries and enthusiastic about weaving poetry relating to the realities of lives and the diversities of nature. Her poems have featured in various national and international anthologies.
Daughter of Earth, who has dishonoured you most, the abductor who offers you his love
Or the husband benevolent, who gives least importance to your womanhood?
Assuredly, Devi Sita, you are the one who knows the answer.
Once I heard two aged bards arguing,
If crime in love is better than stony disregard?
Life is an oxymoron; precondition to the choices available here.
Monsoon that comes from the sea is full of water vapour
Forsooth one grows in the kind moisture of its friendship that showeth hope.
Ha! Constant devotion is the darling sister of true love,
Soon the sapling withers as the poet madly in love with the courtesan whose favours are like rippling waters,
Tantalising yet fulfilment deferred. The monsoon changes direction.
Is it better to be with a friend who promises nothing
Yet burns himself in the fragrance of sweet constancy,
Than one, sudden bouts of whose insane passion overturn your thesis and antithesis,
Definitely it's the genesis of your synthesis but by then aren't you alone?
In this game of opposites you are a loser if demand much.
Life is just an experience of selected variables; an exhibition where opposites are on display,
A laboratory where auto generated machines are programmed to manufacture opposites
And only opposites. Electra, I admit,
"Every human act is one sided".
Dr. Tamali Neogi teaches English at Gushkara College, Gushkara (West Bengal), India. As a creative writer she has published The Woman of Patashpur and edited Postmodern Voices, Volume VIII: An Anthology of Poems. Currently she is engaged in editing a book on Life Writings of women belonging to different continents and An Anthology of Ethical Poetry, An International Academy of Ethics Publication. In an academic career spanning two decades, Dr. Neogi has published short stories in Tales of Our Times and Lapis Lazuli, presented research papers at National and International Seminars, presided over Paper Reading Sessions, and also published book reviews in reputed U.G.C. Care Listed Journals. Her poems are published in several internationally reputed magazines. Her second Anthology of short fiction will hit the stands by the end of this year. tamalineogi13@gmail.com
I think I shall not write anymore
but keep quiet thinking that
I have written enough.
Yes, I have already written a lot
I am no more impelled to
write something new
The storm has already
uprooted the tree of hope.
Do I have any age left
to be thrilled anymore
The siren of death
has already stung the heart.
I get scared to paint
the picture of death in poetry
Lest it should hold me
from my back and impose
strange conditions for life.
I am such a smiling being
who has lost life's all bets
What can I do now
except to serve life
on a lipstick-red plate.
Now some strange thoughts
continue to haunt my self
I cannot bear their shrill notes
spilling horror.
The words, like the ghosts
are calling me now
Their padmatola continues
to cast a spell
How can I leave poetry
to live a life alone.
Dr. Bhagaban Jayasingh, an eminent bilingual writer, has published 9 collections of poetry in Odia and 8 in English and English translation. Black Eagle Books has brought out The Dapples of Darkness, a collection of his poetry and Footprints of Fire, a translation of seventy-four contemporary Odia poets. Dr Jayasingh has also published Door to Despair, a critical work on modernism in Odia poetry. He edited an anthology titled 7950 Parabarti Odia Poetry for Sahitya Akademi. Sahitya Akademi has also published Sitakant Mahapatra: A Reader in 2021, selected and edited by him.
Dr Jayasingh has received a flurry of literary awards, including Vishub "Jhankar", Bhanuiji Rao Kavita Puraskar, besides Utkal Sahitya Samaj Samman and Odisha Sahitya Akademi award for his book Ferranti Ghar in 2016.
Can you imagine a life without emotions ?
A baby without smile
A flower without smell
A canvas without colours
Cant imagine,ain't it ?
So void are the words lacking emotions !
