Literary Vibes - Edition CXLI (31-May-2024) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEWS
Title : On the Hill Top (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
(Painting with Coffee powder on A4 drawing sheet)
An acclaimed Painter, a published poet, a self-styled green woman passionately planting fruit trees, a published translator, and a former Professor, Lathaprem Sakhya, was born to Tamil parents settled in Kerala. Widely anthologized, she is a regular contributor of poems, short stories and paintings to several e-magazines and print books. Recently published anthologies in which her stories have come out are Ether Ore, Cocoon Stories, and He She It: The Grammar of Marriage. She is a member of the executive board of Aksharasthree the Literary Woman and editor of the e - magazines - Aksharasthree and Science Shore. She is also a vibrant participant in 5 Poetry groups. Aksharasthree - The Literary Woman, Literary Vibes, India Poetry Circle and New Voices and Poetry Chain. Her poetry books are Memory Rain, 2008, Nature At My Doorstep, 2011 and Vernal Strokes, 2015. She has done two translations of novels from Malayalam to English, Kunjathol 2022, (A translation of Shanthini Tom's Kunjathol) and Rabboni 2023 ( a Translation of Rosy Thampy's Malayalam novel Rabboni) and currently she is busy with two more projects.
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 141st edition of LiteraryVibes. It’s a beautiful compilation with more than seventy wonderful poems and twenty interesting short stories as well as lively anecdotes. I am sure you will enjoy them and share them with your friends and contacts. We are lucky to have the contribution of eight new poets and young talents. The youngest of them is Ms. Shreeya Sampada, from Puri, Odisha - a high school student who bubbles with boundless zeal and passion for writing. Ms. Matralina Pati, another young and gifted talent, is a Ph.D. scholar at Bankura University, West Bengal. Her poems in today’s edition speak of a promising future full of success and glory. We also have Mr. Braja K Sorcar, an internationally acclaimed poet and Editor of Durgapur Review, Prof. Asim Ranjan Parhi the HOD in the Post-Graduate Department of English, Utkal University, Mr. Harishankar Sreedharan from Trivandrum, Kerala, Ms.Antara Mukherjee, Reader in English in Durgapur Government College, Mr. Dilip Rakshit and Mr. Boudhayan Mukherjee, both of whom are highly accomplished poets from Durgapur. All of them are incredibly talented and LiteraryVibes is lucky to be blessed by their contribution. Let us welcome them to the LV family and wish them tons of success in their literary journey.
As parts of India are simmering with unbearably scorching heat, with temperature soaring beyond 45 degrees in many places, Kolkata is braving a cyclone as I write this editorial. It will no doubt bring some relief from the summer heat by way of rains, but the aftermath of a cyclone is always fraught with worrisome damage and devastation. Mostly the poor and homeless bear the brunt of the tragedy and curse their fate. Hope there will be no loss of life and the affected masses will show exemplary resilience to rise from the disaster and face the coming days with courage and enterprise. Let us pray for the well-being of the unfortunate victims of Cyclone Remal.
Personally, we have been lucky to escape the heat of Bhubaneswar, having come to the US in the middle of April. The weather here is of course cool, but what amazes me is the cleanliness of the air. One can breathe the air freely, unlike in many cities in India, particularly Delhi which gives a choking feeling the moment one steps out of the airport. Even our hill stations are no longer the havens of joy and peace they were earlier. I remember an October day in 2017 when we had stopped at a popular tourist place in the Himalayas, named Dalhousie, on our way to Khajjiar. The place was packed with people like sardines in a tin, we couldn’t even walk a few paces on the street, suffocated by the crowd and promptly abandoned any hope of visiting some of the tourist attractions of the town. The supposed-to-be clean air of the hill station was thick with smoke from the cars. We quietly returned to the guest house and left for our onward journey to Khajjiar, fondly called a mini-Switzerland. It’s a beautiful and enchanting valley surrounded by lovely mountains and tall pine trees. We reached in the evening and slept after dinner. Next morning after breakfast we wanted to go round the lake (actually an apology for a lake, ninety percent of it had dried up, leaving only a small patch of water in the center). To our horror we found around fifty cars parked by the side of the lake with tourists sleeping in them during the night because Khajjiar those days had only two small hotels. The place was stinking like hell because of the morning ablutions of the tourists and add to that the waste from the dozens of horses and ponies, meant to take the tourists on a joyride. We hurried back to the guest house and went away to some distant places by car to enjoy the serene beauty of the Himalayas. We left in the afternoon after lunch. Even Mussoorie, which I have visited more than a dozen times, is no longer anything close to what we had seen in the late seventies of last century, when I had spent a year in training at the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration. The last time I visited it in 2017, I could not go on my favourite walk from the Academy to Library Point because it was impossible to negotiate the hundreds of cars choking the road, their gas emission making breathing difficult. With our population galloping to 1.5 billion in another five years, I wonder how we will sustain our environment, our hills, the water sources and the very air we breathe.
(The Heritage Home of Pearl S. Buck)
I have been lucky in another significant way by being in Pennsylvania, a primarily agricultural state, which also happens to house my alma mater - the Pennsylvania State University (Penn State), where I pursued a Ph.D. degree during 1993-98. About a month back I had a chance to visit Percasie, a quaint little village in Bucks County, where the celebrated Nobel laureate Pearl S. Buck lived for years, writing bulk of her novels. Her house, the Greenhill Farm, has been converted into a heritage museum now. Welcome Home, a foster care she established for the abandoned children of US born mixed races and rescued children of Asian descent, still stands as a museum. She herself had adopted seven children, an addition to her own single child. Two of the seven adopted children were of mixed racial origin. She also set up another Center named Pearl S. Buck Foundation to address the issues of poverty and discrimination faced by children in Asia. All these places are now open to the public round the year with conducted tours of one hour duration twice a day. One of course has to buy the tickets for that at 15 dollars a person. Though quite interested, I could not avail of the tour because by the time I reached there the tours for the day were over. The place reminded me of Pearl S. Buck’s epic novel The Good Earth which I had read as a graduate student way back in 1970. Although she has written around 300 books, The Good Earth is considered her best and won her the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1938. It gives us an insight into the peasant life of China in the early 20th century, celebrating the bond between Man and Mother Earth through travails of poverty, oppression, and through the joys of creation and procreation. It perpetuates the everlasting myth that Nature embraces her children and never lets them down. Pearl S. Buck returned from China to USA in 1935 but her heart throbbed for the Asians till her death. She lives forever through the institutions she built and the many books she wrote for generations to come after her.
(Another Facade of The Heritage Home)
Talking of books, let me share another incredible joy I experienced while reading an outstanding book recently. The book is by Mitch Albom and is named The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It is about an eighty-three years old man who dies in an accident at a theme park where he works as a mechanic in the Ferris Wheel. He goes to heaven and to his surprise he finds five people from his past waiting for him to reveal the truth of his life before he can be admitted to heaven. They show to him that everyone crossed his path with a specific purpose, sometimes to bring joy, and sometimes sorrow. But everyone has a lesson for him - that life is eternal, a switchover to heaven is just a part of the journey. It’s a fabulous book, it will stir you to your depth. All that I can say is I am indeed lucky to read such an excellent work. I had already gone through Albom’s seminal book Tuesdays With Morrie during my last visit to US five years back in 2019. I am looking for more books of Mitch Albom and I often feel God has blessed me with a human form so that I can enjoy the unbelievable beauty of literature.
(Location - Pearl S. Buck Foundation)
Hope you will like our own humble attempts at literature in LV141. Please do share the following links with your friends and contacts:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/544 (Poems and a Book Review)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/543 (Short Stories, Anecdotes and Travelogues)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/542 (Young Magic)
There are two medical related articles by the famous gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/541
A happy reminder to all of you that 12 excellent short 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 141 editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, scrape through the summer till we meet again in the midst of welcome rains, with the 142nd edition of LV on 28th June.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
AT HOME
02) Bibhu Padhi
FEVER
03) Dilip Mohapatra
LOST
04) Abani Udgata
RUSKIN: THE LONE FOX DANCING
05) Dr. Sonali Pattnaik
LOTUS IN THE SWAMP
06) Asim Ranjan Parhi
YOU ARE PRESENT
AFTER YOU LEFT
07) Braja K Sorkar
BLEEDS
MY DESTINY
THE PAIN
08) Matralina Pati
CAPTIVITY
A PRAYER
THE UNHOMED
09) Dilip Rakshit
IMAGINARY VOYAGE
TO ACHIEVE THE LIGHT
TO TOUCH THE APEX
10) Antara Mukherjee
PILGRIM’S DISTRESS
COLOUR OF THOUGHT
11) Boudhayan Mukherjee
THE LAST RIDE
HER ABSENCE
YEAR 2021
POST COVID
12) Shreeya Sampada
LIFE AND DEATH
THE FANTASY OF THE MOON
13) Harisankar Sreedharan
THE TIMING CHAIN
14) Jay Jagdev
THE SAME DAWN
WHEN OUR EYES MET
15) Jaydeep Sarangi
MY NATIVE COMPANIONS
SHE IS THE HOME
LORD OF SOULS
16) Sundar Rajan S
EARTHLINGS
PINK MOON
17) Hema Ravi
BETTER TOMORROW…
TIMELESS ARTIFACTS
18) Annamalai M
NO DIFFERENCE WE FOSTER
TO GET BACK MY DOVE
CRUEL TIME O’ TIME
MY POEM
HALCYON CHENNAI
19) Ravi Ranganathan
WAVES UNABATED
20) Sudipta Mishra
MIRROR OF MY EYES
PAIN
RADIANT SHADOW
SHADOW
SINKING INTO GRIEF
LIFE
21) Sneha Prava Das
OUR SECRET
MEETING THE SHADOW
22) Setaluri Padmavathi
STILLNESS
23) Rekha Mohanty
FORLORN
24) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
ONE IDENTITY
THE DIVINE CONSENT
25) Bipin Patsani
RISING FROM THE RUBBLE
THE BLISS OF THE TRANQUIL
BE NOT MAD
26) Indumathi Pooranan
BIG SMILE
27) Leena Thampi
WHIMSICAL
28) Jyotsna Mohanty
MY CHOICE AND THY GRACE
29) Sujata Dash
THE VALLEY OF LOVE
30) Aneek Chatterjee
FIELD OF CLOUDS
31) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
LIFE, A SOJOURN
POWERS OF THE PAST
32) Dr Nanda K. Biswal
RAVISHING MAHABALESWAR
33) Dola Dutta Roy
THE QUICKSAND
34) Saroj K Padhi
WOMAN
35) Ms Gargi Saha
ART AND ARTIST
FANCY DRESS
FLEETING FACES
36) Sheena Rath
SUMMER
37) Avantika Singh
ODE TO A ROSE
38) S. Joseph Winston
INTOXIC OR ATAXIC HERMITACAL GAIT ?
