Literary Vibes - Edition CXXXVII (26-Jan-2024) - POEMS & Book Reviews
Title : My Mindscape (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 offering to you the 137th edition of LiteraryVibes. It’s a wonderful compilation of beautiful poems, entertaining stories and interesting anecdotes. We are happy to welcome five new members to our family this time. Ms. Devapriya Moyra, a young, bubbling student from Diamond Harbour in Kolkata has a strong passion for literature. Her poem in this edition is vibrant and meaningful. Ms. Sreeja Sree from Malappuram, Kerala is another enthusiastic poet whose poems bear the unmistakable signature of genius. Similarly, Shri Jay Jagdev, a senior, established poet from Bhubaneswar has sent me some stunningly beautiful poems. I have selected two poems from this delightful compilation and included them in LV137. Shri Raju Samal from Bhubaneswar is an internationally acclaimed poet whose earliest poems were reviewed by none other than the great Khushwant Singh. Raju’s poem Love in today’s edition is one of the best i have read in recent times. Shri Kishore Kumar Mahanty, a retired civil servant of Odisha, is another prolific poet who has a strong, indefatigable passion for literature. He has been nice enough to contribute four poems and a short story for the 137th edition of LV. Let us wish our new members of the LV family the best of luck in their literary and professional career.
Today’s LV edition is coming out on a momentous occasion when we are celebrating the Republic Day of our great nation. This is the time to remember the unstinted efforts and selfless sacrifice made by our freedom fighters to bring independence to India and her people. The pride we take in being the citizens of a sovereign, secular, democratic republic has been made possible due to the sweat and blood of our illustrious forefathers who fought a solemn, non-violent battle with the British. What unites us today is the spirit of nationalism and a reminder that our hard-fought freedom is precious. I recently came across a story in Internet which filled my heart with joy and pride. Let me share it with you:
THE COST OF FREEDOM……..
(From an Air Force Officer who flew out the Kargil Casualties, The Just Missed Ones, The Injured Survivors..….)
The Unknown Sikh Soldier in the Kargil War
I remember it as if it was yesterday. It was the 23 May 1999, and the Kargil conflict was ongoing, my crew and I were in Awantipur to pick up 24 casualties (20 sitting & 4 on stretchers). The casualties on stretchers were extremely seriously wounded. The age of the passengers ranged between 19-27 years. Some had bullet wounds, where the bullet had gone through and through, but they still had their legs and could sit, stand and walk and so weren’t on a stretcher (I guess, in a strange Army way, making them feel better, that's how the system works, it actually works. I have seen a Gurkha with a bullet wound, helping another Kumaoni who was limping along. It's a system which teaches one to be empathetic towards others). The men who were on a stretcher were the really badly hurt ones, they were those, who had stepped on a land mine and had their legs blown off. A very different sight from those as seen on TV, news videos, moving from wounded soldiers to heavy snowfall in some other part of the world, while people watch eating their dinner, disinterested, barely looking up from their phones. But this was real life. The pain was terribly real. Also, it was not possible to merely change the channel and forget about it.
The aircraft was the workhorse of the IAF, an An-32, it reeked of Savlon and fear. As we waited for the last patient to arrive, I realised that my An-32 also was a micro India. The Naga soldier was seated next to a tall Jat, a Tambi was next to a Maratha, the Rajput was next to the JAKLI, Mahar was next to a tall Guards soldier & the tiny Gurkha next to an equally small and sturdy Kumaoni. All united by shades of Olive Green and the invisible thread of pain from injuries they had suffered on our behalf.
In the ambulance, which was parked just at the edge of the ramp (behind the aircraft), was a Sikh Light Infantry Soldier, he was really young. So young, that his beard had barely started to grow, a mere boy. He had lost both his legs in a land mine explosion. In an effort to distract him, I asked him are you fond of cricket? His eyes brightened up immediately, and he promptly said Yes, Sir. Seeing his response, I addressed all my passengers, (The World Cup was ongoing in England) India is playing with Kenya, and Sachin Tendulkar has scored 140 runs in 101 balls not out. He has helped India reach 329 in 50 overs. Tendulkar has dedicated his innings to his father whose funeral he had returned from the previous day. What do you all think, will we win?
'YES SIR' was the immediate answer, All of a sudden, a Tendulkar Tsunami swept through the aircraft and that ambulance behind it.
Everyone forgot their pain & their injuries. They forgot their predicament, all they could talk about was Tendulkar and his century. Everyone started talking to the person next to him. Everyone broke language, and cultural barriers and, new friendships were instantly formed.
I could see my new young friend in the ambulance, talking animatedly. His eyes all lit up; his smile was ecstatic as he described Tendulkar's shots. His injuries and pain were forgotten briefly. He was happy, all my passengers were happy. For a brief period, everything was the way it ought to be.
Epilogue: When I landed with my passengers in Delhi, I shared the good news with them that we have indeed won the match, far away in England. My young friend, who was on a stretcher strapped securely to the floor, smiled at me. I shook his hand and wished him well. I was relieved it was dark, and he couldn't see my eyes. My crew and I stood behind the aircraft as they disembarked silently wishing them well. It's men like these, the ones who were passengers on my plane, who silently walk away after giving their youth for all of us. They are the ones we owe our freedom to.
Dear Country Men and Women, Freedom doesn't come Free.
You get it for Free because it has been Paid for in Full by the Lives and Blood of our Soldiers.
……………………………………….
What a nice, inspiring story. It is with such touching tales that we pay homage to our Republic on this memorable day. May our Republic live forever, bringing joy and pride to its billion plus people. May Gods in heaven smile upon us and bless us with their benign munificence.
4th January, in the Happy New Year, had dawned for me like any ordinary day. But some strange wind blew during the day and by evening I was a charged person. I had this sudden urge to write a few poems. I sat down and wrote nine of them. With the poems a few mini stories broke upon the shore of my heart and I jotted them down. When I went off to sleep I was in a sort of trance. In the middle of the night a few stories came to me in my dreams. I swiftly got up and jotted them down in a diary, lest I forgot them when I got up. That’s how I also wrote nine mini-stories between 4th and 5th January. The poems are probably nothing great, but they suddenly fall in the category of “spontaneous overflow of emotions recollected in tranquility”. I have therefore indulged in the daredevilry of presenting all the nine poems in today’s edition. My apologies if they disappoint the readers. I have kept the nine mini-stories for LV138.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in LV137 and share them with your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/528 (Poems and Book Reviews)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/527 (Short Stories, Anecdotes and Travelogues)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/526 (Young Magic)
There is a medical related article by the prolific gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/525
A happy reminder to all of you that 12 excellent ahort stories published in the Pooja Special of LiteraryVibes in October 2023 can be found at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/507
Hope you remember that all the 136 editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, relax and enjoy the cool touch of February, the sayonara days of winter, till we meet again with the 138th edition of LV on 23rd February.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Friday, January 26, 2024
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A LEXICON SPEAKS
02) Dilip Mohapatra
DEMENTIA
03) Raju samal
LOVE
TEMPLE
04) Jay Jagdev
LIFE
MEA CULPA
05) Sreeja Sree
DIL SE
06) Kishore Kumar Mohanty
DESTINATION
THE SHADOWY TONE
A TRIBUTE TO A ROTARIAN DREAM
IN THE GLORY OF NATURE
07) Devapriya Moyra
RED RESOLUTION
08) Jairam Seshadri
EVERYWOMAN
09) Hema Ravi
UNALLOYED JOY
10) Dr R S Tewari Shikhresh
HEAVEN ONCE LOST...
HAVE AN EAGLE EYE
EMPIRES ARE STILL SUNG
11) Dola Dutta Roy
FLOWERS IN THE DUST
12) Bhagaban Jayasingh
GOPALPUR-ON-SEA: NIGHT
13) Krishna Tulasi
WE ARE THERE FOR YOU
14) Annamalai M
FORGETFULLY, YOURS!
15) Sudipta Mishra
THE MUTE DOLL
16) Setaluri Padmavathi
GRACE
17) Dr(Col) Rekha Mohanty
THE SILENT MELODY
18) Bipin Patsani
IN LOVE WITH A LIE
A POET'S PLEASURE
FIGHT FOR RIGHTS
19) Jayshree Misra Tripathi
EARLY DAWN ON A WINTER’S DAY
A FOUNTAIN PEN
20) Leena Thampi
GOLDEN WOMB
21) Aneek Chatterjee
DAFFODILS AND ROSES
22) Arpita Priyadarsini
S U F F E R I N G
23) Sujata Dash
A WINTER NIGHT
24) Nandini Mitra
WHERE'S THE EXIT ?
25) Priyalakshmi Gogoi.
EMBRACING SCARS
26) Archee Biswal
THE SNOW’S SECRET
27) Ms Gargi Saha
SUNSET AT BOROBUDUR
TOMATOES
THE MIND
28) Mayuri R. Ghorpade
THE GAME CHANGER
MYSELF
29) Shakti Sagar
IMPLOSION
30) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
NINE POEMS WRITTEN ON 4TH JANUARY
RED GULMOHARS
THE MYSTERY
THE JOURNEY
THE FORLORN SHADOW
LONELINESS
LETTERS
A NEW WORLD
THE OPERA
THE LONE BUYER
31) Sukanya. V . Kunju
WINGS OF POSSIBILITY!