And lifeless conversations,
Poets and authors are the life juggling in the spirits of river
With inundated glory they celebrates life deep within emotions
They live and die within their own creations
Let the song thrill being an ode to life
A song of across being limitless beyond every limitations
Soumen Roy is a professional writer, best selling author and a tri-lingual poet. He has been vasty anthologized. His novel and poetry books have been part of International Kolkata Book Fair as well as Newtown book fair. He is the receiptent of Laureate Award 2022 along with many others. His poetry has been a part of international poetry festival 2017 and Panaroma international Literature festival 2023. He has published in different newspapers, magazines and web portals. He has been part of a web series named Showstopperzz, a cinema for a cause. He loves photography, painting and music.
Ah! So scary and fast movements!
I couldn't turn my eyes even for a second
Twisting bodies, stretching hands
Fingers shook, ankles trembled
Crazy shoulders Swiftly moved
Thin layered waists weaved
Troublesome trunks slowly balanced
What an overall great experience!
Ropes danced, poles departed
They dragged their wonderful machines
The feet heard the slow and fast beats
The wise eyes captured every essence
Toes spoke to minds, and the minds to their hearts
Their focused eyes watch not the risky path
Their brain ordered and feet danced, that's it..
The ultimate goal was a gracious performance!
They thoroughly used the vast dance floor
Their bodies sweat, eyes glittered, and smiles summed up all....
Swinging physiques mesmerized
Yes, gracious dancers astonished me, and you!
Some audience shed tears,
some were awestruck!
A few showered flowers,
Many offered blessings
To the Dancing Stars
To the Dancing Stars.....
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
It is in the night that I hear nights, every night...
and it hears me in my whispers; waking my own realm
while secrets keep knocking its doors.
It is in the night that I make the world a stage
and write my painful pieces on earth
till my pensiveness gets unfurled.
Reflections of soul’s tears and fears
begin to break away for dear worth.
In every atom of light my night shines.
I dissolve my faults In thorn ridden confines
till flowers awake, delighting in designs...
Closely consuming nights and nights
I create my own nocturnal niche
Ravi Ranganathan is a writer, critic and a poet from Chennai. Also a retired banker. He has to his credit three books of poems titled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Writes regularly for several anthologies. His awards include recognition in "Poiesis award for excellence" of Poiesisonline, Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and’ Master of creative Impulse ‘award by Philosophyque Poetica. He contributes poems for the half yearly Poetry book Metverse Muse . He writes regularly for the monthly webzine “ Literary Vibes” and “ Glomag”.He is the Treasurer of Chennai Poets’ Circle.
Was it love ?
Didn’t really understand,
Every time I thought it is,
Got confused
By homonyms
You spoke so fluently.
Got carried away by smiles
Sitting by your side
Admiring flowers and butterflies
How could I know
It was just a reflection
The way you feel, usually.
You wiped my tears
When in sorrow and pain
Should I read between lines
Construing it to be love,
It could be just a relationship
In the purest form.
Who will tell me what is love?
How the myths get cleared
Revealing the true picture?
It might be knocking on the door
Every moment of the year,
God give me the ears to hear.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
I know a small girl who lived in me,
She squealed in delight,when happy
She cried whenever she was hurt,
She never had insecurities and inhibitions,neither gave a damn about society,
She was unbiased and honest sans boundaries,
She beleived in angels and fairy tales,
She always looked up for a shooting star,
And wished all that her innocent heart yearned.
Then, one day she had a nightmare,
That her fairyland is getting demolished,
She ran away and hid herself .
I am searching the child everywhere
Can anyone help me with her address?
I cannot live without her here
I am sure she is alive somewhere near.
I cannot let her die ,since i am matured.
I know,she can't match the society's standard,but she is my sole life and inexplicable happiness.
(Don’t let the child inside you die, for it teaches you how to live.)
Born in Jammu and brought up in Delhi ,Leena Thampi is an articulate writer who's lost in her own little epiphanies and she gives them life with her quill. She's an author extraordinaire with three books to her credit -"Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze" and An Allusion To Time'. She has many articles published in India and abroad. She has received many elite accolades from different literary platforms worldwide.