39) Nandini Mitra
I HOLD YOUR HEART IN MY HANDS
40) Prof. Niranjan Barik
FREE WAY!
41) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
FROM AN OCCUPIED TERRITORY
EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN
Table of Contents :: BOOK REVIEWS
01) Jaydeep Sarangi
Write to Me: Essays on Indian Poetry in English
by Basudhara Roy
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
AN OLD MAN NAMED ROSE
02) Ajay Upadhyaya
A SAMARITAN IN AN ALIEN LAND
03) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE SCENT OF A SAGA
04) Dilip Mohapatra
THE BLEEDING RAINBOW
05) Ishwar Pati
IT'S MY FAULT!
06) Snehaprava Das
THE INFIDEL
07) Jay Jagdev
BABY-SEAT, GAS, A STOMACH ON FIRE AND OUR RESURGENT BRETHREN
WHERE CURIOSITY ENDS
08) Sreekumar T V
FACELESS FACES
09) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
DREAM
10) Sujata Dash
HOMECOMING
11) Sukumaran C.V.
THE OBSERVING ANIMALS
12) Usha Surya
THE REVENGE
13) Ashok Mishra
HOMELESS
14) Gokul Chandra Mishra
A BANKER'S BOTTLE OF SCOTCH AND A PLATEFUL OF LOBSTER
15) Bankim Chandra Tola
YESTERDAY AND TODAY
16) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY: AN IRON LADY OF INDIA AS AN INSPIRATION TO EVERYONE !
17) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
AN INDO-AMERICAN GIRL’S PERCEPTION OF LIFE IN CHENNAI
WHY NOT A FAMILY DAY?
LIGHTER SIDE OF LIFE
MY PRECIOUS TREASURE FROM AN AUSSIE ZOO
GROUSE MOUNTAIN------NOTHING TO GROUSE, MY REMINISCENCES
THE BIG NAME SYNDROME
18) S. Joseph Winston
THE INTOXIC OR ATAXIC GAIT OF THE HERMIT CRABS?
19) Sreechandra Banerjee
THE MASTER STROKES OF RABINDRANATH TAGORE
20) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
REDEMPTION
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Anura Parida
DAWN
02) Trishna Sahoo
PUZZLE PIECES
03) Aranya
HER PAINTINGS
An aunty from his neighbourhood
offered him a slice of rice cake
with a pinch of jaggery and a glass
of water, when he was roaming hungry
and thirsty after his mother’s death.
He felt at home when the aunty
gathered his shirtless body on her
ample bosom, smelling of curry.
It was homely to shiver
by a little fire built in his village lane,
his friends hugging it from all sides.
It felt homely when a smoked potato
dug out of that fire’s smoking ash
by a girl from neighbourhood
who blowing away the sticking ash,
shared it with him like a mate.
It felt home, when returning
by the last bus in a squall, walking along
a muddy road to share steaming dal-rice
with waiting wife, who toweled
his wet hair, holding him close.
He couldn’t believe: the smoked-potato girl
was his pudgy little wife,
graduated to cooking casseroles.
When she died, consigning to flames
her mortal remains, he returned home,
a hollow pod without nuts.
He sat disconsolate hours,
returned to his wife’s pyre. The night
was cold but her ashes were warm.
He burrowed himself into the ash,
felt he was a ghost at home. (End)
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.
This is like reminiscing about a fever
one has just gone through, with
the temperature constantly touching
the uppermost end of the thermometer.
You could not think of anything
except yourself—your body, your
mind, the depletion of thoughts,
the much painful loss of words.
Even your memory does not
belong to you, having traveled
to a land you never visited nor
heard of, but somehow know.
The fever had laid you in the bed,
without movement, without food,
without much of a shelter. Is shelter
only a house with rooms? You feel
sure it could not be so. It is more
considerate, taking care of your mind
and heart, your small body, without
the unscrupulous silence of a fever.
Bibhu Padhi's new poems have just been published in Queen's Quarterly, Canada
As you wander through
the unfamiliar paths
without aim
unsure of your location
or destination ahead
feeling adrift in the wilderness
with no light to guide you
and the stars are of no help
veiled by clouds
you may wonder
where you maybe…
Or if you are sailing the open sea
with a faltering compass
or trekking endless sands
leaving solitary footprints
among shifting dunes
or while looking for the light
at the end of the tunnel
you discover yourself lost
in the labyrinthine maze of
multiple tunnels
one leading into another
with no end in sight
don’t despair…
For losing oneself once a while
is natural…
you're not alone in this experience
embrace serendipity's joys
and the excitement of uncertainty
for guidance will come
whether from within or without
to lead you from the unknown
and extricate you
from the quicksands
to set you back
on your pre-destined course
to give safe passage
to your redemption
and ultimate salvation.
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
Up in the hills
a lone eagle roams
free in the grey sky.
His morning walk
on the narrow path
In the hills of Landour
has a great companion.
Back in the room
he watches the moon
rise between deodars.
Cold wind gathers freckles
of snow on window sill.
Birds alight from some
unknown ports and sing.
Flowers like good neighbours
greet them with mountain dew.
A little mouse, a friendly horse
a nervous jackal, a grumpy owl
all gather at evening at his fireplace.
And the mountain tells stories
to him, and to all that he meets
in the small bazar in the village
down below.
Bending down on his old desk,
strewn with words, sights and sound,
he strings them like an old seamstress,
his dead aunt or grandma would do,
while lulling the young to sleep.
His blue umbrella in his hand
he has walked through the rains
on the slippery pathways.
And heard the echoes of voices
in the white silence of the snow.
( Ruskin Bond turned 90 on 19 May 2024)
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
in the shadows of my soul
where in perpetual night
drown all joys
on the lonesome tides of my mind
sails the faint voice of a friend
in the cave of my heart
where living breath turns
to memory, all memories to art
where dreams walk only to end,
through the darkness
of an orphaned soul
shines the face of a friend
in the depths of my desire
which thickens like quicksand
in the anterooms of my mind’s house
where trunks carry mothballs
against the festering of open wounds
there where I have not tread in years
is it possible that I hear a visitor,
the laughter of a friend?
through the silence and the din
of confusion and unknowing
comes an end to my heart’s famine
like a bird before rain
calling, hopping, mad
on the limbs of a barren tree
there is someone dancing
like a star in the open mouth
of dark, she comes to me
a mirror holding a lamp
a lotus in the swamp
Dr. Sonali Pattnaik (PhD) is an award winning feminist poet, academic, educator and visual artist. She is the author of when the flowers begin to speak (Writers Workshop, 2021), a solo collection of poetry that marks a woman’s journey through abuse, survival and hope, for which she was recently awarded the WE ‘Intense Feminine Power’ Gifted Poet Award 2023, and the inaugural WE Illumination Award. She is the recipient of the Orange Flower Award for Poetry in English, 2022. Her debut book has been featured in the prestigious Journal of Commonwealth Literature, Sage, 2022.
Her poetry and art have appeared in several international and national anthologies including, The Kali Project (edited by Candice Lousia Daquin and Megha Sood), Of Dry Tongues and Brave Hearts (edited by Semeen Ali and Reema Ahmad) and Through the Looking Glass (Indie Blu(e)) and in prestigious journals including Dissident Voices, Contemporary Literary Review, The Indian Express, The Bombay Review, Setu Magazine, Café Dissensus, Muse India, The Yugen Quest Review, Fem Asia, Sampad (UK). Her non-fiction book based on research on the Body Politics of Contemporary Bollywood cinema is forthcoming from Orient Black Swan.
A well published academic in the area of visuality, literature and theories of the body, she is both an alumnus and erstwhile professor at Delhi University and is currently Visiting Professor and External Expert, Board of Studies in in English at St. Xavier’s College, Ahmedabad. She has participated extensively in advocacy work for gender equality and safer societies including being the Convener of the College Anti-sexual harassment committee and a leading member of the gender cell of KMC, where she held the post of Permamnent Lecturer in English at Delhi University. Her vision remains a synthesis of her critical and academic work with her poetic, artistic voice towards a more equal world.
Your words are aplenty
Your voice and music flow pretty
So I have not run out of moods
You have clouded my eyes,ears and taste
I am used to your thoughts and my usual haste
When the balcony leaves flutter in afternoon
My eyes go quiet with drops of liquid tune
From both corners sipping into ever open lips
Followed by the evening moon teasing my heart
And night wind slipping into my soul to start
Love-sick curses chase me, and you then
For your perpetual blunders in vain
And thundering meanders in chain
Shaking our life force, breaking our course
Early morning wakes up with decent dreams that
Only take some measures to heal
Yet the tossing head goes awry
By the memory of lost ways
There one gets inconsolable pain
Hovering over, it dries your life to the last morsel
Only to result in big sighs and hurt cries
When the early evening signals
For another life of incurable living lies.
After You Left
Your departure is unsweet
not because you didn't prove true
But there After are thousands of words at the back
They put up with a lonely patience
and every second reshape
Some remain and others sink
Days vanish into terrible nights
when another lot galore and
seek release bleak
Separate, we could still sustain
Had your mercurial self burned and borne love,
Love that you only thought of but never lived
Love that got mixed with planetary directions
Or filial volition
Separate, we could still overcome distance
Had the pent up words got some freedom
But you carried love as guilt
Standby mood until passions split
Or, your regular visits to pasts built
What shall I do with the words then?