32) Kabyatara Kar
DISGUISED EMOTIONS
BOOK REVIEW
01) Hema Ravi
WHEN YOU WALK ALONE
02) Prof. P. Laxminarayana
DAZZLERS
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
IF AT ALL
02) Prabhanjan K Mishra
JAYANTA MAHAPATRA: a poet, and a legend..
03) Dilip Mohapatra
THE ANT AND THE ELEPHANT
04) Snehaprava Das
THE GHOST STORY
05) Meena Mishra
A TALE OF SURPRISES AND REDEMPTION
RURAL ROOTS AND URBAN RHYTHMS
06) Radharani Nanda
THE WINDOW
07) Kishore Kumar Mohanty
O’ TRAVELLER, MARCH ALONG, MARCH ALONG
08) Sukumaran C. V.
SURVIVING THE PEOPLE AROUND
09) Dr Latha Chandran
THE CANDLE THAT LIT MANY
10) Sreekumar T V
MY NAME MY PRIDE
11) Dr.Nikhil M Kurien
PASTED
12) Bankim Chandra Tola
ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING
13) Sheena Rath
HUSHKOO
14) Sujata Dash
MONSOON DIARY: A sweet gesture
15) Ashok Kumar Mishra
BULA
16) Seethaa Sethuraman
MY CHIKKY PAPA
17) Sreechandra Banerjee
ORANGES
18) Gourang Charan Roul
A NOSTALGIC VISIT TO ARKAKSHETRA - KONARK
19) Mrs. Meera Rao
NEW BOOK-EH!
THE FALL
20) S. Anand
KAIVOPUISTO
21) Nitish Nivendhan Barik
LEAF FROM HISTORY: A GARDEN THAT BEARS..
22) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
IT'S ALL IN THE MIND, SWEETY!
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Anura Parida
THE HAPPY MAN
02) Trishna Sahoo
JAI SHREE RAM
03) Aranya Pattnaik
BIRDS AND BEES
PAINTINGS
POEMS
He runs to me, ruffles my pages,
I lie lethargic, contented
under his fingers. He smiles
to find gems strewn
among the pebbles on my beach;
goes thoughtful, picks up a pebble.
He weighs the pebble against the gems,
decides in the former’s favour; drops the gems
back into me, one by one, perhaps, to choose them
some other time to craft a crown.
The gems do not understand his love
for their worthless peer over them, the non-sparklers.
I cringe back when he doubts
his own grammar, looks at me. I let him know,
“I am only a bay, I swing day and night,
throwing up my wealth – my debris,
fluids, my burps, and belches. I pause,
I rush, rise on crests, go down on troughs.”
I invite him to choose his choice,
create his own world of syntax and diction,
his makes and breaks. “Be
the creator of a new texture”, I tell him,
“Sorry, I am no God, not even a god of small things.
But be one, my boy, a god of words.”
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.
I look for my reading glasses
can't find them
where I left them last.
I look under the folded newspaper
behind the dusty books
lazing on the table
and then you tell me
that I was holding it
in my left hand
all along.
I gently rest my head
on the soft and fluffy pillow
drenched with yesterday's
dreams
that exude a
familiar fragrance
which I cannot figure out.
May be it was the
scent of your silent smiles
or the jasmines that
you wore on your hair.
As I lie on the bed
with my eyes vaguely transfixed
on the shadows of the
window bars
fanning out on the white ceiling
and threatening to throttle me
I hear a faint and seemingly
intimate melody
wafting in from a far off land
and I try to recall
the name of the singer
I rack my brain
but all in vain.
No
I don't remember
how did your lips taste
and how did I
make sense of
the satiny touch
of your fingers
doodling nonsensical figures
on my bare back.
I don't recollect
when your tears
and mine
converged into a confluence
and our combustible breaths
combined to catch fire
and leap into flames.
I have ambled a long way
may be to the point
of no return
and as I try to look back
at the fuzzy and puzzling
chiaroscuro
of the wake left behind
I find my senses
numb and lobotomised
and my memories
maimed
mutilated
and mummified.
But on second thoughts…
Why should I even care
for my past that is erased
from my memory
why should I bother
to return to the pages
that I have read already…
Let me live my life full
in the present
despite the inabilities
and inadequacies
of senility
which have surreptitiously
crept in
despite a weathered face
that stares back at me
from the mirror…
Let me burn all my memories
to cinders and then to ashes
and scoop them up
to seal them in an urn
and bury them deep
never to be dug again…
Let me pull up my stockings
and put on my hiking boots
for I am not done yet
I still have a lot to do
and cover the arduous terrain
ahead of me
with the same energy
and enthusiasm
that has brought me along
so far
since I still am someone
to reckon with…
and still I do matter!
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and anthologies worldwide. He has seven poetry collections, one short story collection and two professional books to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He the recipient of multiple awards for his literary activities, which include the prestigious Honour Award for complete work under Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020. He holds the honorary title of ‘Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture’. He lives in Pune and his email id is dilipmohapatra@gmail.com
If I would have loved
a little more
than you had expected of me
or if you would have expected
a little less
just a little less than I had loved you
the heaven
would not have gone back
to the sky
As I come out of the temple
after a prayerful session
cry of beggars
moves me into compassion
thus my hand
goes on searching
for the lowest denomination
in my pocket
Raju Samal is an international award winning poet. He writes both in Oriya and English. He is M.A.in English Literature from Ravenshaw College. He has five volumes of poetry in Oriya and four volumes in English. He is a visiting Faculty to Mumbai University. He retired as General Manager from The New India assurance Company . Mob.no.9029970144 ,email rajusamal007@yahoo.co.in
Oh void! You are so strong;
Licking my wound you got inside,
And made your own space with the help of a hammer.
You tasted the red and fetched the black up,
You made me hollow to make me feel spacial
Oh void! You are so strong.
While sitting with baba,
When the silent pond
Makes the portrait of the red moon
Sailing in the dark sky
He asks me to do
To work upon the half done work of him
And that resolution must fill you.
But it still empty, hollow, blank
And the void! Whick is so much strong.
Ms. Devapriya Moyra is a young, enthusiastic student of English Literature from Diamond Harbour, Kolkata. She is quite passionate about literaure, reading poems and short stories from all over India with a rare devotion. Her favourite is the Nobel Laureate Rabindra Nath Tagore whose poetry, stories and novels have inspired Devapriya to indulge in literary pursuits.
The scent of earth when touched by the first drop,
The pain it causes when they sum up.
The smell of a baby and the giggle which follows,
The silence of ecstasy and the noise of loss.
The more you need the more it keeps,
The less you want the more it gives.
I am searching for life not heeding the meaning,
So many have done that and so will many.
Life as I see, you may differ,
To me it’s living not achieving any.
Life I know is unsure, fluid, and hot,
Hence, I’d decide to keep my mouth shut.
Got to keep swimming to stay afloat,
As there is none to pick me onto their boat.
Whatever happened though wrong, I own,
And wish this is repeated by no one.
All can infer liability per capita,
The least I can say in silence - Mea Culpa.
Jay Jagdev is an entrepreneur, academic and author. He is a popular blogger and an essayist. His foray into poetry is new. His essays are regularly published in Odishabytes and his poems on life and relationships have been featured in KabitaLive.
He is known for his work on sustainable development and policy implementation. As the President of the Udaygiri Foundation, he works to preserve and develop native language, literature, and heritage by improving its usage and consumption. More can be known about him on www.jpjagdev.com
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
Harping on my heartstrings I sang
Stories of my scorching pains
Poems on the sweet memories around them
Setting them to rhythms winds beat
On sleepless nights,
Those songs lay on my bosom
And their melodious luminance
Soothed my sorrow-laden heart
O, my heart, my dear harp
sing on, more and more songs
From the valleys of my soul
Let my mind fledge
And fly everywhere
Fill everything
With notes, melodies and ragas
Mrs. Sreeja Sree from Kattuppara, a village in Malappuram, Kerala, India, is a multi-talented mother. She writes, composes, sings, illustrates, and makes her living as a dance teacher at her own dance school, after teaching herself classical dance forms like Bharatanatyam which is almost impossible to learn on one's own.
Oh moon
my placid moon
your halcyon looks
reflecting the glory
of the dew-drops
that trickle down
on the rosy cheeks
only to be swallowed
by the hungry lips.
Oh moon
my chum, my undying flame
don’t dare to disturb me
such tranquil hours, and
for heaven’s sake
don’t wink at me.
Do you then scoff at me,
my helplessness,
my inability to feel you,
to touch you
perhaps you don’t understand
how I can transcend
the natural barriers,
cross-over the hurdles,
and once I come,
you are then lost in my cuddle.
You will then try
to wriggle out desperately
though you know,
the warmth of Union is
something long-cherished,
smacks of celestial
togetherness.