She has been awarded by Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips twice for her best contribution towards literature in the year 2021 and 2022.She was also the recipient of Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honours 2022 by Motivational Strips. Her work mixes luminous writing, magical realism, myths, and the hard truths of everyday life. Besides her flair for writing and deep-rooted love for music, she is an Entrepreneur,Dancer,and a Relationship coach She is currently working on her fifth book which is a collection of short stories.
Warm aroma of coffee,
Snowy foam of frappe,
What do I want it to be?
Lashing beats of thunderstorm,
Tanning heat scorching strong,
What should it not to be?
Compact rooms braced with comfort,
Plush villas bathed in style elegant,
What do I desire it to be?
To be tossed in corporate talks,
To be flying as creative larks,
My career, on this platter,
What do I choose it not to be?
Peace and tranquil, silent chants,
Trekking on demands and errands,
What do I want the walk to be?
Myriad shades flip through our eyes,
Like the mural art on a butterfly.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE,
Destiny doesn’t hold the key.
YOU! Are the ultimate unwind,
Evolving as the joy of mankind.
Vidhya Anand is an enterprising woman with a successful career in Training and development for almost two decades, she has been providing quality training in communication skills and other soft skill programs in leading IT and non-IT companies. She has conducted career guidance programs to young college students in chiselling their future towards their goals in profession
Her forte in style and accentuation, has catered to be a talented voice and accent neutralization expert during cross cultural training sessions. She has been an influential speaker and anchor in social and welfare workshops on special needs children and their wellbeing. She has been a passionate writer penning down poems and articles for magazines too. Her role as a persevering mother of an autistic boy has all along been driving him towards progress and positivity in his life. Words and expressions are rooted in her personal anecdotes and narratives, fresh from her own perspective.
A gentle stroke of air
caresses my limbs
the bunch of loosely arrayed hair
looking for solace in a lenient hug
shy away in minutes
the subtle nudge of ecstasy
that this fateful evening has brought in
titillates my soul and being
thronging my fetish for gone by whiles
should i claim an eventful past
that could bail me out of sinister present
or should I surrender
to the ways of time's whim?
I am yet in two minds
my lips act stubborn like a back bencher
do not quiver even
in spite of being provoked
to indulge in whimpers
hard times ...they say
sit like a lump in the throat
this hour must be one of those
evening descends as per ordain
like a pet dog darkness too follows
my forehead naked and forlorn
mourn the bouncy crop of hair
that has once been the talk of my peers
no more shall they return to place
I shall rue like a paddy field
where standing crops are ravaged
be it the malady of seasons
or curse of some kind
paddy fields and me will no more be euphoric
the blatant truth has to be buried deep inside
the fond caress of the breeze
is worn out , it seems!
no more it stirs soul nor impinges on
my state of being
hidden under miles of undulating expanse
the moon seeks redemption
alas! The blotchy walls of fudgy dark clouds
hinder its flurry one more time.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker. She has three published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm-all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit. She is a singer, avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
(Paika Bidroh/1804-1817- 1829)
The brave, not scared of the grave,
live beyond and awaken us
in their arousing inspiring waves.
Buxi did not beg for mercy,
nor did opt for it Jai Rajguru,
the defiant Diwan of Khordha Garh
who led the first phase of the rebellion
with his trusted band of lions
against the imposing oppressive Company Rule.
The disgruntled Minister and his men took to arms
as they felt betrayed just one year after
the British won reigns of the region
from the Marathas in eighteen hundred three.
Steadfast the Paikas stood in their mission
and they were in no mood to accept and give in
to the dominance of Firingies as they called them.
The British betrayal of agreement with their boy King,
Mukunda Deb-II, their breach of trust in matters
of money along with their dirty designs of extortions
enraged the Minister and his brave men.
With the same spirit of holding their head high
and dying for dignity as they did in days of yore
in Kalinga War, not leaving the battle field,
not retreating till the last drop of blood
in their veins flowed,
the Paikas loyal to their King
and his dauntless minister,
came forward responding to all their Sardars’ calls.