The ones you tuned
The ones you painted
Putting on a lyre bemoaned
These words, you said your breath
Get piled up,
In morning dreams and day's wake
Hear them out, not by mortal ears
But by slanderous visits
to your betraying fears.
Asima Ranjan Parhi is Professor and Head, Department of English at Utkal University, Odisha. He was formerly the Dean, Faculty of Languages, Professor and Head of the Department of English at Rajiv Gandhi Central University, Arunachal Pradesh. Author of a book Indian English through Newspapers, Parhi has published a number of research papers in Translation Studies (CIIL), Indian Literature (Sahitya Akademi), Journal of English and Foreign Languages (EFLU), Studies in Humanities and Social Sciences (IIAS), International Journal of Multidisciplinary Thought, Journal of media and Communication Studies, a Monograph from Sahitya Akademi, book chapters in publications from Springer and Routledge. An Associate of Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla, Parhi pursues an interest in ELT, Translation Studies and Children’s literature. Recently he has published an anthology of poems titled Of Sons and Fathers from Pakhsighara, Bhubaneswar. His forthcoming publications include an edited anthology on Gopinath Mohanty and Tales from Sarala Mahabharata in prose from Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi.
All my words are boiling inside;
Can't get out.
Today they are forbidden to talk, only to see.
Today my words are burning, just burning.
The heat is intense outside; the skies and woods,
the seas and oceans, mountains and all living
creatures are getting burnt instantly.
Sun itself is burning, throwing ashes at us.
A game of terrible war continues.
This a burning issue, you can’t escape from it.
But you just keep quiet, don't talk.
There are unsaid, some unpleasant words
Floating in the air, you cannot bear,
Just remain content to hear them.
You can do nothing , only God can.
My burning heart can’t bleed anymore
Till my words come alive…
Slowly walking towards the destination,
I could not find my destiny.
The world has become very small,
Like a village, a village growing big.
All are running towards another world.
Do people live there?
No one knows, only wants to know
where god is!
Perhaps, Godfather knows,
it seems.
The feature of God appears on the Discovery Channel.
One day I will reach there, in the land of God.
I will not return back to my origin,
I must find out my destiny.
The world is getting smaller day by day
You know.
Then,
A new life was born from the fire!
Small plants sprouted from under the moss.
New settlements were built
On the broken banks of the river.
This is how the art of creation wakes up
From destructions .
Jack Derrida knew the art of deconstruction;
This is the magic of life,
A life , full of broken heart and pains.
Being a learner, I admit it.
The water of the river knows
The secret of life and death.
Water also has sorrows and pains
of its own.
All are vain
except the magic of life.
Braja K Sorkar is a bilingual author, poet, Essayist, and Translator. 10 Titles have been published in his credit and an highly acclaimed poetry collection in English, titled ‘ Syllables of Broken Silence(2021) for which he received ‘Indology Award’(2021). He edits a prestigious literary magazine in Bengali ‘Tristoop’ since 2001 and an International English literary journal’ Durgapur Review’ since 2023. He edited an International Anthology of World English Poetry, titled’ Voices Now: World Poetry Today’ (2021). His poems have been translated in many languages. He lives at Durgapur, West Bengal. Contact: email: brajaksorkar369@gmail.com. And brajakumar.sarkar@gmail.com Whats App: 9064231839
In the wake of the footprints of her man
Her feet had trodden the land.
Patience sculpted from primordial rocks
Trailed along her weary apparel:
An old tapestry of blighted tales.
Silken threads of pre-historic grace
Twined round her kindly breasts;
Her ancient heart has sheltered
His care-worn, fugitive face:
Hours of unthanked repose.
Then,
He has harnessed his strength!
And the short, taut leash in his arm
Sinks its teeth into her tender flesh.
I beseech, you pray to God
For the unruffled decay
Of my wounded esse.
Away from the arbour of light,
Vengeful angst of diseased souls
Gnaws into this forsaken isle:
Primordial torments of flesh.
Death-kissed stars, too
Sink into the rotten night.
Eyes mournful have retreated
To the solemn hymns of death.
Smouldering embers of
Fallen loves
Slowly dim their sight.
I grope for the fragments
Of the crumbling mercy of God.
Across lives, I have accrued
The haunting waves of
Muffled prayers, time-worn.
Primeval lures of flesh
Frolic on the composed face
Of the silent lover!
Lo!
Hidden antics of yore have thrived
In the fathomless folds
Of his palliating smiles:
Shimmering through eyes bashful.
Ah!
Those arms of passion, impatient
Swoop down on your fragile form.
Albiet!
Down the dusty road,
You have walked with him
Towards your olden home.
Behold!
His untamed arms of pillage
Wreck the arbour of faith, time-worn!
You are unhomed again.
Once more:
You return to
The street forlorn.
Now!
On whose frame
Would you lean for repose?!
Matralina Pati is a Ph.D. research scholar, working on marginal Bhasha literature in English translations. She is currently working in the Department of English, Bankura University in West Bengal as a Junior Research Fellow (UGC-NET-JRF). She is an MA in English Literature from Bankura University, and secured the position of First Class First in her batch (2020). She had also achieved 3rd position in a State level essay competition 2014, organised by the Government of West Bengal. Her research papers have been published in a number of peer reviewed journals. She has presented her papers in International, National and State level seminars and conferences and also attended National and State level academic workshops as a resource person. She is a budding bilingual poet, besides a research scholar, based at Bankura, West Bengal.
In my imagination,I hurl myself
through the dense fog to collect
the soft cyan leaves,with copper coins
in my imaginary,precious bag.
I grasp it with my windy cincher
that makes me a splash of colours,
with massive,tiny golds
which smile ever and ever,
and kiss me affectionately.
this is the celestial touch I miss;
I plunged into it to quench my thirst
for aeon after aeon,and wave after wave,
making a chord of love from summer to winter,
hugging with fervent chill,
with the mellifluous resonance of songs
that mesmerize me with symphony,
from harsh to gentle,as a white curtain
to gold leaves,all are true in the imagination
that always shakes my eyelashes,
as a swarm of bees reflect and refract
their wings in the golden retina.
I move through the tempest
that hits me from different angles,
on various days and in different aeons.
yet,I am running,distracting the violent,
keeping my rigidity of campaign
with optimistic sensation.
but when the thunderbolt
frightens me intensely,
I smile ever and ever,
bathing in the torrential splash of water.
It chills me to be directing the way
of concerning the light,
which kindles my knowledge
In the "to be or not to be"world.
.
Inside the cerebrume,I conscientize myself
In the winding nerves,of loser or winning streak,
I introspect in the dark veil,with labyrinths,
but,billows always intrude in my sensation
to guide me the intricate way,
on the complexity,I stumble down again and again,
faux pas always nailing me in maze!
bewildered mind falls me in dilema
of tangle,conflict started in arteries,
through a long trail of aeon!
pessimist and optimist want to prevail
over one another,decade after decade,
but,what will be?
once the oppy,ride me on unicorn to fly
and acquire the cyan apex.
Dilip Rakshit is a bilingual poet and a regular contributor to various literary journal in India.He is a private teacher,teaches English literature.Apart from his literary activities,he is a painter,based at Durgapur,West Bengal.Contact-Whatsapp -- 8918186238.
Hospitals are inverted pilgrimages.
Licenced trash cans inhabit with foam chairs.
Unusual smell of ether percolates through air-conditioned ducts;
yet sight, sound, sweat
orchestrate into a symphony of desire - only to live.
Trapped within the cooker of diagnosis-investigation-report,
pilgrims wait for safe deliveries, while
still eyes fight back tears.
In a fragile curragh of hope,
human perseverance sea-saws - only to swim.
When the pilgrims plunge into a river of forgetfulness,
sthetho-clad priests utter sermons with
momentary stiffness. Half-lit corridors break down;
the laboratory of Paradise
manufactures sorrow - only to bear.
Stubborn conjunctivitis clouds
eyelashes with particles of doubt;
drops of antibiotics, like torrential downpour,
negotiate with my hazy vision, that once
predicted germination of droplets in the foetal clouds.
Tired of rest, my stiff nerve sediments
infertile manure in the grey cells; the flow of thought,
which once, like a fresh spring, flooded the arid mind,
is harnessed beyond measure.
Only conjunctivitis knows the efficacy of whiteness;
normal life, otherwise, thrives on the colour of blood
An Editor of 3 books and a Member of Review Boards of International Journals, Dr Antara Mukherjee has been a part of West Bengal Educational Service, Govt of West Bengal, for more than eighteen years. She is presently teaching at the Dept. of English, Durgapur Govt College, Durgapur. She has several National and International publications to her credit and has presented extensively in India and abroad. She has completed 3 international projects and has also tried her hands at directing documentaries. She is currently engaged in exploring Heritages in WB along with pursuing the creative aspects of her being. A bilingual poet and short story writer, she loves to travel, observe, listen to the sounds of winds and rain to medicate herself., her works have appeared in Setu, The Gray Sparrow Journal, Kitaab, Boderless Journal, The Chakkar, Bombay Duck, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Café Dissensus, Prayas: Ei Somoy etc.
Before riding the car
He wore dark glasses to hide his frosty eyes
Probably he was playing with his thoughts
About those dodges and deceits
Those that poured blemishes and scandals from abaft
Those who sent him off from his dream Bolpur
to the prison of Jorashako
Ensnared him within the soothing balm of lies
For once he raised his head to gaze at the moor of Bhubandanga
The eastern sky was then donning the first blush of the dawn
When the last play was staged
It seemed that lines ensuing are so close to his heart:
"The first sun asked him," Who are you?" That waited unreplied,
Leaving behind those flakes of memories so tender and nostalgic
Santiniketan " The mellow abode of peace"
The cool shade of mango groves,the solitude of tree canopied Bakulbithi,
Barshamangal--The invocation of monsoon,
Halakarshan,the day of first sowing
Uttarayan its tree rimmed avenues
Shyamoli and Deholi...The twin mud huts
The lingering fragrance of tuberose,beli and jasmine
Pampasagar pool and Sonajhuri planted by Rathi
Sriniketan ,The bungalow of Surul
The Mrinalini primary school and the musical mellow
Passionate memories in myriads and the future.... Time stills there
The black chariot is carrying the God on its last ride .