The cool beam
gets warmer gradually
kindling the hidden desire
that goes to explode.
This is the ultimate
that, my moon you know;
yet, you and me
all pine for the moment
when time stares
as only a mute spectator.
The heart throbs
Lips swell to mumble
Stigmatized concepts
bewilder and bewail
at the unauthorised
ways of lights
peep through
the shutters.
That beaming countenance reflects
Brimming with fidelity and devotion
Again Passionate with bitter feelings
And stealthily from the
pangs of destitution
Takes a ladder of
reinvigoration;
But the future dangles upon
Imperils like a whirl-pool in a
serene bay
Then the rudder-man
with the mast
Leave it to the unknown.
It happens, happens and happens
The womb of time ahead
Is as obscure as cobweb net.
Pantomine gestures
of sculptured people
whisk me away
to the banks of
‘Time’, the theme Immemorial.
Time moves
with excruciating agony
that transforms to ecstacy
with my fantasied dreams
only to be buried under some
stark reality.
Its time to breathe
back to life
to analyse the dreams
that propel me
to float on the clouds
and inhale the sweet aroma
of a starry night.
The pent-up anguish
slowly start melting
I am left to myself
true to myself
a mundane creature
only knows how to dream.
Essentially I am a dreamer
I search for the object
lost in the crimson-red sky
and listen to the
whispering leaves
and ponder over the sparkling
dews on the grass carpet
with vacant looks.
Though it all look pensive
I love to enjoy my existence
and to-day at this moment
carrying the moribund yesterday
to throw at the bay.
Now I dream with a vision
I will then rotate
and rotate to follow my sweet dreams
till I breathe my last
before I can discover the affinity
that binds the God and the Man.
I belong to the breed of home-sapiens
a race so carefully crafted
by the Almighty
to carry His messages
to every door.
Even at this 21st Century
Darwin is still untouchable
as the faith is not shattered
that solemnly declares
I am the descendant of God
not a product of evolution.
Its only because
we live
we let others live!
a bond of humanity,
palpably existing and would
certainly continue to exist
more prominently
as long as
Sun & Moon will be
giving us life and light.
The other day
I had a cat-nap
after a tiring
and sweating out
under the bristling sun
in the month of July,
the month of torrential rain
but now a month of only
unending dry-spell
when the nymphs pray God Indra
being naked in the barren fields
beseeching for rain and rain.
I felt so dejected
plunged in to my bed
and within no time
the slumber caught hold of my
drooping eyes.
Day time reveries
are told to have fantasies
but today I had a
night mare
no rain for years together
only clouds gather
to the delight of everybody
then the delight slowly
diminished to despondency;
the clouds gradually disperse
and the sun appears in its full glow
Months together
such a drama continued.
People only stare at the Sky
a hope is always a hope
to feel the soothing hands of rain.
But alas!
It has become a reality,
monsoon season long since disappeared.
Sun-rays now grow stronger
villagers flock to the ponds
quarrel for a pot of water
as the wells have gone empty
and the rivulets refuse to flow.
An abrupt end to my
horrendous dream
I sat up with a start
ruminated the dream
that engulfed me with the
swealtering heat of the sun.
But Lo!
Its late afternoon
close to evening
a sudden patch of dark cloud
appeared at the north-west corner
cool-breeze is a precursor,
the precipitation follows
I only had my
fixed gaze at the sky
counting minutes and seconds
and sending quick prayers
to Lord Indra
to answer to our supplications
to bring in rain
to give us respite from such a
long heat-wave.
Ultimately the drops of rain
came down slowly but heavily
I looked around
people from their hutments and palaces
coming out in flocks
clasping each other’s hands
start dancing to the tune of rain drops.
I silently paid my obeisance
to the God Nature
but I seem to listen to the
whines of Mother Earth
murmuring to keep the nature
far away from the human
onslaught, the onslaught of modern
day world.
The desolate earth
with bitter winds
wailing around,
bleeding profusely
signalled me
to look at the fast
depletion of green-cover
coupled with vanishing
perennial flora & fauna as
Spectres of eco-disasters
loom large, reminding of another
holocaust.
I Promise to move ahead with my mission
to preserve the planet Earth,
the very lap in which we can safely breathe
and look for enduring solace
for our generations to come.
Kishore Kumar Mohanty is a retired civil servant from Odisha with a strong passion for literature. He loves to write poetry and short stories both in Odia and English. His prolific wrtings have been published in many magazines and newspapers. Shri Mohanty lives in Bhubaneswar.
She has ...
And they are of brass
They clang, even when she's still
You see, she has a thing or three
To prove
To her sibling
To those born related
To the world, to herself.
See, she was alienated
For grace, for good looks
From a young age
Was suspected
Of knowing more of the ways
Than she let on.
They grounded her
Her own kind ignored her
Assigned indifference
As for her talent
She had none
Or so she was told
She lived in number xx
'Number xx Wali' they'd say
To her face!
And so
'Number xx' left her community
Far, far behind
Sought cosmopolitan grounds
Where she identifies with no community
Wears no garment remotely resembling
Her provenance
No mark of religion or ethnicity
She could pass off
As a foreigner
In a dot-sporting
Sari-clad land!
Close your eyes
Hear her speak
The Queen of Buckingham?
Her accent elevates
Those she chooses
With a vengeance
Those who
Feast on her fair skin
Those who, with
Powerful colonial hangovers
To be lucred!
Hangovers inducing
A snapping of fingers Attendants with silver salvers
Held on palms aloft, laden
Scurry toward
She saw!
She salivated!
She embraced!
Became one with those hangovers
Now, after many silvery Moon salvers
She is (some say)
At the peak of her brazen!
Can she be blamed?
Need she be?
Ah! But what potential
All gurgling drainward!
Blame those
Who thought her nocent
When all she wanted
Was a hug
A cone
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.
Let the first rays of sunshine penetrate
through the deep, dark, forest,
Let not hope and optimism dwindle,
be lost in labyrinths,
Let depression and gloom in hearts vanish
when gentle winds caress,
Even if the mind runs as racehorses
Let us hold the reins tight.
As twinkling stars on a clear, moonlit night
merge into the new dawn
As the tiny bud opens, spreads fragrance
without fear or favour,
Let us awake to the chirping of birds
at daybreak; feel revived.
Let the perennial flow of thoughts
scatter, spread divine love
unalloyed, untouched, by spittle of Man...
Let that contagious love permeate
through the dark human minds!
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently
Heaven once lost, can't be regained ,
Despite the same site is sustained .
Once the plinth is shaken
by any means ,
The fort from the ground is shifted to screens .
Let's venture to retain the original paradise
Of oneness, free from
matrix of surmise .
The life devoid of love ,lost in fire and fury ,
Snatches away all peace, pleasure and perry.
Better retain the blessed heaven of affinity
To make your castle of life a model of eternity .
Hold the finger and show the pole star,
Let them swim, delve deep and dive afar .
Have an eagle eye not to let them sink
Into the ocean of frivolous
fancy pink .
Make them realise the difference between confidence and over
confidence ,
And also between being zealous and having
resistance ,
While stepping and striving towards the goal
With a measured motion and
unprecedented sail .
The journey of estates and empires is so cumbersome
That only a few could withstand amid the tide so awesome.
Proved they valour and valocity in all ups and downs,
Resisted against all atrocities crumbling towers and towns .
They made history leaving their footprints on the sand of times,
Their estates and empires are still sung in songs and rhymes .
Come ! Come! Dear Young Ones !
This is your turn and time ,
Be up and up ,make your own castles and forts with chime .
Fear not ,face ,fight and be ready to go till the bitterest end ,
Measure between the earth and the sky, making a new empire and trend .
This is the only time for you to prove your vigour and potential ,
The time once gone, won't
give you its right arm to prove your credential.
Dr R. S.Tewari 'Shikhresh' is a retired Assistant Director(O.L.)from Govt of India ,awarded by Honourable President of India,Honourable Governor of Uttarakhand and U.P.,Honourable State Home Minister (Govt of India) for commendable work in Official Language of the country is an M.A.( English Literature ,Hindi Lit. Philosophy ),PG Dip.(Translation and Journalism )and Ph.D.in Philosophy of Religion ,
Dr Tewari to his credit has 23 books of English verses,Hindi verses,books on Official Language and English Grammar.He has delivered more than five hundred lectures in various workshops on various topics.He has written more than a dozen of reviews of books in Hindi and English. Having started his career as an English teacher ,Dr Tewari worked as a Translation Officer, Hindi Pradhyapak and Assistant Director (Official Language) in Income -tax Dept.He has also served as a Consultant, Officilal Language and Communication in a training Centre of the ministry of MSME.
He has also worked in the Departments of Philosophy and Journalism in Agra University as a visiting faculty for a short span. Presently, he is a Visiting Faculty in the distance cell of D E I Deemed University, Dayalbagh ,Agra (UP),India.
The girl stood still for a moment.
The capricious street lights
Flickered in her eyes,
Quivering in shame.