They stormed the British at Khordha,
killed whom they found,
while many of them fled for their life.
Khordha won, the rebels headed for Cuttack
and captured Barabati in their round.
Many a cause have gone with the wind,
many wars lost, betrayed by treacherous mind.
Had it not been for human greed of a traitor,
some wicked informer who sold secrets to the white,
the English could not have returned to Khordha Garh
in the dark and deep woods around Barunei Hills
and held captive the boy King Mukunda Deb,
leading to the confiscation of his territory .
The noble minister had to surrender for his King’s safety
and as he refused to compromise,
refused to beg for mercy,
he was taken far away from his soil to Midinapur jail
and tied to the branches of a banyan tree,
he was torn wantonly apart in Bengal
as the branches were set free.
II
The oppression continued year after year
and so did the exploitation of money lenders
and public discontent.
The stringent law made many Paikas landless
as they lost control of their tax free land
they had been enjoying since time immemorial,
they knew not whence.
Even Buxi Jagabandhu Bidyadhar,
the brave General, deprived of his property,
was made a pauper in a sense.
The Sunset rule that deprived many of their lands
if they failed to pay before Sunset
hugely imposed taxes required to be paid in silver
and not in cowrie currency
that was in practice for years and years, and dismissal
of rights of the coastal people to manufacture salt,
all these were enough to incite the angry Odia Paikas
to assemble again in the dense woods of Barunei Hills,
plan strategies and be ready to assault the oppressors.
The rage of the Paikas blazed again to a new high
and they gathered at Barunei Peeth with war cry.
The King was in captivity, the Minister was martyred,
but the fight for freedom from foreign rule continued
and they were bent on avenging the brutal way
the Company Bahadurs had got rid of Jai Rajguru.
Nothing seemed impossible in the eye of the General
and his trusted lieutenants: Pindiki Bahubalendra,
Madhav Ch. Rautaray, Krutibas Patsani, Mirhaidar Ali,
Daleis, Dalabeheras, the brave tribesmen and all.
“So what if our Gajapati is not here among us?
Not by rank, each one of us owe the responsibility
of defending the honour of our holy land.
Jai Jagannatha, Jai Maa Barunei,” echoed the call.
Such spirit Buxi ignited in the mind of each rebel.
The simmering discontent that had fanned the fire
had its volcanic eruption spreading far and wide
in the eighteen seventeen Paika Bidroh of Odia Pride.
Banapur burned, burned Ghumusar, Ranapur,
Kandhamal, Khordha, Kanika, Kujanga, Cuttack,
Dhenkanal, Anugul, Rangeilunda, Ganjam,
Dashapalla, Sambalpur, Pipili, Puri and many more.
The posts of the White Sahibs were torched,
Post Offices burnt, Police Stations were set on fire
and treasury looted at Banapur and somewhere.
Some of their officers fled in fear, some died.
Khordha Garh, the epicenter of such Quake,
the seedbed of Bidroh near Barunei Hills,
and the fierce fight at Gangapada and other places
like Lumbei where many native officers they killed,
the white whimper shook, their confidence crumbled
so much so that they chose to take to their heels
until more troops came to their rescue from Madras
and The Company managed its authority to reestablish
with the help of some greedy informers and traitors.
Some rebels, safe in their strongholds, continued guerilla war.
A tough time their swordsmen gave to the British
as gave their archers in a series of uprisings and attacks.
The age old trick the white whales adopted,
some more greedy informers they hired
and were able then to settle the score.
Combing operations in next ten years follow,
more and more rebels get caught,
pushed into jail and many are hung in gallows.
Brave Krutibas Patsani,
sold to the enemy by treachery of his own,
was sent to the Cellular jail.
Traitor Charan Patanaik was thrown into fire
by the angry restless rebels.