(Tagore departed at dawn of 28th July 1941 from Santiniketan ashram.He was reluctant , as he did not rely on allopathic medicines or surgical strikes on his body. But the well-heeled doctors from Calcutta coaxed him to come along. After the surgery at Jorashako , he succumbed on 7th August 1941.)
I'm totally fragmented , fragments of tears
run down my cheeks , stopped by bristle beards
I stare at her photo looking at me
Is there a wry smile ? You couldn't save me
from the claws of death , she laments
That took me away so early like Toru Dutt
I could write poems better than you
I could paint better than Amrita Sher Gill
Neighbours called me Florence Nightingle
I saved so many children of Dover Lane
I carried stray dogs home bruised by kicks
I asked for coins for beggars you gave gladly
I was so pretty , a flirt , you must've thought
Before you married me and thought me a wimp
But I was far better than a man's mind
Never seeking wealth , power or fame
I never plucked my eye- brows,waxed hirsutes
I gave away lipsticks , nail polish , mascaras
To our maid servants for their overjoy, to them
I secretly gave away the perfumes you gifted me
I had my own divine scent of the body
That I could inhale like our pet dogs, cats
I wept when you met with near fatal accident
I cried for everyone in distress trying to help
I'm not Kalpataru , you chided me once
Help me save something for our son and old age
You gave me the bank locker key smiling---
You looked like an angel from the other world;
And so you went away suddenly so early
Possibly ,you had lost hope of this existence
But you were sans hatred or gloom
Unto your last breath you believed in love.
I clean surface of your photo glass everyday
And Tagore , your life's solace looks at us amazed.
** kalpataru ---is a limitless donor of bounties.
Last time it was a strange light ,last time it was a strange smell
The winter took away my father, the winter was very cold.
Anything may happen this time, anything may happen at this moment.
My eyes may stop seeing you, my eyes may need new light.
I may lose my job, I may lose my grade and bread.
Last time I was very brave , last time I went hitch--hiking
This year I have changed, this year I am strange.
My girl doesn't love me well, she doesn't meet me often.
The winter took away her brother, the winter killed her strength.
I can hear my mother crying, , I can feel her softly dying.
Yet life flows on , for we shall all be re-born
A fresh mass of flesh , a fresh bud of desire.
I kneel down for yoga,chanting Om Arogyam
Wake up the hills, the fragrant words
for I shall chant from the Gita
to please my deity . I will move towards
the Circle of Hope.At dusk my Lord sleeps
poised at the feet of my Mother. My heart
weeps to belong to Her. Her words keep me
dim and happy, the flying kite borne to earth
by imagination. I can hear her talking
about boiled rice for migrant labourers,
the dal ,wheat and chhatu when they return.
I'll keep some of the smell for me,
the steam of boiling rice to soothe my eyes.
I tell you this , a Brahmin -- Dwija -- born twice;
I tell you all ,that sadness is not divine. Rise !
Boudhayan Mukherjee is an eminent author and poet , who has authored seven books of poetry and translations. He taught Ceative Writing at Indira Gandhi National Open University and has been recently nominated for America's Pushcart Prize 2023 for poetry.
Every living being takes birth from the womb of Nature
All of them embrace their life
with peace and serenity
But one day everyone will meet an ultimate end
We have to accept the reality of death
We should valiantly face it
And undauntedly we should accept it
We should be jovial
Rather than be camouflaged in greed
Age is just like a number
Death is just like sleeping forever
Life is unpredictable
Death is certain
Soul is sustained by a living body
And after death
it transmits from one body to another
Live your life joyfully to not regret after your death!
The silvery moon chases me everywhere I go
The moon light touches my silky skin through the windows
Guides me through out the night
Displays the right direction towards an infinite goal
Unravels the ultimate aim of my life
The silvery moon hangs in night sky
Casting a gentle shine above me
The celestial pearl steals my soul by its exquisiteness
It's mesmerizing beauty and tranquility beholds me in its silvery boughs
It teaches me to imbibe good virtues
To acquire tolerance and perseverance
And to adopt positivism in life
"Silver Ballerina" casts a shadow
what is right or what is wrong
Interposes our heart with full of gratitude
For me,
Moon is blissful
Moon is an " enchanting magician"
Moon is an exultant passion
Nothing can replace the guiding light from its site.
Let me lie quite in silvery blessings for an infinite time
Shreeya Sampada is a multifaceted artist who has a keen interest in classical music and dance from her infancy.She has received numerous accolades by winning state level competitions in music. As a girl of fourteen, she delves deep into the intricacies of Nature and life for adding colour to her canvas. With a noble ambition of being a doctor in future, she nurtures her time in serving the people around her. She is currently studying in a High School in Puri, Odisha.
I am at the bottom dead centre
Perhaps hitting the lowest ebb of life
Couldn’t sink any further
Then started this surge
As though I was getting propped up
When I felt I was down,
Moving up and enjoying the travel
Beholden to the crank
That was when the cam opened the valve
My air became polluted with the fuel
And the heat was building,
So was the pressure too
It was getting unbearable
The pressure and heat
I never understood this,
Why the Cam was acting
Seemingly to contain
The good work of the crank!
May be I was a bit aloud, for I heard
The flywheel laugh, crackling something
Like one being the cohort of the other
I stopped paying attention, it’s good
To stop listening to the universal truths
When you know, your Universe
Is limited to the cylinder that gives
You space just to move up and down
For reasons you frown upon
And don’t ever get to understand why!
Now the cam has closed all valves
I couldn’t stop suffering
The heat, pressure and bad air
I continued my climb because
The crank would never let me off
I knew, I was nearing the top dead centre
When the spark flashed Whoom!
The explosion, the ferocious gas
Above my head expanded
The crank knew the exact moment
To yield, I felt like going down in haste
Hitting the bottom and then
Getting pushed up and up again
But strangely this time the cam
Didn’t open the valve to exhaust
The burnt gas, O! It was unusual…
Again the heat, the pressure,
It was not to be; there should have been
A respite by now, this movement was
Only to scavenge the waste gas
Out of the chamber and suck in
Fresh fuel for the cycle to fire again
No, something has gone wrong
Terribly wrong, all escape routes
Closed, all expressions stifled
The catharsis has been stopped
The timing chain gave a startling sound
Before it snapped, I had almost reached
The top dead centre, when a ball of fire
Exploded above me, with unmatched
Poundals of force, unseen brilliance
Of luminance and an unkindest severity
Of stench…It’s gross! The engine block
Crumbled and broke into sharpnel
Flying off, piercing, tearing and hurting
Before the blackout I realised
There is no dead centre to stop
My falling mass, as I continued
Going down the abyss!
Harisankar Sreedharan is a banker by profession. Retired from service in 2020. Still active in the profession. Pursuing interests in literature - poetry and drama. Associated with the theatre movement. Own creations are in Malayalam. Occasionally write English poems too.
A Traveller... fascinated by the time unframed in places - seemingly enjoying the whiff of smoke from cooking pots and tea kettles, smothered by the conversion among the local people .... to stand, watch and let the world pass by ..
Passionate driver, bike rider and trainer.
A predawn sky.
Motley birds waking up building up a chorus of their own,
Few morning walkers struggling to supress their yawn.
Few minutes left to grab some fresh air,
Before the city wakes up for the fun and fair.
For today is the beginning of the new year!
The confused bleating of the goats as they are eased down their carriage,
They can smell of what lies ahead of them is only a carnage.
The eerie sound of the chopper grinding against the sharpener,
Few minutes left for the goats to breathe for the last time before the city goes merrier.
The same dawn,
End for some and beginning for the men.
When our eyes met after years,
Her eyes seemed asking if I remembered her.
Memories flashed through thousands of days,
I could not tell her that everyday I try to forget her.
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
I have Othello's gene
I suspect you, my night
My concentration is of Doctor Faustus
I conjure up Mephistopheles
I see no moon, no light is spent
The sun is my former love
My conceits are from Donne
Do I behave like Pope?
I'm no Shakespeare.
All is straight and go
I carry a crow in my life and longing
At Chandrabhaga Jayanta returns to sleep.
Am I another Shaw?
Don't mind for marriage.
I read Neruda each time I visit an old city
Recollect them after light empting in the evening.
In birds’ company, with soft signals I have a nest
My bed is always one, at Connaught.
I have been so many in the wondering islands
My Calcutta Chromosome is not deep.
I return to the Nightingales each session of the day,
I built a home at Hampstead, I visit the clinic alone.
Seferis takes me to the Gangotri of thoughts--
a lion is made up of all the lambs he's digested.
With her, there is peace after a spell of rain here,
regardless of grief elsewhere, in other hearts.
There are promises to meeting kite runners,
the song of thunder echoes minds wet in courting
She is the sky holding winter’s touch
on the skin, in the rugged air. She is the Sun.
Her mind has taken a separate route--
the way the wind comes from, she moves hearts.
How can I forget what has grown in me
with my longings, my careful journey through time?
Invisible signals remind me matters related to the heart—
of all the small wishes, profound faiths she brings.
Day’s light rides on summer withdrawals, working and payers. Home.
She is spent by daily homemaking, juicers, woks and scissors.
Most rounded man
Wonderfully developed in brain, heart and hand
Every moment of him is alive.
Way before the Awakening, he opened
the door of religion to every caste;
Yogi and the wisest
Thoughts on the Gita
Is a way of living
Step by step we go beyond the line.
Life is an attempt to
See God, walking with Him
Nothing else can exist in a trance.
Rivers pour their water into the ocean--
Not as a slave to misery
Not as a slave to happiness.
Jaydeep Sarangi is an Indian poet with ten collections latest being Memories of Words, poetry activist and scholar on postcolonial studies and Indian Writings with forty one books anchored in Kolkata/Jhargram,.. With Rob Harle he has edited six anthologies of poems from Australia and India which are a wealthy literary link between the nations. With Amelia Walker, he has guest edited a special issue for TEXT, Adelaide (Australia). His recent books include, Mapping the Mind , Minding The Map:Twenty Contemporary Indian English Poets , Sahitya Akademi, 2023 and A Life Uprooted: A Bengali Dalit Refugee Remembers, Sahitya Akademi, 2023. Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map ( 2023, Sahitya Akademi) is his latest book. Sarangi is currently the President of Guild of Indian English Writers, Editors and Critics (GIEWEC) and Vice President, EC, Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata. Living with poets and poetry, Sarangi is principal of New Alipore College, Kolkata. Sarangi is a State-level mentor of NAAC, West Bengal. He may be reached at: jaydeepsarangi1@gmail.com Website : https://jaydeepsarangi.in/
(An Acrostic poem)
Eerie are portrayed, these new creatures,
Aliens to civilizations.