She felt the rain
slide down her frail frame.
In rivulets,
Washing away the sins of a souless moron.
Like a shadow,
She moved just a little,
Muffling her fears
And strangling her dreams.
Hovering between Delusions and threats --
On thorny paths ahead,
She whimpers a little.
She knows, there'll be no candles burning
on street corners
for her.
No slogans,
No justice,
No hope to retrieve
Her honour.
Children born out of lust,
Simply just languish
In the dust
To sink into oblivion,
For she's no one but
A faceless n nameless street child.
Dedicated to all the street children the world over
Born in Kolkata, I have had the privilege of being raised in a cosmopolitan environment embracing all cultures and beliefs. Graduating from Calcutta University with Honours in English Literature and then finishing my Master's in the same from Jadavpore University, I took up teaching as a profession.
My teaching experience extended to teaching English in Iran after which I moved to the USA for furthering my studies. Subsequently, I taught English Language at Claremont University in Southern California.Returning to India, I joined the world of Advertising with JWT, a leading Ad Agency in the country. Now that I'm retired, I pursue my passions like painting, writing fiction and poetry and have authored 3 books of fiction on social anomalies and human relationships.
A slip of the midnight moon
descends on the sea when
the sea like an adulteress
embraces the sea beach
as though under the spell of a dream.
Solitude clasps the seaside homes
along the beach
when Gopalpur is asleep
like the silence between the sea shells
drifting in the wind.
The night as it slowly passes
stirs up many a memory
flashing through the waves and stars,
and flushed by the moonlight the rain of mist
greets the city on its deserted streets.
The other day I came to Gopalpur
The sea was full, the waves beat
against my face touched by
the story a fisher woman, her
lost husband and a son in his teens.
Today as I visit the city again
I can hear the cries of the woman
as the sea wind blows through
the cracks of rocks with the smell of fish
Night lingers on the beach
lit by the hermit crabs
loitering in the sand.
It's time to move
from one cemetery to the other
and try to find solace among the faces
which were never mine
Gopalpur may not offer me a spoke
of love which I craved all my life.…..
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.
She said,
"Fly, fly away throwing the pain
Soar high, be happy
For the world in here is not
Smile, with ecstasy
Be smiling all along
For the world in here is not
I look around, searching for you
Pretending you are here
Life is not as easy as we think
I wish I had the strength to breathe through this
Swallowing all the pain
For how long can I stay
It's midnight, and the hours pass
I feel like I lost a friend
Not just an ordinary friend
I grew with you since I was born
It's always been you
What can I do?
That's how it works, doesn't it
That is the system
You had to go
I had no choice
I can't stop time
That's it"
She sobbed after this. Then out of nowhere, her other family members came walking towards her. They all consoled her.
I went near her, held her hand and said,
"Every step she will take now
Will be a beautiful one
God will bless her
Everywhere she goes
With a smile like that
The world will melt
There will be a day
She will come back to you
So take the positive light
Take a refreshing breath
Breathe in, breathe out
And close your eyes
'Does she appear?
Is she happy?'
She obviously will be
We are there for you
We will try to fill that gap
Even though we know we can't
But you can share anything
Ask us whatever you want
Even if it's a deep tight hug,
We are there for you"
She then smiled. That same beautiful smile which her mother had.
Krishna Tulasi is an ardent fan of reading and writing. She believes that a true writer comes from the heart, not from their words. Completely drowned in the love of literature, she has written many poems, many of which are about herself and her personal life, but a few of these are about her thoughts about the society and how she views it differently. She believes that, via writing, she can reach out to people and that can make the world a humane and a better place
“Blow, Blow thou winter wind,
Thou are not unkind,
As (wo)man’s ingratitude”
- Shakespeare, ‘As you Like it, Act V, Scene (VII) Lines 174-177
Blizzard of thy kisses strike still hard;
Leaving Jack Frost by frost on my face hard.
Slurry of thoughts spark as we scaled Alps of love
With a single anorak snugging tumid and hard.
Winterish whispers off’r mild scented tress spread
(Those) Scenes of December days believe to hard.
Bagatell things of Zilch roled amidst us
Take new forms of muse to delight cool hard.
Stays thy frame in the icicle cave dark
Flash as grass of winter’s grace not so hard.
Eyes Flutter like snowflakes: winter’s butterflies
How would I dumb that glimpse – a job too hard.
Your sweet song on those mid-winter nights heard
And turns my this-day’s-heart that is stony hard.
Thy statue of snow melted by my love’s huge heat
That was a boon to weep at times rough hard.
Hainteny excerpts of poem that your moves write
Shower featherly flakes of cold warmth, but hard.
Fire of love that feeds on winter cold burns
Off thy bosom maims my soul to bid crack hard.
With dress-elegant Ambolo silk struts you sway
Umpteen ice-needles spear at my soul deep hard.
Thy hostile hot sun has shriveled my tulip
Groves that yearn for your chilly smack profoundly hard.
Indurate icy rocks fail to compete
The scorn and disdain you shed loose rock hard.
Cold and chilly fang reign your churlish look
That loud push’d me far away to resume hard.
Like snow-heaps buried the treasure of love sank I
With the heavy thoughts and feels kept in dire hard.
Annamalai M is from Erode in Tamil Nadu. Worked in the state electrical utility . Possesses master degree in English literature . Member of Chennai Poets circle . Had written poems in Tamil and in English. Fond of travel .
There was a doll, so beautiful
pretty eyes and lovely lips
Then came a man
Master in the art of ventriloquism
He played with the poppet
The dummy obeyed its master
Everything went well
The magic was lauded by all
The roly-poly toy became everyone's favorite
In the World of Deception,
The doll played so well
It swayed with the blowing air
Never did it disobey the commands
It rose to fame
With golden wings
To touch the sky
Suddenly the strings were cut
The master died
Now, the doll was in foul hands
The dumb doll failed to listen to the multiple voices
Nobody loved the voiceless, poor fellow
Now, the mute doll is left in a glass case
With drooping eyes,
it greets everyone at the doorstep
Nodding its head in a slightly tilted face!
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.
Let your cheerful smile show
All your hidden feelings
You wear a smile on your lips
In ups and downs and journey!
Work pressure, weary survival
Challenges numerous on the way
You bravely tackle one by one
Adversity is not a fate, it’s a gate!
You attract people with a smile,
Smile that is friendly and confident
They read your face through a smile,
Smile that connects you and them!
Your childish smile brings innocence
An annoying smile hides your love
An affectionate smile gets you a fortune,
A fortune that helps you have hope!
No age bar to smile, smile, and smile
As it enhances your facial charm
An infectious tool for friends and family,
who truly enjoy your gracious appearance!
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
You don’t need to shut yourself
inside the darkness
of a closed door,
To be buried down under
a spiralling pressure,
To be destined to suffer….1
There is a way out,
Break the walls and door,
A new arena you enter,
That is open and bright,
You are delighted and surprised,
The seeds you buried
beneath the dark soil
have germinated
to kiss the light…2
It’s time to plant these
saplings every where,
sprouted out of
your dreams and feelings,
To sing the tune with
your heart and soul,
The purple creeper grows steadily and serenades,
The tender wiry tendrils embraces,
You together start singing
the sweet melody
along with the magic
of transformation,
What a wonderful
experience of liberation!
You lock the sorrow for ever,
It dissipates to disappear….3
Col( Dr) Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College, Cuttack, Odisha and she has spent most of her professional life in military hospitals in peace and field locations and on high altitude areas.She has participated in Operation Vijay (Kargil war)in 1999 and was selected for UN missions in Africa for her sincere involvement in crisis management of natural calamities in side the country and abroad where India is asked to do so in capacity of head QRT in Delhi for emergency medical supplies.She had also participated in military desert operation.
’ Op Parakram’ in Rajasthan border area.After relinquishing Army Medical Corps in 2009,she worked in Ex Servicemen Polyclinic in Delhi NCR and presently is working in a private multi-speciality hospital there to keep herself engaged. Her hobby is writing poetry in English and Odia.She was writing for college journals and local magazines as a student in school.
Being a frequent traveler around the world,she writes travelogues.The writing habit was influenced by her father who was a Police Officer and used to write daily diary in English language he had mastered from school days in old time.Her mother was writing crisp devotional poems in Odia language and was an avid reader of Odia and Bengali books.Later her children and husband also encouraged.
Dr Rekha keeps herself occupied in free times for activities like painting, baking and playing card games the contract bridge. She is a genuine pet lover and offers her services to animal welfare organisations and involves in rescue of injured stray dogs.Being always with pets at home since early childhood ,she gives treatment to other dogs in society when asked for in absence of a vet.She delivers talks on child and women health issues to educate the ladies in army and civil.
After sad demise of her husband Dr( Brig)B B Mohanty in February 2023,she devoted more time to writing and published her first poetry book’Resilient Leaf’in August 2023.Since then there is no stopping and she is going to publish her second book of poetry soon. She enjoys reading E magazine LV , newspaper current affairs ,writing poetry and watching selected movies whenever she gets time.She keeps travelling places of interest in between for a change which is a passion as a girl since days roaming with parents and siblings .Her motto is to be happy by giving the best to self and to the society.She is lucky to have a supportive family.