Bahubalendra was martyred
and so was Madhab Ch. Rautaray
and some more men of valour.
Buxi kept planning his moves,
safe at his stay, not known where.
He was there for some time, some say,
at far flung Kural in the hospitality
of an ancestor of Dinamani Paikaray,
whom the Kandhas obeyed and honoured.
War is not mindless suicide of soldiers
who jump into the pits of death
like moths drawn and falling into fire.
Love and care for his loyal soldiers
is the sign of a brave and brilliant commander.
In his compassionate concern for his brave fighters
whom Buxi did not want to suffer more in hidings,
he came out that his men may breathe free and feel fine.
So he embraced the four walls of a Cell in Cuttack Jail
where he breathed his last in eighteen twenty nine.
Though the flame was subdued
it did not kill the fire within.
Ignited minds, not happy with the yoke,
raised the fire of protest in frequent uprisings
keeping the warmth alive, more resistance to evoke.
Buxi shines as an image of courage.
Against oppression and injustice,
he is the spark that ignites outrage.
III
Pity be to them
who far from being honest and alert,
ready to raise their voice whenever they see
human values subside
and injustice prevailing everywhere around,
they boast only of their racial bravery in the past
and feel great, while all kinds of exploitation
and nuisance run free under their nose
by their own people and most often
with the patronage of those whom they choose.
Be it of home or foreign,
no rule, no colour in the name of national honour
be allowed to make people so much handicapped,
that helpless, they would take things for granted
and embrace little favours
with their gloomy dispassionate applause.
Bipin Patsani (b. 1951) has published poems in many prestigious journals and poetry anthologies including Indian Literature, Chandrabhaga, Journal of Indian Writing in English, Indian Scholar, Kavya Bharati, Poetcrit, International Poetry and Prophetic Voices etc. He has been translated to Spanish and Portuguese. He has three poetry collections to his credit (VOICE OF THE VALLEY, ANOTHER VOYAGE and HOMECOMING). He is a recipient of Michael Madhusudan Academy Award/ 1996 and Rock Pebbles National Award in 2018. He did his Post Graduation in English at Ravenshaw College, Cuttack in 1975 and served as a teacher in Arunachal Pradesh for 34 years till his superannuation in 2012. He also received Arunachal Pradesh State Government’s Award in 2002 for his dedicated service as a teacher. He lives with his family at Barunei Colony, Badatota in Khordha District of Odisha, India.
Often I’m surrounded by ghosts,
in broad daylight and in the dark.
Ghosts of all sizes and tongues.
They remind me what I could not do,
like giving blood to an ailing patient;
like sailing on the yellow boat
to reach a far, non-existent island.
Like punching the face of a ‘friend’
who stabbed from the back or
going to a person
again and again
for getting back some
desperate money
I had lent long ago.
Ghosts often shout my desires,
my id.
They taunt my achievements and
my big, different
ladders to the sky.
In the dark when I’m done
with the usual routine, they giggle
amid the unmindful outflow of the
golden drink.
But in some special
nights, they sing soft, forgotten lullabies
and take me to the yet-to-be
discovered land,
where we all play
hide and seek,
throughout the night.
Aneek Chatterjee is a poet and academic from Kolkata, India. He has published more than five hundred poems in reputed literary magazines and poetry anthologies across the globe. He authored 16 books including four poetry collections titled, “Seaside Myopia” (Cyberwit, 2018), “Unborn Poems and Yellow Prison” (Cyberwit, 2019), “Of Ashes and Persiflage” (Hawakal, 2020) and “Archive Avenue” (Cyberwit, 2022). He also co-edited the “Poetry Conclave Year Book 2022” (Authors Press). Dr. Chatterjee received the prestigious “Alfredo Pasilono Memorial Panorama International Literary Award 2023”, conferred by the Writers Capital Foundation. He was a Fulbright Visiting faculty at the University of Virginia, USA and a recipient of the ICCR Chair (Govt. of India) to teach abroad. His poetry has been archived at Yale University. He can be reached at: akchatjee@gmail.com
That day too
It was raining
We sat
On the concrete bench of the park
That August Afternoon ...