Reverberating close with their ilk,
They look down with scorn, these earthlings.
Hallowed Earth, always their pride of place,
Living Life, however is not their ways.
Inward looking has long lost its charm,
Notwithstanding material harm.
Governed not by morals and ethics,
Still this planet blossoms, in essence.
From a pink speck on the horizon,
With rollicking waves to enlighten,
You glide serenely over dancing waves,
For terrestrial beings to embrace,
Like the Biblical Red Sea parting,
On Moses, his staff on hand, holding.
The Pink Moon in the transitional phase,
Creates in life explorative space.
Your smile rolls out a silver carpet,
Parting waves for a silvery path,
Luring towards you, celestial,
For Moonatics' cherished desire.
Note : Moonatics denote diehard Moon lovers
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.
How much longer! will we ever get back to our home,
Will we hear again the chirping sounds, watch the stars,
smell the petrichor, listen to the pitter-patter on the window panes?
Yes, my child, I assure you things will be fine.
Take my word!
And this moment, we’ve got to flee.
Wonder when we brushed our teeth, took a shower;
I don’t know if it is a Sunday or a Monday.
Will I get back to school? Will I meet my playmates?
Certainly, my love, you will have happy times again.
Take my word!
Right now, we’ve got to sleep in these bunkers
and move at short notice.
The enemies are advancing.
Who are these enemies? Why are they interested in our land?
My child, most people in the world are good, they want others
to live happily; but yes, some men want everything
for themselves, and kill innocent people to gain more…
it’ll all be fine soon. Take my word!
An earth-shattering sound
Shards of broken glass all around.
Dad! Get up. Open your eyes, speak…
I want….. I want to go home!
As we entered, someone squealed -
Run! It's time for the man…
Five minutes to noon
'Man,’ kept the multitude captive!
Then, the most intriguing thing –
a door opened, a tiny bearded man emerged
struck the gong twelve times,
The door slammed shut!
Another toy man- blacksmith with hammer –
striking the ‘seconds’ hand, without a ‘break.’
This ‘Bracket Clock’ of a bygone era –
Collector’s Pride!
Giovanni’s ‘Veiled Rebecca,’
The ‘Wooden Double Statue –(front) Mephistopheles and
(back) Margeretta – Timeless!
Can write paens! If anyone says:
Museums are a bore,
I’ll give them a virtual tour
of the enthralling experience…
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
Much have we took different form
Much have we indeed transformed
The purplish blue hyacinth’s swarm
Become wondrous lotuses shedding calm
The pale and dull darkness of twilight
Have been washed off by bright light
Some of the limping and tripping treads
Surprisingly changed to the leaping speeds
Of course
Part of well-pronounced yester year (fine) words
Turned out to be babbles oft vocal chords
Blessings resulted into unexpected curse in battalion
Incipient transgression went into permanent oblivion
Sidewalks that were somehow discarded
have been beautified by flower pots awarded
Starts those shined with blissful soothing
Were taken and plunged in the alley of nothing
One become ten and ten to one
Many an unbelievable changes get done
Yet
The common thread that hooked fifty years
All these changes of these years are vapourised
When unity flag of ours kept upraised
Our sublime confidence of youth tries sweep in
Our innocent dilly dallying tries to peep in
Our mellifluous voices tries to loom up
Our cherismatic countenance tries to bloom up
Our one to one and one to all
And all to one and all to all
Friendship
Gets on to declare that no difference we foster
We still are that old mates in our school roster
[For school-mates 50th year Golden Jubilee celebration BVHS–1969 Batch]
I need someone to vent me out
Love mine did sprout
Hands of fate nipp’d
How it be whipp’d.
Some one I seek to me support
Summon Fate to court
And lesson him right
So he turns quite.
I will seek he to revive love
And give my dove
He is capable
To ward off trouble.
Time always is cruel to the poor
Acts so very clever
Lashing on luck
It tries to pluck.
Time ever is swift and topple have nots
On face casts darts
It eludes the catch
It sets the scratch.
Time is ruthless and flees from people
Quells parts their staple
To keep them jejune
It hides fine tune.
Poetry is beauty and pure beauty is poetry
Poetry is almighty and almighty poetry
Poem is the power and all the power is poem
Poem is love’s shower and shower of love is poem
Poem is art of verse and verse in all art
Poem is part of God and God is poem’s part
Poetry is youth’s eye and youth sheds poetry
Poetry evokes logic and logic stoops to poetry.
Verses are in the soul and souls are but verses
Verses are to flowers and flowers are to the verses
Rhymes live with poem and lyric poems live on rhymes
Rhymes light up the poem and poem lights up rhymes
Rhymes carry music and poem begets its music rhyme
Rhymes tarry for poems and poems tarry too for rhyme
Verses shed perfumes and perfumes produce verses
Verses tames taste and by many a tastes imbue verses.
Coming back after fifty years spent abroad
To my surprise things have chang’d
“Grandfather and daisy in the Sterling road
In small hours’ stroll with brolly”: unseen;
Water pouring home pipes takes other mode.
Cycle pullers, Anglo Indian slangs are obscure;
Gaity coloured romantic beach node
Seen in the Great Sridhar’s filmy strum
Find them I only my mind bestowed.
Big and ‘holy’ posters of cine light marcs
Doctor humane Rangachari’s iced butter milk
Altogether became a thing of past snarks
With poor-dressed terrace sleepers’ snore
Number of academies for civil service marks
“Buy one and get one/two free” sign board’s spree
More mobile phones, texts ignited taboo sparks
Cropping up of educational dens in bulk
Are all indecency brooding germs parks.
Many roads and places found queer and vapid
Mount Anna Hamilton Marai Malai renamed
Pycrofts Bharathi Harris Athithanar so avid
Down in every corner chilly and chicken sweep
Loony ideas surfers and tweeters share very rapid
Dress code, Metro train had their role stamped
Abject politics stance has withered insipid
Hyper Malls and Shops cover minds to be tamed
Changes that change everywhere __Chennai isn’t rigid.
YET
Hot sun, batter’d, rain-molested roads__ shame
December throng drown in music tarn
EMUs, vendors and track __all stained fame
Bevy in the cramped Ranganathan street
Director’s delights from alien flame
Delicious duping in the beach
Hosting other state haves and nots’ claim
The Basin Bridge vehicle storing barn
Are all things to remain the same.
Notes:
1. “Grandfather and daisy”-This was the usual sight in the avenue roads like Sterling road-grand pa and daughter having a morning walk
2.Dr Rangachari is a renowned physician who used to take nothing other than butter milk from his flask
3. Sridhar- He was a pioneer in Tamil movies. His movies were famous for triangular love.
4. Marai Malai- Hamilton Bridge was renamed as Marai Malai Adigal Bridge-One of the many places that have been renamed.
5. EMU- Electrical Multiple Units used to run trains
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 .
I can hear the leaves
when it flutters and waves...
I can hear the wave
when it cliffs and caves...
I can hear the cliff
when it rocks
the edge of precipice...
I can hear the rock
when it lulls
the wind's treatise...
I can hear the wind
when it breezes
a spiral course...
I can hear the breeze
as it breathes its discourse...
I ruminate and meditate
as Life sounds and resounds...
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.
In the mirror of my eyes
So many untold stories shine
They can be read only by you,my dear
I know but you are still blind to my tears
In the chamber of my heart
So many secrets are sealed
They can be unlocked by you
But so many years ago
You had lost the keys of my doors
In the deep dark region of my mind
So many stories are being brewed
They can be heard by you only
But in the last call ,you cut the phone
By uttering this last line-
"I am not so interested"
So my dear, don't come after
my departure from this sphere
By mourning with crocodile tears
Join me right here to save memories for future!
you all caught me wrong.
I have not yet told you
about this pain.
It's too deep than the sea.
you deceive yourself by my wily smile.
it is the messy trap
to cover the scary pit
deep inside my heart
you have not seen
the grave damages of my body.
you can see the imposing pics
that I intently show you all.
you have not seen the pain
that every time slithers into my veins
knowingly I bury them
in the deep dark silent regions
you have not seen the anger
boiling inside my mind
As I manage to mould them into my laughter
you all are not acquainted with my pain
that is blowing like a hurricane
'Whirling Around' to
shatter the opposition!
In the past I was your shadow, Opaque and quiet, Passionate and loving,
Walked on new path of life where you lead me,
Now it is reversed. You are a shadow brilliant and awesome,
You follow me
all the time, Whether I am awake or sleeping, You want to see my wellbeing …
I was under a false impression
You have gone for a sojourn,
Never could accept that you went very far to a point of no return, Away from the orbit of earth in to the vast space, Freed from attraction of gravitation, Neither have I address Nor can I talk to you any more,
I discovered one day You were always very near, My benevolent shadow !
I can see you everywhere ….
You took good care of all with an obligation to perform,
You now keep on encouraging me to carry forward alone,
fearlessly to move on,
I have also widened my vision,
Wise and confident to take independent decision,
Your umbrella of blessings is always there over my head
You are my shadow of protection…
I will smile instead of shedding tears in vein,
I will relive all the moments of happiness and pain,
I am reassured and full of zest, Am energised to drive myself, Nothing really matters to me as long as you don’t leave me alone, My immortal effulgent shadow !We are in a peaceful zone..
(This one of mine was in one of LVs)
I liked the poem, ‘Meeting the Shadow ‘by Snehaprava and remembered mine.