Lies are built so beautifully
that we fall madly in love with one such
so much so that it becomes incredible
to imagine life without it.
The sweet pain of separation
and the romantic anguish
becomes an obsession.
So anything adverse, iconoclastic,
makes us immensely intolerant
with the fear of being deprived
of the fanciful world of festivity.
The literature, built walling the lie around,
becomes so compelling,
so massive, magnetic and sensitive
that any question, any change of perception
seems to be despicably unimaginable.
So lives the lie and its mysteries multiply,
while all its lovers and those disapproving,
all die, with a difference though,
giving rise to millions of such lovers and lies.
Let poetry remain
the celebration of spirit
and evolution of the soul
for a more tolerant
and beautiful world
where all can live together,
feel free and breathe in peace
with mutual acceptance,
love and good will.
If it be the projection of the ego,
and dumping others,
not letting them rise up if they fell,
not allowing others
to live the life of their choice
and not allowing them to stay
a little happy and smile,
let me not write at all.
(Dedicated to Dr Prabhat Patnaik,
the brilliant JNU Professor from Khordha)
For their basic rights
they did fight;
not for the supremacy
of a class, caste or community.
In fighting for salt,
they fought for their dignity.
With intense passion, great hope
and immense trust they fought
that there would be no more loot
of public money, no waste of labour,
no authoritarian rule and atrocity,
no repetition of famine and poverty.
They fought for freedom
of choosing their fate,
they fought for liberty,
not in favour of a King’s Crown,
nor did they fight to reestablish
another kind of colonialism
of a homegrown group to frown
at them and be above people,
the ordinary common men
reducing, on the contrary, to slaves
of their clumsy isms.
They fought that they would get work
and live with self respect,
not on sycophancy and charity.
Strangely enough,
Nationalism these days is seen as
the slavish obedience to a few,
not as it in disagreement to the system grew.
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.
My palms were white
that cold winter’s day.
I glanced from my window
at the fog, our society
shrouded in bleakness.
The twilight zone.
Eerie stillness, interrupted
by the sudden wails
of stray dogs in the bitter cold;
Humans on the streets
cannot howl -
unless run over
or trampled upon.
And so we live our lives -
in hope and pray
Please, a kinder, gentler dawn,
for the underprivileged,
the Unknown.
The notebook is open
at the page, with scribbles
in cursive writing.
Was I checking the nib –
thick or thin?
Or the ink –
indigo or Royal Blue?
I cannot recall, alas,
in this elusive twilight zone.
Bemuses with its puppetry.
Illusions of ancient poets,
a few contemporary,
some Insta ones too,
invade my Mindscape.
I close my eyes
to separate their verses,
words that echo mine -
I must compose my own ,yet
I know – the Universal Truth,
It has all been said before !
Dare I try to join their Circle?
Jayshree Misra Tripathi has been a consultant, educator and examiner in English Language and Literature, for the Diploma of the International Baccalaureate Organization. She worked in print media in the late ’70s and ’80s in India. Having lived in diverse cultures for over thirty years with her late husband, a career diplomat in the Indian Civil Service, her short fiction and narrative verse dwell upon journeys through the diaspora, highlighting women's 'voices' and cross-cultural conversations. Her books include Trips and Trials, What Not Words, Two Minute Tales in Verse for Children Everywhere, Uncertain Times and The Sorrow of Unanswered Questions. Online blogs are on Huffington Post India Archive and News 18.She includes her maiden surname in her writing, as the eldest of five daughters.
My poems often wander in the womb
Like a baby searching for her exit numb
Opened my eyes to witness my first God
Divine dialect ,a sacred abode
Why do we learn our mother tongue before any other?
Cause the first voice that we hear is that of a mother.
I carried an ocean inside my heart
No metaphors can pour it out right
Words will not do justice describing her worth.
Do we stop loving the ocean after we leave the beach?
She's the ultimate truth this vast universe preach.
Keeping each beat steady through the rhythm of life
She turns chaos into beautiful magic
Where healing and bliss play ultimate logic
Learned from her that forgiveness is a blessing
She's the fragrance after the rain caressing..
She's blood,audacious strength,and bonfire,
The fierce love that teaches resilience rare,
I wish and pray she never grows old
She's moulded with a heart of pure gold.
She's that all in one, omnipotent force
Everything that's visible and invisible at source,
The universal power that meets you in the womb,
She's my medicine,my elixir my prayer
A trillion roses endlessly flying in the air.
As I scroll through the gallery of memories
I realize how difficult it is to be a mother,sans worries
Can't afford to lose a priceless gift
So never ever try to make a rift
She's the answers to my questions
She is the travelogue of life lessons.
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 four books to her credit -"Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze" , An Allusion To Time' and Embers to Flames.
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,Relationship and life coach,specialised in child psychology.She is also a dancer and actor. She is currently working on her fifth book which is a collection of short stories.
With the strong wind
my curtain flew outside
and grew daffodils, roses.
Since childhood I planted
myriad flowers in my
clandestine garden. Without
any nourished soil, they never
bloomed. Now I look at daffodils
and roses through a lovely,
naked window, for
long clothed in obscenity.
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, 2022). A nominee for the prestigious Pushcart Prize, Dr. Chatterjee received the “Alfredo Pasilono Memorial Panorama International Literary Award 2023”. 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
It's been years
Since I last wrote on suffering
Or I've just ignored feeling it for so long
That a part of me
Feels like home
When it comes back
Every now and then
I think about the times
I've made myself sleep
To the dreams of only waking up
And not collapsing once again
I've left practising poetry
From the day I've felt
It not only amplifies
But also creates chaos
And I'm already a mess
But today
It's different
I feel nauseated
And a part of me wants to run
From the place
That I once considered home
Yet got trapped in
With no way out
I've become my own enemy
Running back to the same thing
That has tore me apart time and again
I look for a single ray of hope
That oozes out from the cracks
That once oozed pain
I'm no more a stranger
But an unwanted guest
In my own home
I may run
I may stay
I may care
As if I didn't die
But the truth that I know
That how it's not what it shows
But what it doesn't
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.
It was a snowy winter night
I distinctly remember
the atmosphere was agog with
zest and mirth
for new year was round the corner
In the gentle grasp of
romance and love
layers of anticipation were melting
palpating boundless horizon
bursting with zeal and hope
frozen desires too thawed
in the lap of exaltation
bonhomie gathered its shards
to reaffirm a cozy affair
fun, food and shaking legs
took us to a new zenith
as an aftermath
time stood still
as we draped each other
in endless rounds of giggles and laughter
we continued with
the overdose of fun and frolic
It was past midnight,
but no one was sleepy
there was a sudden thud
akin to a thunder
we rushed to the spot to ascertain the cause
grandpa had lost senses
after slipping from steps
a doctor was ushered in
to examine his plight and state
a pall of gloom descended
when the pronouncement came
he had breathed his last
without much suffering and distress
we were aghast with the harsh knock of fate
the night left a deep scar in our psyche
each time winter's chilling breeze
seduces my numbed soul and being
I am chaperoned by
memories of grandpa's lullabies
a noble and profound soul he must be!
who relished conversation with self
in the hush of night
was equally at ease with
life's raucous squalls and vile meanderings
wish...i could imbibe a speckle of his ethics.
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.
Who's fighting against whom?
And why?
They say it's a clash to attain sovereignty for people,
Over dead bodies,?
People sigh, people cry,
What a pity!
Visuals on television freeze my mind,
I'm unable to understand why we are trying to justify
Who's wrong, who's right?
The agony,
Ripples of fear
Bring down a curtain of smoke
That weaves a tale of despair
To be told through generations.
Under a dark sky I sit alone,
Countless prayers pour in
From the bottom of my heart ,
Let this brutal violence come to an end.
Far ,far ,far away balls of fire
Go high up in the air,
Only destruction one can see everywhere,
Air-raid sirens sound across the land ,
Terror strikes again and again
And the brutal retaliation ,
So shocking!
Where's The Exit?
Peace laughs like a monster,
Sitting in our cosy corners do we feel happy?
It's not 'us' , it's ,'them' ,
My mind puzzles,
It baffles me,
I fail to understand why we are trying to justify
Who's wrong, who's right?
Where's The Exit?
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.
Our scars are proof
of how often
we have been wounded
to remind us our strength
Of surviving through
each wound like a warrior.
Scars make the whole of us
Without them we have
not lived life to its fullest.
It is through these scars
that the light sneak in
enlightening us.
Let's embrace them.
Remember, the strongest souls
come wrapped in scars.
Making our lives worthwhile,
they remind us that we had healed
and we still can move on.
Priyalakshmi Gogoi from Guwahati, Assam is a teacher by profession and a poet by passion. She has been writing since her school days and her poems have been published in popular newspapers in her city. Her poetry has seen the light in blogs, Instagram, editorial, e-magazines and she has co-authored few national and international Anthologies. She has been awarded several times for winning Poetry contests in various literary platforms. She is a World English Saino Writer and a Gogyohka writer as well.