We sat drenched
Rain unnoticed
The oblique sun rays
Filtered through the perched
Flower laden branches
But no colour
For you and me
To capture.
I sat like a statuette
Glitterhurt and gloomy
In every blink of mine
Warm droplets of tears
Rolled down .
Squeezing my heart out
Hours passed ...
The Radiance of the noon turned
Drizzled diffused and dim
But l could see
Your weary eyes
Under your sceptic glasses .
Your fluttering lips
Your fumbling confession
Related more ...
A turmoil within .
Raise no question
Ask no reason
Was the best reason for me
A pact. ? the break up
Of a contemplation .
The fate of rolling tears
And the rain drops
Are the same
Destination ... the soil .
I felt a bit of soil in me
A wet soil
The demineudo of a
Forlorn swan song ...
Professor Dr Bidyutprabha Gantayat is a well known and acclaimed writer, poet and translator of odia literature. She belongs to Odisha, lives in Bhubaneswar. A retired professor in chemistry by profesion. She writes in Odia, Hindi and English and translates to and fro in four languages namely Odia Hindi English and Bengali.
She also pens childrens literature. She has published 18 books on all the above category of literature to her credit. Among her significant literary work the translation of Gyanpeeth awardee Mohadevi Verna's poems, short stories and essays form Hindi to Odia and published books. Since 2014 she regularly publishes The Japanese format of English poetry ( haiku poetry ) in different poetry groups of social media worldwide. Published and earned accolades.
She has also been honoured and felicitated by different litrary organizations of the state.
He asked her at a fork,
“Where does happiness stay?”
“It’s in your fist,” she said,
“And there just where you lay.”
He bent his elbows up,
And stared at palms and fist,
Viewed around the spot,
But, nobody could he meet!
On return, he asked again,
“How fast happiness goes!”
“It’s within you,” she said,
“That waits to bloom as a rose.”
Peace poses
An apparent paradox,
See!
In silence,
It cradles
And
In silence,
It entombs free!
Here silence has
Two talks,
It soothes
And
It vehemently mocks.
Anjali Sahoo writes poems both in English and Odia. Her first poetry book A Tryst with Thunder (2021), published by Authors Press, New Delhi, sheds light upon manifold aspects of life. They take the readers to the world of imaginative vibrancy, unearthing hidden mysteries of the world. Her published works include three poetry books and two short stories collections in Odia.
Dear old friend
I will always remember
How you felt nauseous at the
Smell of cold tuna stuffed
Between rice in your lunchbox
Vapour-coated
Begging to be eaten
How we found the perfect spot to
Bury them – the sandy backyard
Of our school building that boasted
A heritage of fifty years
Scoot off before we caught any Aayaa’s sight
I will always remember
The way we panted back and forth
The dusty stairs
Tarrying at every floor until
The principal on her rounds
Sent us prancing back to the science classroom
She passed away three months ago
I will always remember
Showing up a month late after Christmas to school
Eager to tell you my chicken pox stories
To find you gone for another two weeks
And then laughing in ecstasy
Discovering we had shared a disease
I will always remember
The scorching afternoon we boarded our respective
School vans
With me clutching your parting gift
– a blueberry painted pencil pouch tight
Deep remorse of having forgotten mine
& leaving a friend for life swaying
Like a swing
Our minds & words as empty as
An abandoned playground
I remember
A gift-wrapped purple earrings resting on the sofa
The one I also lost somewhere along these long decades
Dear old friend
I hope I could pull you, our memories
And my lost gift back like pearls from a broken string
Tie them all back into a perfect chain
A rosary with no ending.