Something that follows me
Everywhere I go
A faithful fellow
In the bright daylight
It grows bigger than its size
It glows in the shimmering dawn
When the twilight covers the orange sky
In the sombre grassland
The shadow is cast close to the streetlight
Like the lofty cliff of a mountain high
Shadows lie softly in the green light
Silvery rays reflect in the droplets of the sea
Shadowless, desolate, cloudy sky stands lonely
sometimes in dreams, ghostly shadows lie
With the whispering wind
It vanishes in the dark sky
By playing hide and seek, in a new morn
Again shadows appear in an encircling beauty!
Often we bury the shadowy despair in the pages of a bygone age...
I forgive you
to forget your sin
Slowly I fell into the dark hole
In my crumbled state
I realised the pain
I knew the process of healing
But it's too deep, you see
I met the people
Even I listened to their stories
But it didn't work
In a circle of grief
I was slowly dragged
by some unseen forces
I knew the nature
The grief took over my reason
Nobody could help me
I wish you would be the same man
But these fancies would land me in nowhere
Gradually I felt the fire
Inside I was burning
Covered by the clouds of sorrow
Caged in tormenting wires
In dried nights
Grief enveloped me in a net of pain
In the wave of torturing air
I realised a sudden change in me
I will clear the hazy sky of grief
Nobody can measure my pain
In the principles of love
I unravel the key to my joy
Love rushes towards me
The fire of my heart can be extinguished by the elixir of love only!
It's the time to say goodbye
The perishing moments of life
signaling for the change
They invite me
towards the unknown heights
Unfulfilled desires
clinging my footsteps
They want to take me
towards the unexplored land
Dear,soul, it's a struggle now
between me and my love
The burdens of my loved ones push me
towards the valley of wonders
Exhausted feelings
abandon me in the middle of somewhere
The dreams of open eyes beguile me
to wait for the magic of tomorrow
But I know the sufferings
So slowly I ride the road to eternity
for leaving this fake surroundings
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.
The smile that flickers on your lips is for the world to see
But the smile that flits in your eyes
Veiled in a blue mystery
Is the one meant only for me,
With its mesmeric touch
My slumbering desires
Suddenly come alive
And inside me springs up
A fountain of shimmering poetry;
The silence on my lips is for those
That commune with words
But it speaks volumes without a voice
That fills your world;
You are alone in the midst of your crowd
As I am in mine
Moving ever together like
Two parallel lines,
Never meeting but never wishing
To bridge the gap between,
Happy to share our own
Solitudes together
And our shadows and our sunshines;
(From Songs of Solitude)
The deep silence of the shadow
Slants over the yellowing grass field
Reluctant feet drag homeward
amidst the indistinct whispering
of the wind
Time to rub the patina of pretence off
the face,
Time to grab a handful
of the dimming light
and fling it across the dark mirror
and meet the stranger there,
Time to look out for an
intimate space to play
blind man's bluff with the shadow,
To grop at its eluding face
hiding behind a century old pain,
Time now to meet the shadow,
To lose a whole world of light in it,
To look in the face of the shadow
and call it quits,
Dr.Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English, is an acclaimed translator of Odisha. She has translated a number of Odia texts, both classic and contemporary into English. Among the early writings she had rendered in English, worth mentioning are FakirMohan Senapati's novel Prayaschitta (The Penance) and his long poem Utkala Bhramanam, which is believed to be a.poetic journey through Odisha's cultural space(A Tour through Odisha). As a translator Dr.Das is inclined to explore the different possibilities the act of translating involves, while rendering texts of Odia in to English.Besides being a translator Dr.Das is also a poet and a story teller and has five anthologies of English poems to her credit. Her recently published title Night of the Snake (a collection of English stories) where she has shifted her focus from the broader spectrum of social realities to the inner conscious of the protagonist, has been well received by the readers. Her poems display her effort to transport the individual suffering to a heightened plane of the universal.
Dr. Snehaprava Das has received the Prabashi Bhasha Sahitya Sammana award The Intellect (New Delhi), The Jivanananda Das Translation award (The Antonym, Kolkata), and The FakirMohan Sahitya parishad award(Odisha) for her translation.
Like Calmness after the cyclone
Like serenity after a destructive war
And like silence after an argument
The moving clouds abruptly halted,
Chasing the speedy wind and thunder!
Dancing branches stood for a while
Fresh water lake stopped singing
The weed and grassy plants nodded heads
When the tides avoided going up and down
And swans soothingly swam in the lake!
The boatmen begged for a leave
The fishermen had a small break
The farmers too stayed home
Even the flowing water was standstill
That mesmerized the beings for a while!
Stillwater, immovable clouds, and branches
Rhythmic river and swaying branches
Babbling babies and noisy boats
Superb surroundings created stillness
But my muddled mind was restless!
Silent path brought irreparable pain
Stagnant waters reminded me of void
Motionless trees mattered the most
And sudden storm suppressed the world
Ah! Dreadful quietness is dangerous!
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
Loneliness,
An acute feeling,
So sad and depressing,
Not with standing
whether you are
surrounded by many…
You feel lonely
when you are
left to yourself alone,
Without real contact
with loved one,
It let you slip into
quandary
detached and cut,
Unsightly
bleeding wounds
deep and denervated,
Makes you numb…
You might sniff
uninhibited
with shoving tear,
That might render
the soul lighter,
You pity with self,
You impugn with reality
and refuse to comeback,
Mind whirls with
turbulent deep currents,
Outwardly on surface
You are an azure lake
uncomfortably calm,
Still and quiet….
Hopes dwindle,
Eloquence in absence is felt,
Absentia projects images
as it is very much
present in absent,
Phantasmagorical
absolute imageries
appear
in myriad ways
to fill the vacuum,
Loneliness fights
hard within,
You look for a respite
You long for company….
The affliction of loneliness,
A self ruining experience,
As it makes miserable
your existence,
Numbness sans pain
Is a sign
of deep burn,
It kills from core
if you let it grow,
When you are
lonely and sad
You are numb
and silent,
You stager to climb
on your path
The apogee
of half covered
heel seems distant….
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.
We created each other
so that I blame you
for my failure
while you breathe peace
staying away from the chaos.
This game is never own
as neither I fulfill my desire
nor you are happy
about the way things unfold
before your eyes.
I created temples
to prison you with priests
so that you remain away from
all my misdeeds,
however, you kept ruling my heart
Preparing me for my struggle
against the wavering mind
bringing in calm and peace.
Never feel sorry
as I am also in a prison
bound by dogmas and myths
made to please
somebody at every time.
I am tired of my identity;
Let us free ourselves from
the ever confusing duality;
assimilating both,
the creator and the creation,
in one divinity.
During an early morning stroll
near the calm serene lake
I got struck
by the beautiful lotus
opening up her petals
to the first rays of the sun,
In a dancing stance,
stealing my heart.
Liked the color,
her little swing in the water,
the smile and the aura,
also, her frisky look
in the stilled atmosphere
with crisp air.
Thought , I might be in love,
first time in many years.
I whispered in her ears
without delaying
lest I should miss the occasion.
Waited throughout the day
for a favorable reply,
The sun over head
slowly started to wane,
afternoon to evening,
I kept looking at the flower,
Now losing its color
as the smile becomes tired,
I still loved her fading glamour,
The soul was as fresh as ever
Which kept me interested
till light gave way for darkness;
breaking her silence,she smiled
in the fading light of the sunset.
I was delighted,At last,
my soul received the consent,
it waited for ages.
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
Dreams die, towers tumble,
Life can be worth living still
If we can gather
the scattered remnants
of the self from the rubble
and reassemble it, reestablish it
with a humble beginning
weaving small dreams with the waste
as a Japanese does
in his creative zeal and skill.
Nothing is useless, impossible
If we are able to make use of things.
Making small things of beauty
can life be beautiful too,
a big step forward to build up
a whole new world,
a world where life can be
beautiful and bright for you.
The floodgate of feelings closed,
I experience the bliss of calmness.
No more turmoil, no anxiety,
Nothing to wait for,
No more lie coming to churn my mind,
Just a tranquil soft serene touch of the morn
I feel on the rippling surface of my reservoir
Like the gentle landing of a baby’s palm
On my forehead awakening me
To embrace its fresh charm
And to have a new beginning
And move forward till the day is done
Blossoming into fullness of form.
Be not mad for anything momentary
and mundane, be not sad for things gone;
the world doesn’t stop anywhere
at any point of time and life goes on.
Life goes on growing ever more
and flows on and on till it meets its end.
It flows calm like a perennial source
even after facing what time does send.
The seasonal course of salvaging showers
or all that we undergo, the summer sorrow,
everything disappears doing the rounds.
The withering will waits yet for rain tomorrow.
The wretched of the earth suffer in the dark
when light in their miserable homes goes out.
The wise in alternative power rejoice
with their royal reservations and clout.
With multiple choice and new found joy,
People don’t care if one goes away!
Only the emotional wrecks, in heart break,
suffer in silence, mourn and die.
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.
You start off with a big smile
Thence you are seen only for a while
You grow slowly into a ball of light
Sometimes yellowish and sometimes white
But always shining and bright
In the dark skies of the night
Watching you is always a pleasant sight
However, dark clouds covering you is a plight
Some of us turn romantic & passionate
You also make some of us write
Never wanting to take our eyes off
You could also be called a boon
For those who wait to see you soon
Sometimes with a big smile
And sometimes in a round style.
Indu Pooranan lives in Chennai and is passionate about literature. She started writing a few lines wishing her husband for his 50th birthday and from then on has gone on to making people feel special on important occasions by expressing her thoughts and the bonds they share. In addition to the photo grids that she tries to create, she also pens her thoughts on nature and current topics.
Don't bury your wishes to impress others,
Live in peace and not in pieces.
Even if people say a million wrongs,just smile and move on strong,
Don't get offended by pernicious words,
Take out some leisure time and know yourself.
walk barefoot and feel the carpet green,
Watch the sun rise and beaches clean,
Collect shells spirals as much as you can
Leave your iconic foot prints on the wet sand.
Dance in the drizzle,inhale the petrichor,exhale your stress.
Pen your joys and erase your catastrophes,
Make a castle of words without boundaries.
Stand here for a while gazing at the endless sky.
In this rat race of money making ride we slowly tend to die.
Rhapsodies of praises and fame,
Enough of this game,plunge into life again.