She has been awarded the 75th Independence Day Literary Honor 2021 and India Independence Day Global Literary Honours 2021-22 jointly given by Motivational Strips and Gujarat Sahitya Academy in "Recognition of Exhibiting Literary Brilliance Par Global Standards". She has also been conferred with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Honour, 2022 by Motivational Strips and Dept of Culture, Govt of Seychelles and its journal SIPAY.
She has been awarded recently with The Christmas Literary Honors 2023 on 25th December by Motivational Strips Global Administration for her contribution to world literature up keeping exceptional literary brilliance and sagacity.
The snow is acting like a child today,
Refusing to come out of her hiding place.
How do I ask her to show her face
Can’t she even grant us this much grace?
Shy like a newlywed bride
She came out to meet us
She is so beautiful,
Before you know it she would make you blush.
I couldn’t possibly use one word to describe it,
As then it would be wrong.
Unless of course,
That word was one paragraph long!
She covers and hides,
Like a blanket does.
Providing me with a fuzzy warmth
Despite her cold fingers, many feelings she thaws.
However, something strange happens
Every time she comes down to meet the world.
She falls in love with the warm soil,
Forgets her home is above.
Against destiny she goes,
Her partner she betrays.
She decides that this dirt is what she likes
She regrets being the sky’s bride.
Slowly, secretly, overnight
Making no sound
She confesses to the earth
And becomes one with the ground.
Archee Biswal is from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is currently pursuing MA in Analytical and Applied Economics at Utkal University. Her dream was to be a writer ever since she was 9 years old. Her poems and short stories have been published in various magazines such as Chandamama and Kloud 9. She likes dancing, painting, and playing instruments such as the keyboard and guitar. She speaks 6 languages including German and Spanish, which she learnt while staying in Germany. Her favourite wish is to travel all over the world and collect new experiences.
Borobudur is the largest Buddhist temple in the world
The temple features hundreds of Buddha statues
Decorative relief sculptures and stories from the life and teachings of Gautam Buddha
Amazing sunset is witnessed here
It has a stunning architectural masterpiece
It is a combination of experiences of culture, nature, adventure
Lord Buddha meditating undisturbed
For peace, harmony, compassion,
Buddha's raised spot on the forehead represents a third eye
A sign of spiritual insight
The raised dome on the head
Like a bun, is a symbol of Wisdom
The Borobudur monument is about Buddhist philosophy
And Gautam Buddha's life, death and philosophy
The sunset is a transformation
Into a new realm of life
Nature basks in its marvelous beauty
Of silence, serenity, solace.
Red and green tomatoes
Jiggling on the plate
Jiggling on the plate
O what should I eat with it?
Sometimes I am sliced in sandwiches
Sometimes garnished on the top of the dishes
Sometimes smashed to prepare sauces, chutneys
Delicate darling plump present in most savouries
Sometimes the tip of the hat
Sometimes looked down dustbin disdainfully
So is a man's life
With ups and downs, happiness, and strife
Red and green tomatoes
Of two primary colors, reflects their uniqueness
I protect the brain and heart health
Reduce the risk of cancer
I am loaded with vitamins A, C and K
Wishing humans a long , healthy and peaceful life
Don't forget to include me in your diet.
The mind wanders like the air
Sometimes here, sometimes there
Trespasses all layers
Knows no color
Can make a heaven or hell here
It can be far or near
Difficult it is to get back home
Wanders through hills, forests, deserts, valleys
Oceans, coninents, nations
Minds can be peaceful or violent
Minds can be bossy or submissive
Can we tame the mind to reach the pinnacle?
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.
It is he who changes the game
Where others fail to.
People always fall prey
to beautiful faces
but he knows the reality.
He is the leader.
He is a chariot;
who plays a vital role
in the event's grand success.
He who loves
all his team
and shapes them
in a beautiful collage
sometimes scolding &
many a times
being a bacon light.
It's not only about the success
but being away from
all the worldly desires.
And, it's difficult too.
I feel he is a true leader
and a game changer too
as he knows when
to use his master card
where all others fail.
He is a real game changer
Who has perfect
presence of mind
and ability to
divert his team's mind
for being more focussed
and fetch success.
Yes, he is the game changer...
No one can ever understand real Me;
Eventhough people around raised query..
They think of her as a very stubborn lady;
But; always fail to realise the mess they all created already..
Never she let her allowed to express herself easily;
As she always believed no one could realise her existence freely..
She always preferred to protect her beloved ones;
never she made difference in friends and family..
She thought all are human beings afterall;
But, failed she to realise the ways of the world overall..
Silly she always thought of everyone and everything;
But never she received the same attention eventhough being deserving..
Loving and caring she had always been;
But people around always called her mean..
The glamour and fame never last long;
She always believed in to get along...
People around easily thought;
She was always dependent..
Now when she decides to be independent;
It's her own people nicely call her arrogant..
When she preferred to smile at each one she came across;
She was labelled as she was luring the people across..
Never could understand her deep feelings;
Such people always claimed right over her earnings.(Her character, her morality, her success, her achievements...)
Mrs. Mayuri R. Ghorpade.is working as an Asst. Teacher in junior college section of Lala Lajpatrai College of Commerce and Economics, Mahalaxmi. Mumbai. Her area of specialization is Language Learning and Teaching. She has been in the field of education since last 13 years. Writing is her passion and she is passionate about growing in the field of linguistics as well as literature in near future. Apart from her passion she loves to listen to music.
its under clear dustless skies
that they gather here
on my terrace
with their strong stomachs
and brave minds
they create dreams
and nightmares
some have blades
up their sleeves
to rip impossibilities open
and some with extra sleeves
shroud sins
they built sea link
they built the berlin wall
they built opera
they built the colosseum of war
they made people
and buried them beneath the great wall
they are brilliant
brilliant men
briliant women
brilliant beggars
briliant gamblers
brilliant nobodies
there's enough brilliance in them
that you would not care
there's enough brilliance in them
that you would just
pass by
their hearts are young
brains are naive
and livers are fountains
fountains of wisdom
that implode
only on these
clear dustless nights
Shakti Sagar Srivastav is pursuing a master's degree at IIT Bhubaneswar, delves into the intricacies of Earth's climate system, exploring its evolution over time and the intricate interplay between the atmosphere and the ocean. Alongside his scientific pursuits, a profound passion for poetry resonates within him. With over 50 poems to his credit, he nurtures his literary inclinations amidst his academic endeavors. Notably, he contributed as an Assistant Writer to the acclaimed Crime and Mystery Flipkart Video Webseries, "Kaun Who Did It?", which garnered significant popularity, earning an IMDb rating of 7.2 across three seasons that he penned. His literary influences encompass a broad spectrum, with John Steinbeck's "Cannery Row" holding a special place as his favorite novel. Among poets, his admiration extends to the works of Charles Bukowski, Edgar Allan Poe, and Agha Shahid Ali.
MY NINE POEMS WRITTEN ON 4TH JANUARY
RED GULMOHARS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
It was another nothing day
Yet somewhere he felt
Her living within him
Like the flicker of a candle
A perfumed one with memories
Of lush green trees in bloom
The red Gulmohars that refused to wilt
Promising a red sky that never fades
Not even when the sun is overhead
Spewing angry, molten heat.
It will accept defeat at the end
And will set, shedding frustrated tears.
The lone man will return
To his solitary den
His shadow clinging to him,
She will be still within him
Asleep, like a fairy in languid dreams
THE MYSTERY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
When the movie ended
with the death of everyone
who was meant to die
And with the screams of everyone
who was prone to scream
at the events of life.
The man and woman walked away
holding each other’s hand
Yet the many mysteries of life
remained unentangled
like little threads gone crazy,
like unruly feet dancing on supine streets
As they reached the small crossroad
Shadows calling from all sides,
The streetlights dead for long
Came up in astonished wonder
Saying loudly you can hide from everyone
But you can’t hide from your own self
THE JOURNEY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I watched
as the unseen hand kept flipping the pages
under a sky covered with dark clouds
like an ungainly darkness in the afternoon
hiding the writings on the pages
As the mysterious hand kept moving
I saw many faces flash by
a shadow of fear crossing them
They were like restless travellers
in a train on an unknown track.
It was like a long procession
of people with solemn candles in hand
marching to their graves.
The pages kept turning
like never-to-return passengers.
THE FORLORN SHADOW
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I will keep sitting here
Till someone tells me why I shouldn’t
The new year will come and pass
Ah, it’s but a date on the calendar
I will be looking at it with amused wonder
Why dates are important in our life
Will it matter if I live
For another day, a month or a year?
Will anyone care if I die
Today, tomorrow or the day after
Does anyone know I died
On the last day of the week gone by
And what sits here
Is just my abandoned shadow.
Departure is like an unfaithful lover
Who promises to return but never does
The moments stand still
Waiting for the words to be spoken
The heart suppresses the sighs
The eyes hide an ocean of tears.