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
We all crave for a love
That resides right underneath
The tranquility and possibility
Of peace and forever
That ends the war
Which has been going on
Inside us
Continously for decades
A love that deciphers
The toughest part of your metaphors
A love that slithers down
Right across your ribcage
Leaving a feeling of belongingness everytime
The universe has a magical way
Of entwining us
With the kind of love
That we crave for
Yet not assuring us
Of the rest of our life
Love comes like a shockwave
Sending chills down our spines
It moves towards us
Like a bolt from the distance
We try tracing the source
But barely succeed
The particular song
That reminds of love
That's been preserved
By sacrifice and serenity
The love that rhymes
Exactly with the hymns of your heart
The love that holds your soul so close
That you forget the humanly definition of love
The love that reunites you with self
And makes you adore everything
We all need that reassurance
To make ourselves believe
That nothing can take the love away
That's been brewing inside us
The love
That's been silhouetted
From the beginning of autumn and mid winter
And is redefined by the slightest sight of a souvenir
Arpita Priyadarsini, a Post Graduate 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.
The fire can burn many a Amazons, their flora and fauna,
Kill men, animals, birds, and creatures of all sorts!
Poison the air and water,
Raise the temperature to make rain of fire your all-time friend,
Bad money here also drives good money out!
Whose curse it was?
A mountain of fire that crushed Hiroshima and Nagasaki into vapours,
Making men and material melt in a minute,
Making the dead to be envied by the living
those who survived the fire for some moment.
How long can the clothing, watches, shoes. nails, hairs, and skins
Tell the pain ,grief, sorrow, anger of real people ?
But who sheds tears for a Hiroshima or other fires,
That may no longer be in the history book.
Numbers though numberless will remain just numbers
While the Damocles swords of fire hang in the sky,
Eyes cannot see which mind does not want to see,
Who bothers about the present or future,
With a one day annual candle light ritual,
We take the comfort to leave to the past bury its dead!
For victims of any Fire!
Tears or poets make no dent on the patriots
They add to the volumes of the vaults of marauding merchandise,
Not knowing where to dispose them off!
Fire, just does not come from above,
It is here and rises from the ground,
Becomes an inferno when not checked by the guards
The sentinels of the forest,
Making count of numbers a puzzle,
It is the mind, the ground zero of fire,
You may call it by another name Hate,
The Hate for the other!
Hate is the real Fire!
(Thoughts on the International Day of Peace, on September 21,2023)
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.
Yesterday I felt a new life
Unfolding before me
A life I had not seen before
The stars twinkled with a strange wink
The sky sighed in a mysterious way
Even the moon's smile looked crooked.
When the clouds came down,
touching my roof
Fire came dripping from them.
My friends came knocking at the door
And shouted at me to come out,
We won't walk unless you come with us
They said with a rare loudness.
I peeped through the window
Everyone seemed so different
With sly smiles and cunning looks
Even the glow on their cheeks
Made me shudder at their greed.
I knew why they had come,
To rob me of all I had.
Life had suddenly become a game
To be played with swords and daggers
The rewards were few
The competition was tough
Everyone was intent on running the race
Only a few would survive at the end.
I sneaked out through the backdoor
And walked away,
Roaming around my favorite town
Under the midnight moon
Burning like a fading lamp.
I looked for some clue to my new life
Built on the skeleton of my bygone days.
The homeless man I passed by everyday,
Sleeping on the pavement smiled
And welcomed me with a cigarette.
The boy who wipes the window of my car
And peddles bestsellers at throwaway price
Came and sat with us chatting.
The milkman got down from his bike
And stopped to share a few jokes.
The drunk with his bottle under the arm
Smiled at me and said
Forget the race of life Sir,
Noone wins at the end
Yesterday was an illusion,
A mere today in hiding
Soon today will pass into oblivion.
The stars will fall into the empty desert
The burning moon will turn cold
The arrogant sky will collapse like a tent
The clouds will melt like leftover ice cream
All your hopes will catch fire,
Your smiles will burn to a cinder,
Only your forlorn shadow will go
With you to the grave
To be buried forever.
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 . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. 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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