Nothing in this life is certain
We never know when it will draw the curtain,
Live each moment as new.
Wake up with me like a feather liberated and few
Let's fly and dwell where love prevails..
Live each day as if it were your first .
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.
I built a marble castle
Of platinum was its root
It glittered with gold and diamonds
Impregnable it stood.
This would be my home I thought
Away from this noise world
And there I’d live in peace
So at last I deemed,
I had left my mind in charge
Of the house and all it held,
And desire was at the gate,
Sentry, stern and bold;
And anger with its blazing heat
Kept away the winters cold
Everything gets soon burnt
When he gives a reward.
Mighty ego then they chose
To be their King and lord
And I in my marble castle, alas
Became a prisoner.
Thy Grace
Is my choice all in all?
Is there no way out of this wall?
With a heart heavy with grief
For ages I have cried in pain
Waiting for a word of love
From the Lord I have never seen.
Then with a crash as if breaking doors,
In a flash of light and fragrance ethereal
Flooding my gloomy cave with bliss
A presence unseen drew near.
On its stalk the lotus swayed
Thousand petalled, pink, immaculate;
A heavenly smile dispelled the dark
All was filled with peace and joy.
And even this earth bound heart could hear
The melody of the eternal flute.
Not only Thy grace, O Lord,
Thou sendest
‘Tis Thyself who comst to me.
(Published in ‘Mother India’ April 1996)
Jyotsna Mohanty the poet, is a native of Odisha and after earning Masters in Mathematics from Utkal University, she joined Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry from where her journey took a unique turn. Currently she imparts knowledge in Mathematics & Odia at the Sri Aurobindo International Centre of Education. Besides being a teacher, she is a versatile writer penning stories & Poems in Odia, English, Bengali & Sanskrit languages . She has authored following books “ Bhagavan Sri Aurobindo, Matrucharitamruta, Tume Achha Boli & Phula Kahe Mana Sune “ which showcases her linguistic prowess & passion for literature. Regularly she contributes her literary creations to various Magazines such as Agniroopa, Aspruha, Nabaprakash & Srujan. Moreover, she contributes as a lyricist crafting devotional songs praying Sri Aurobindo & The Mother. Her compositions can be enjoyed on YouTube @ Pabitra Kumar Behera. Through her diverse talents and contributions to Education, Literature & Music, Jyotsna Mohanty exemplifies a multifaceted creative personality.
Smitten by
the orange hue of ombre sky
I watched darkness gradually
taking over tinges of vermilion
and scarlet dye
at another corner of this world
star flakes started falling
as evening gently walked in
a ripe pristine moon rose
to enamor and festoon depths of night
did you miss me then by your side?
do confide,
if you skipped a few heartbeats
when haunted by
those mishmash aroma of intimacy
knick knacks of nostalgic whiles
as I sauntered, tumbled off road
and you failed to find me?
be frank and say
are you not besotted by
the fragrance of my name?
do you not miss my silhouette
dancing to the rhythm of wind
In the twilight haze!
when rapturous ecstasy
finds its home and hearth
in the womb of thick blanket of darkness
at day's break
and colorful dreams fold themselves
In the crevices of spooky glances
do you reminisce
sweet nothings of kinship and belongingness?
you may be a little shy,
a little hesitant to admit
but I strongly feel...
we both perch in each other's soul
beneath the valley of love.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has four published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm and Humming Serenades -all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
I slept on a bed of
soft grass, yet to be fully green,
in the autumn afternoon.
I slept when the sun and clouds
were awake, playing hide and seek
between them.
I could not realize when evening
descended on earth and I joined
a field of twinkling stars.
They were guiding me to the zone of
hope and despair; to the bushes of
agony and joy.
There I died in hope, but came
alive in pain; there I followed the stars,
in a field, shrouded gradually by clouds.
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
In time's motion, life is a sojourn,
With stations and intermissions,
Starts for halts and halts for starts,
But constant with seeming stops.
The traveler may be a tortoise or a hare.
A fish or a bird, a snail, or a snake
It may be on horseback or on wheels,
It is a sojourn with the stages.
Born from womb, in mother's care,
In the lap, to be slow in crawls,
Toddles to run, lisps to speak,
For sojourns and speeches.
,
Life, a sojourn, by vehicles in variety,
It goes ahead by a horse or a camel,
By, bicycle, bike, car, bus, or train.
Life is a sojourn in movement.
Life is a voyage amid the waves,
Facing the storms and winds
By ships and steamers on water
For a journey in motion.
Life is a flight amid the clouds,
High in the sky, in the air
So fast in reaching the destination,
For journey in motion.
Life is never stationary,
A trip in the air or on water or land
In motion with emotions,
It is through stages and stations.
In time's traverse, the past flows
Like the flower from the bud to glow
Like the seed from the tree to sow
Alive in the present it ever grows.
The past grows in exuberance,
Like the cheers of love in the bower
Like the charms of beauty in the flower
In traverse to spread its fragrance.
The past is a store in freshness,
Like the cud, chewed in the teeth-grind,
Like the memoirs to linger in mind
It grows in taste for its sweetness.
The present enlivens the past,
The undercurrent in flow to the future
Green in sheen in its growing stature
The past is eternity not to last.
The future is the past's reflection,
Like the nightingale's song in thrill
Like the skylark's song in joy-fill,
To shine in kaleidoscopic refraction.
The past is not the paradise lost,
The paradise, regained in recollection,
The heaven, rebuilt in reconstruction,
It is the Truth of the living past.
Time past, not past, lives forever
Creeps into time present with concern
Peeps into time future in eternal sojourn
To build a co-relation by its power.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta, M.A., M. Phil., Ph. D., Professor of English by profession and poet, short story writer, novelist, writer, critic and translator by predilection, has to his credit 64 books of all genres and 344 poems, short stories, articles and translations published in journals and anthologies of high repute. He has so far written 3456 poems collected in 18 anthologies, 200 short stories in 9 anthologies, nine novels 18 skits. Creative Craft of Dr. Rajamouly Katta: Sensibilities and Realities is a collection of articles on his works. As a poet, he has won THIRD Place FIVE times in Poetry Contest in India conducted by Metverse Muse rajamoulykatta@gmail.com\
Many hills, one hill station
whose scenic splendour is a wonderment,
Mahabaleswar is ravishing eternal
like a woman who holds all allure
and in open arms,
drawing hearts over and over again;
the journey of a sight, tired and rundown
through overwork, stops here.
The world here looks better,
the sky bluer,
eternal is the reign of verdant Spring,
the clear vision to new frontiers explore.
And to look further up
to fly new heights with the wisdom
of the eagle.
One rides the clouds here
and walks in the rain
with the desire to hunt for the rainbow.
The lazy Sun wakes up late –
the Moon speaks to the lovelorn
mountains furtively in silence.
Wind blows here as music
of exquisite delicacy
caressing and comforting all
with words of euphonious flattery,
or at a leisurely pace
like a Pianist’s adagio.
An aura of mystery surrounds
the majestic mountains and the dark therein;
Darkness here is a multilayered art,
or a poem that is never finished.
Enchanting fairies, dressed in
“heaven’s embroidered cloths,
enwrought with golden and silver light”,
Pleased with the altruists’ everyday
gestures and acts of kindness,
they come down to earth, and invisibly
wipe their sad tears and close
their eyes, giving them sleep,
drop in from nowhere to roam
here in gay abandonment.
Their effortless grace and zest unbound
attracting an array of angels,
as they fall for them and in their way
to win their favour
enter into reciprocal romance,
occasionally lost lip-locked
like humans,
for kissing gives a foretaste of heaven,
and so intimate to be ignored.
Once here, all revel in
infinite bliss.
And as one leaves the site,
the music of its memories
in brightness or Silhouette,
with rings intermittent
lasts for ever.
Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal, after teaching English language and literature for more than thirty five years in different colleges of Odisha, retired as an Associate professor. Passionate in reading poetry, intermittently, he has been writing poetry since his college days.1996 to1999 was his most fertile period when his Odia poems were published in almost all Odia dailies as well as in most of the Odia magazines. Also he writes English poems. He has authored The Fictional Transfiguration of History in the Novels of Salman Rushdie, Amitav Ghosh and Rohinton Mistry. Besides, he has edited Prananath Patnaik:A purveyor of Egalitarianism Currently, he is engaged in writing reviews of the poetry collections of the new poets who write in English.
Time is running out.
All the sharing n caring have reached a freezing point.
The days are getting shorter,
And the endless sleepless nights, bitter.
Fantasies of grapes don't ignite passion anymore.
Shadows of life,
tracing your steps
till the end of the day,
Grow dimmer with woes.
You're left mostly to savour the joys of magnificent moments many moons back.
You're left to caress your own fears in silence and
insignificant thoughts.
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 woman is
the sweetest creature on earth,
man's eternal breath;
a blend of soulful love and tears
(sometimes false though),
bold like a bull
but like flower, beautiful;
tough like a dictator
but inside sweet as nectar;
love her, she will love back
all the more,
hate her , she won't turn sore,
ignore her
she won't try to be bore;
she is fire and she is ice
she is sour and she is peace
she can be the door to hell
if at her you yell,
but she is sure door to salvation,
man's lust, love, passion
destruction and devotion.
Dr. Saroj K. Padhi, an Associate Professor of English in the Govt. of Odisha is at present working at J K B K Govt. College, Cuttack . Born in 1962, he has been writing poems in English and Odia since his school days. He has published several reseach papers, two books of criticism: 1. JAYANTA MAHAPATRA’S RELATIONSHIP : A CRITICAL STUDY 2. ENGLISH ESSAYISTS : A CRITICAL STUDY and got 14 anthologies of poetry in English namely PEARLS OF DEW, SHATTERED I SING , RHYMING RIPPLES, PETALS IN PRAYER, SILENT SIGHT, MOON MOMENTS , A SLICE OF SILENCE , ELUSIVE SPRING, MONSOON MEMORIES and WHERE BUDS REFUSE TO BLOOM, THE ENDLESS FLUTTER ,STARS IN THE COVID SKY, IMPULSE FROM WOODS AND SELECTERD POEMS
He has received several awards including the national ROCK PEBBLES AWARD, 2017.