Somewhere in the deceptive air
The shadow of false hope lingers
Like the flash of a quick lightning
That dazzles the eyes and fades
Loneliness sits on me like a heap of rubbles
Thrown away by the departed.
Goodbye, dear Post Office
I will not come to you any more
The unsent letters are still buried
In the deep recesses of my bag,
Letters that waited for an address.
Little could you do to open those doors
That my letters could knock at.
Like a weary traveller they waited for
Some light somewhere to guide
Some hand to beckon them.
I am leaving the town tonight
In search of a soul who will see my letters
And with a smile on his lips,
A glint in his eyes, caress them
With the love they have been waiting for.
A NEW WORLD
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
These relics are from a world that is long dead
And a time that was in history
A world where love was returned by love
Happy feelings gave warmth during the long winter
The fires were suffused with scented offerings
Spreading a fragrance as a new meaning to life
That world has been left behind
In search of greater riches, bigger gains
Buildings so big that shadows fail to reach the ground
Egos so high that others look like small flies
The houses dazzle, the eyes are blind
The mind soars, but the soul is dead.
They come, always unexpected
The sensual desires
To flood the heart
with a hot longing.
The spirit soars
In search of dizzying heights
The stars fall unto the palms
The moon wraps herself around the body
The winds break into rapturous songs.
Unknown strangers offer smiles,
And discounted tickets at the opera
The stage is lit with dazzling lights
The dancers, unseen, giggle and whisper
The curtain goes up
The bevy of beauties rise slowly
In sensuous splendour
Life arrives as a bundle of joy
In colourful chocolate wrappers.
THE LONE BUYER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
There is a silent hush
In the market today
Waiting for a lone buyer
Suspense hangs in the air
Like a champion acrobat
Dangling from a high rise pole
The market is awash with colour
Lovely damsels dance in the center
To the beating of loud drums
The lone buyer has fought many a battle
To win the sole right to the market
His footsteps in rhythm with the music
He comes striding, a halo around his head
The crowd gasps in wonder
For the buyer is also a seller,
A seller of dreams, of hopes and of love.
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.
WINGS OF POSSIBILITY!
Sukanya. V . Kunju
Spread your wings,
let your dreams take flight,
In the vast sky of possibility,
reach your new heights.
With faith in yourself and strength to try,
You can touch the stars that light the sky.
Believe in the power of your heart's desire,
Fan the flames of passion ,
set your soul on fire.
For in your dreams and aspirations you will find,
The inspiration to unlock your potential ,
one of a kind.
The possibilities are open in front of us to choose one ; Always dream big,
and don't let anyone limit your dreams because,
the possibilities are endless.
Sukanya. V . Kunju is a postgraduate in English language and literature from St.Michaels College, Alappuzha. Most of her poems have been published in Literary Vibes as an anthology. She is an aspiring poet. She is the co-author of the book Dusk and Dawn.
DISGUISED EMOTIONS
Kabyatara Kar
Emotions are seen when vented.
But what?
When disguised and wrapped to save oneself from the wrath of society.
When invisible as very carefully masked beneath a fake smile to please the world.
When blanketed beneath the darkness of sorrows .
So many years passed and only knows me ....
How I disguised all my pains and sorrows..
Building trust at the stake of such pain ...
And as a heap of sand castle it tossed down and broke me into pieces.
Freedom tied by norms of the ruthless society rules to maintain status of the family.
How shall I bear the grief!!!
So painful is this disguised emotion latent from the World.
O God! Rescue me from these shackles of bondage,which refrains me from portraying my grief..
Relieve me from this breathless life wherein the body remains lifeless.
My soul is bleeding,no red drops seen outside
My head is drooping down each second under the gravity of worries
My heart is aching as the natural pump ceases to function at times.
How do I deal with these excruciating scars of my life.??
Don't I deserve to reveal the disguised emotion
And free myself to build an identity for myself
To construct the foundation of remaining breath on self confidence and determination.
How do I chalk the strategy and pen before Almighty to set myself free from this disguised emotion??
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her familyVision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
BOOK REVIEWS
‘WHEN YOU WALK ALONE’, – A Collection of Poems
Author: Dr. O.P. Arora
Published by Authors Press
ISBN 978-93-5529-945-1
Price: INR 295 $25
STOP, SMELL THE ROSES…
The man who enjoys walking walks further… as he loves the ‘journey’ more than the ‘destination’ – precisely what poet O.P. Arora conveys in his collection of poems ‘When You Walk Alone.’ As poet-critic Bernard M. Jackson alludes in the blurb - there is need for ‘these enlightening souls’ who possess such ‘remarkable insight and glowing integrity.’ Another poetry critic mentions- his ‘poetry is immeasurable.’
It has been a pleasure and privilege to review this poetic collection with seventy-nine poems, which have metrical verses and free verses and this also goes to prove Dr Arora is able to straddle between them with profundity.
‘Man, an angel if he loves harmony,
Nature, bountiful fulfils all his needs.
But, a devil, he chooses acrimony,
Greed and lust, his beastly passions he feeds.’
(p.11 Harmony -Shakespearean Sonnet)
Spot-on! With deep philosophical undertones, his poetic prowess amazes in this Shakespearean sonnet and in the following Petrarchan Sonnet
‘Bravo! The world, amazed, dazed in a swoon –
Strength is in men, you prove, not in machines.
The an has ground the elephant, it screens;
The callous empire bursts like a balloon…’
(p. 12 – Human Spirit – Petrarchan Sonnet)
Accentuating the need for inner engineering, in ‘Temple of the Divine,’ (p. 14) Dr. Arora states:
‘Why pray and seek more, take your spirit’s care,
You, temple of the divine.’
Talking of ‘Man’ (p. 17) as the greatest ‘creation,’ his advice to all is to ‘prosper together, without greed, Why hate, why sift?’ In the contemporary world filled with deceit, dejection, and dissatisfaction, he firmly believes that “small steps” for men can prove to be “giant leaps for mankind.” With much optimism and positivity, he states:
‘Simple beginnings make big moulds
Mirror to such wonders Time holds…’
(p. 20 - The Dawn)
As is Shakespeare’s sonnets, metaphoric use of ‘time, mortality and transience’ is discernable in some poems, which add greater depth; also reveals his scholarly prowess.
His love for nature is aptly revealed in ‘If I were a Bird.’ (p. 26)
‘If I were a bird
heavenward my wings would fly,
kiss the cottony clouds, very nigh,
drink the balmy drops, high, very high..’ (p. 26)
Use of phrases such as ‘absolute freedom,’ ‘demonic destroyers,’ ‘suffering humanity,’ ‘anguished eyes,’ in the same poem juxtaposes independence and servitude with great ease. Freedom from all shackles is his preferred choice as he reveals again with rhyme and rhythm in ‘Ever on the Crossroads.’ (p. 32)
‘Threw out the bags,
got rid of the tags,
felt free and whole
forgot about the hole…’ (p. 32)
His fondness for winged creatures is palpable in a tete a tete with a sparrow that ‘flew down, shook his neck, nodded, sat down…’ (p. 43). In the same poem, ‘Thus Spoke the Sparrow,’ unpleasant truths are voiced with temerity and conviction:
‘Loyalty, nothing sacred, only human hypocrisy,
your wife I find flirting with new men, shamelessly.
perverted, depraved and degenerated morally
your social and economic systems smacks of slavery.’ (p. 44)
Venerable wordsmith Arora presents an “edifying disclosure” of degradation in social values with such clarity, conviction, and candidness; in addition, he offers answers to the rigmarole, filled with ‘staleness, boredom, bitterness, ennui and indifference.’ (p. 65)
‘Life’s uncertainty gives you a mystical lore
you yearn to excel, before you go, still more…’
( p.65 - Transience, Life’s Spark)
‘even our greatest, who were beyond Time’s mace
craved release from the fret and fever of the frames…’ (p. 66)
The phrase ‘release from the fret and fever’ instantly brought along the final ‘wishes’ of Alexander the Great. I want my “physicians to carry my coffin” because people should realize that doctors are also “helpless in front of death.” Secondly, “I spent all my life earning riches but cannot take anything with me.” “Wealth is nothing but dust.” Thirdly, let everyone know that “I came empty-handed into this world, and I will go empty-handed.”
As opposing this, H.W. Longfellow’s psalm comes with a clear message:
“Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!-“
In sync with these great men and several other doyens, Dr. Arora in his inimitable mode of expression brings out the simple truths of life:
‘Nature’s endless churning, birth and death
Planets and galaxies, humans, millions of species
Nature’s cauldron, simmering, boiling, exploding
All transient, nightingale’s song evokes the depth
Everything coming from the Shoonya
Going back into the infinite Shoonya…’
(Shoonya – p. 96)
‘Shoonya’ aka naught has its Biblical connotation in: “and to dust you shall return.”
‘When You Walk Alone,’ in other words, when one introspects and dives deep into the self, subtle truths of life are revealed which encourages man to lead a purposeful life, in harmony with all. As a seeker, I gather this is the underlying message in Dr. Arora’s insightful collection.
Initially, when I skimmed through the pages, I was delighted to find this collection dedicated to Dr. Tulsi Hanumanthu, editor of Metverse Muse, whom Dr. Arora describes as ‘guardian angel of the Structured Verse.’ I second these words wholeheartedly as Dr. Tulsi has been a mentor of sorts in my poetic journey, in fostering my interest in metrical and classical verses. Such ‘Form Poems’ have withstood the test of time and continues to attract a niche audience in a world where free verse aka prose poems reign.
This poetry collection is certain to enthrall the hearts of earnest seekers and poetry lovers.
I recommend you procure your copy today.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. O.P. Arora is an eminent poet, novelist short story writer and critic. Eight volumes of his poems have endeared him to the readers and critic alike. His love for Nature, his penetrating social insight and his philosophical profundity lend a unique charm to his writings. His poems are regular published in the leading national and international literary journals and have been generously included in the prominent anthologies. He is the recipient of many awards and recognitions. Dr Arora has been commended for his insightful and discerning reviews and articles which have appeared in some of the leading journals and critical studies. He holds a doctorate in English Literature from Panjab University, Chandigarh and has been on the faculty of Delhi University for nearly four decades.
Contact: arora.omp@gmail.com
ABOUT THE REVIEWER: Hema Ravi, writer by passion, has had a brief stint in the Central Government; as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades; is currently a freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. She is a poet, author, reviewer, editor, event organizer, independent researcher, and resource person for language development courses. Her articles and poems have been published in print and online journals, won prizes as well. She is the author of ‘The Cuckoo Sings Again’ ‘Everyday English’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3,’ co-author of 'Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ As Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, and editor of Efflorescence, she empowers amateur writers to unleash their creative potential efficiently. As Secretary, Connecting Across Borders, she organizes and coordinates international poetry seminars and panel discussions with eminent personalities.
This short note tries to explore the creative depth and dimensions of Dr Elanaaga’s poetic anthology, ‘Dazzlers.’
Dr Elanaaga dazzles his readers with his profound imaginative vibrancy and vitality. His creativity is replete with tremendous poetic flashes. The bright and brilliant sense of crafting captivates the readers with a new contemplative experience. Each poem is authentically autonomous underlying its own meaning and message. This is a deep emotional intensity that leads us to new poetic frontiers. A wide spectrum of subjects and larger issues of life are brought into focus.
The opening poem, ‘Living Corpse’ both dazzles and induces dread with a shocking exposure of modern man’s condition. The human predicament is unfolded with extraordinary symbolic significance. How man is apparently alive but is inwardly dead? Human senses and the heart are no longer functional. It is a scathing satire on human insensitivity. It reveals a state of awful indifference and apathy towards fellow humans. The first poem reads thus:
Despite having eyes
I can’t see beautiful things
Though I have ears
I can’t listen to sweet notes
I have a heart
But no feelings are born in it
Isn’t a corpse better than me?
There are contemporary cultural inversions of degeneration and dehumanization. Dr Elanaaga superbly juxtaposes two incompatibles to make his point with a greater aesthetic effect.
The second poem is yet another creative piece of genius. A deep undercurrent of irony runs through the poet’s crafting process. In the beginning, the poet builds up a sensible structure and at the end demolishes it with a surprising stroke.
Having become affluent
I tasted all luxuries
But spending a day with a pauper
who is a paragon of virtue
I realized I am the poorest.
In the poem titled The Change, a serious and revengeful man is bent upon putting an end to a proud individual, but the disarming smile of the latter makes him mellowed with love and finally he bows down with a sense of repentance and respect. This is the most moving, creative dramatic episode. How can a smile disarm a killer?! Killing, bloodshed, and hatred are the legacies of the medieval mindset. In the historical process, man has been evolving into an enlightened human being. There are brighter moments of brotherhood and human oneness. The poet is trying to suggest that love alone can save man from total destruction. Swords, revenge, and killings are things of the past. Now, smiles and flowers open up a new world of brotherhood and bonding. Go through the poem:
I ran with a sword in my hand
to chop the head of a haughty man
But moved by his affectionate smile
offered him flowers,
fell prostrate before his feet
and returned.
‘The Fleeting Joy’ is a poem on impermanence. The journey of life is not smooth and easy. A walk on a surface is not soft and comfortable. The travel is totally risk-ridden. It is the most hazardous. We need to trek the tallest mountains and mighty cliffs and confront challenges and setbacks in reaching our destination. Though a mountain appears like a huge obstacle, it is, in fact, symbolically our self-confidence.
I was puffed up with joy
when I reached the land’s surface
from a deep gorge
but soon saddened realising
I have to climb a mountain.
The surface is hard, yet the journey must continue in spite of despair.
Obtrusion is another nice poem’s title. The poet warns us how we should be on our guard in the selection of appropriate words in any creative enterprise or composition. At times, words intrude without our intention. We get lost in the maze of words quite often missing the meaning. The real intent gets either distorted or undermined. A great poet Alexander Pope aptly expresses “Words are like leaves where they most abound. The fruit of thought is rarely to be found.”
The meaning should embody a message without concealing with excess or surplus of words.
Pushing aside the purport
Some words rush obtrusively
to the front in poetry;
Always, such knowledge
should be present in the poet’s mind.
In the poem, “Quality – Quantity,” the poet makes a satirical comment on those who boast of their huge quantity of output. He sensitizes them to be conscious of the quality, not the tons of trash they produce. Shakespeare has written extensively but he is remembered for his famous four tragedies.
Trumpeted a poet thus:
“I penned piles of books.”
Quality, not quality is that counts,
he should realize
A true poet pours out his genuine feelings and infuses his heart and soul into the poetry. Here, Dr Elanaaga’s conception of quality is commendable.
‘Manifestation,’ is a poem with a difference. Here, the poet pays a rich tribute to the role of newspapers. They unfold a wide world before the readers. Otherwise, we get imprisoned in the four walls of our drawing rooms. The newspaper makes us acquainted with men and matters around us; also, the trends and movements of the present times. We step out of our private space and enter into the vast public arena. Further, we reach out to the unknown and unfamiliar remote corners of the world. A newspaper is an eternal theatre of contemporary human drama. In this poem, the poet says
Sitting in a closed room
I opened a newspaper.
The outside world
Lay spread before me.
To write poetry on newspapers is a new adventure and experiment. The men and events are, in fact, a source of very vital information and knowledge.
The Bigger Test: It’s a poem about exams. Writing an exam is a highly testing and strenuous job. It makes us spend sleepless nights. The real test lies in the moments of anxious waiting for the results. According to the poet, it is a test of our patience. During that waiting, we become very nervous and restless with anxiety.
I finished taking my exam
Now preparing for even a bigger test
What is it?
Waiting for the results
Of the exam!
The poet, in his poem Aberrance, attacks the never-ending human greed and ambition. Our desires keep on multiplying. We become materially rich at the cost of losing our inner peace. Most wealthy people are internally sick. More comforts and conveniences never make a man happy and joyful. Today, human suffering and misery are due to hankering after pleasures and positions. Thus, it leads to the ruthless exploitation of the innocent masses. The poet suggests that one should not get entrenched in luxury and comfort. In fact, ‘contentment is the crown of life.’
When I led a pauper’s life
I only wanted food, nothing more.
Now, I have enough food
and lo, my heart is hankering for a bike!
Sacred Sobs: It’s a nice poem of fine sentiments. The poet, in his natural way, gives fine arts a supreme position because they transform individuals into better human beings! They uplift and elevate human consciousness. With poetry and music, man is recreated. Arts and humanity enlarge the bounds of human life. One’s experience and perception of the world get widened. They infuse love and affection into human beings.
Whenever I read sublime poetry, I cried
Whenever I listened to great music, I wept
Whenever I came across humanity personified,
I whimpered
After so many wailings
how sanctified has my heart become!
The fact that this book has brought Ukiyoto’s Poet of the Year award – 2023 to this poet, bears testimony to his imagination and poetry-writing skill. He received the award in the Kolkata Literary Carnival (KLC) held in January 2024. Further, this book was translated into seven foreign languages, namely, Turkish, French, German, Spanish, Chinese, Russian, and Japanese.
Dr Elanaaga is a multi-faceted genius. He is a sensitive poet and an unrivalled translator. All his writings crossed the boundaries of the Telugu States and entered the national arena. He is highly energetic in his creative ventures. The present collection of poems is a sparkling witness to his creative genius. Let us hope many more extraordinary creative works will emerge from his powerful pen.
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Elanaaga is a well-known poet, writer, translator, and critic in the field of Telugu literature. He is a paediatrician, but only pursuing his literary interest now. His actual name is Dr Surendra Nagaraju.
He penned 37 books so far, 18 of which are original writings (two in English), while 19 are translations. Of the latter, 10 are from English to Telugu and 9 from Telugu to English. His works comprise books of free verse, prosodic poems, experimental poetry, language-related essays, essays of criticism, standard crosswords and translations and so on.
He lives in Hyderabad. His email address is elanaaga@gmail.com.
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