Some hands write novels, poetry, lyrics
Some hands carve idols
Some shape statues
Some hands design buildings
Which artist greatest?
Which art noblest?
All human creations
Yet vary their value
Men destined for different fates
Someone the tip of the hat, someone the crust of humility.
Someone decked as a doctor
Someone as advocate
Someone as snake charmer
Someone as Lord Shiva
Someone else as a beggar
Someone a joker
From childhood dissimulating our aspirations, ambitions
Always harping on masks
Forever in life
Never face stark reality
But lapping on fantasies, fancies, romances
And feeling safest
Double standards man always is
But can we cheat our 'Self'?
Wanted to touch the fluffy, white clouds
But realised it's unattainable
Wanted to fly
But was bounded
Mollycoddled in fantasies and fairy taled world
Went to delve them out
Found them only fallacies
We are moving in islands
Thus dwindling in realities and white lies
What's true today
Might change tomorrow
No consistent facts
Everything revolving in ifs, buts, even thoughs
Life is like an ice cream
Steady yet soon melts
Exists, but go to discover and it vanishes..
The gobbledygook existence
In the intransigent seasons.
Ms Gargi Saha is a creative writer. She has published two poem books namely, 'The Muse in My Salad Days, 'and'Letters to Him ', She has received the Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Award and the Independence Day Award for poetry. Presently she edits several scientific research papers.
Summers are here
Let's rejoice and cheer
Birds splashing in water
As they raise their feathers
Greater coucal with copper brown rusty wings
Stealthily walks in my green garden on grills
Rough winds push the flower buds to fall
Fragrance of the Jasmine small
Rainbow colours of Bougainvilleas shred
Laughter of the Champa spread
Landscape ablaze with gulmohar blooms
Attracting every traveller soon
Green foliage with plumpy mangoes and jackfruit
Getting ready to be plucked or shoot
Golden rays,skies so blue
Every summer tells a story of me and you.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
My father, a hero
Was for all ages an inspiration
Whom many people till today follow.
When from arms he retired,
A hero's farewell given...
Roses showered....
Roses in recognition
For his service
To the nation.
In his uniform and medals attired
Roses the ultimate honor
On him were showered.
Roses of a deep maroon hue
Roses with their fragrance
In my memory remain as good as new.
My father - a rose among men
Coloured in courage
With the fragrance of his deeds carried by the winds.
Avantika Vijay Singh is a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She is the author of two solo poetry books i.e., Flowing… in the river of life and Dancing Motes of Starlight (her debut ebook). She is the winner of the Nissim International Award Runners Up 2023. She enjoys writing humour too for her blog “Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives” in the Times of India.
INTOXIC OR ATAXIC HERMITACAL GAIT ?
Free stroll of the Crustaceans
On the shore of the oceans
Show the space for all living beings
So adapted in the whole universe
The intelligence brings solitude
By the abundance of ego magnitude
The hermit crabs for its austerity
Look for a dwelling all that is free
From the shells of the shellfishes
The hermit carb changes its dwelling
Every time its body grew up swelling
Always on the run for a beautiful
House for his body to be colorful
Hermit, the crab that struts stunning
Generous beachgoers
Have presented many houses
To the hermit crabs
That they show off the houses
By dwelling in them
The new houses are the broken bottle caps
The base of the broken incandescent lamps
The broken plastic bottles of their sizes
Even the plastic pen caps for the little crabs
Why are we so generous to offer them the houses?
The hermit crabs have adapted to the new dwells
Leaving the good old sea shells
Now that they need to change the gait
Started walking with the new gait
Every time they went for the bait
The hermit crabs imitate the walk
Of the people who talk
In the inebriated condition and mocks
The walk by the altered gait
As the bottle cap dwelling is very new
Our lifestyle should not influence
The hermit carbs life
So let us not throw the trash
Near the beaches and crash
And spoil the hermit carbs rash!
S. Joseph Winston is pursuing his PhD at the Mechanical Engineering Department of IIT Madras. His research is in the area of computer vision for remote robot calibration. He has completed his MTech in Machine Design with the university first rank at Kerala University and working as Senior Scientific Officer, heading Remote Handling & Irradiation Experiments Division and also heading a section Steam Generator Inspection Devices Section at Indira Gandhi Center for Atomic Research, Govt. Of India, Kalpakkam. His areas of interest are developments of robotic systems for remote inspection of power plant systems and soft intelligent motion controls for robotics and automation. His hobbies are photography, Traveling and creating computer program snippets. He has interest in human psychology and love to interact with different people.
It's a fallen star,
Hides where the river flows,
But where are you?
Searching everywhere,
You've left no trace,
Your voice keeps ringing in my ears,
Your words have filled up my space,
You used to make me dream
By the look in your eyes,
Love is missing,
I hold your heart in my hands,
Till I can hold you in my arms.
A piece of fallen star
Hides where the river flows,
But where are you?
My soul yearns and pines
For your smiles,
Your promises,
Time has flown into future
Like the river glides to meet the sea,
I'll wait for you at the horizon
And walk with you the rest of the way,
I hold your heart in my hands,
Till I can hold you in my arms.
I'll burn a sunset
And find love back,
When the evening dies down
I'll tend my weary mind,
The complicated tears
Have blinded me,
There's a suffocating gloom,
Darkness pulls me in,
It's like I'm drowning,
Drifting against the stream,
But I'll hold your heart in my hands,
Till I can hold you in my arms.
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. She is a Television and All India Radio artist. 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. Her poems have also been translated in few other languages.
Traffic Square!
Four roads at the criss-cross,
Freeway for everybody and everything
No White or no Khaki, to stop you
No whistle, no light red, yellow there to hinder you
You are the master of the square to have your own traffic
None to check what is in your vehicle or pocket,
You only know if you remember.
Sun shines there sharp,
May be a heat wave blows grounding some on the square,
Why not a crash?
Suddenly a typhoon may appear from nowhere,
Well very much there suddenly the Sun may disappear,
Rather a monstrous cloud hang over there on the square,
May come down a thunder storm,
To ravage the freeway traffic square,
Bring a Bill Board to the ground
Some perish, when you struggle to come out,
You heave a sigh of relief that two realities differ.
But you are the master of the Square,
What, when, and how and which you to go , is your look out
Lot of traffic, sun, or shadow,
Joy or sadness,
Butterfly flying, cheer leaders dancing or a Vulture doing somersault!
Do they come on their own?
Or you let them in with your eyes open. half-open or closed?
Professor Niranjan Barik ,formerly Professor and Head, Department of Political Science at Ravenshaw University also served as a Professor of Pol.Sc and Principal , Khallikote Autonomous College, Berhampur, Odisha. A Fulbright Scholar-in-Residence at Miles College, Birmingham, AL, USA in 2007-08 , Prof Barik evinces interest in reading and writing short stories and poems in Odia and English. His poetry book , “Freedom from Bondage: An Ode to Nature” was recently released at Bhubaneswar.
Can't explain to you
Why my grief is like inked water
The stain refusing to go away,
Why my mind is an occupied territory
Left open, with no fences,
Why the sky has broken into pieces
And fallen unto empty streets,
Why there is sound of marching boots
But no soldier in sight,
Why the eyes look at colors everywhere
But don't see a thing,
Why the ears pick up deafening slogans
But hear nothing,
Not a thing,
Absolutely nothing,
Yet somehow the heart keeps throbbing,
Waiting for a New Coming.
I will still ride the horse
like the wind, and go miles
looking for you,
till the mountains will echo
the deafening hoofs.
The stars will burst into dazzles
and rain on the moonlit desert.
My memories will dig deep
to find your signature
on the parched papers.
The urn will wait for dead hopes,
the ashes will pour in
and fill it to the brim.
The echoes will fade over time.
the horse will look for a new saddle,
the shadow will leave the rider and move on
The leaves will fall
the sad skies will shed tears
to quench the flames
and save the forest from burning down.
I will walk on, horseless,
saddleless, looking for you,
my unfulfilled goal, my receding dream.
Ruminating on how life cheated me,
showing a path, but cutting the ground under.
I know deep within my heart,
the end is but a ghost of the beginning
and everything in between a sad chimera
(At Pearl S. Buck Heritage Home, Pennsylvania)
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.
BOOK REVIEWS
Jaydeep Sarangi
Write to Me: Essays on Indian Poetry in English
by Basudhara Roy
Thirty-five reviews of Write to Me: Essays on Indian Poetry in English provide wonderful introductions to the work of the poets reviewed, but along with this they do something more. Collectively, they justify the strength and richness that lie at the heart of the current corpus of Indian Poetry in English. Write to Me is powerful responses to some important volumes of verse, but taken together the reviews serve as a brilliant introduction to the rich diversity of today’s Indian Poetry in English written from different backgrounds. Noted Wollongong (New South Wales) based critic Paul Sharrad asserts, “I would want Roy as my reviewer.” A curator of Hearth Within, an important online poetry platform, the reviewer is a committed artist who thinks poetry constitutes a record, a document, a witness, a thread of happenings and a timeless corpus. Her introduction to the book is a rare gift for the readers where she earnestly says, “Poetry in India and Indian Poetry in English is, currently, going through one of its healthiest and happiest phases.” Indian poetry in English is globally visible and intrepid for all spheres of social/ literary appropriation. Indigenous resources of multicultural India are the vital energy for the uniqueness of IPE. IPE has that strength that can never bore readers from different backgrounds. The reviewer explores all possible parameters of Indian knowledge banks taking texts from different perspectives and analyzing them critically and contextually.
The review anthology begins with Bhanu Kapil’s wonderful collection How to Wash a Heart. Bhanu Kapil is a British American poet of Indian heritage. The review is an attempt to find out an interface among cultures and contexts. The speaker in this collection, it is highlighted, is a champion artist, who brings out the fabrics of traditions and modernity at multiple levels. The reviewer examines the question of identity of an immigrant poet through a set of tropes. The immigrant experience is more layered in this collection as the interaction of three personal racial histories of the three women. Like all diaspora critics the reviewer tries to figure out “What is a home?.” Her arguments are sharp and intense. Not all poetry collections have an axe to grind, to hypnotize the readers.
A prominent Bengali poet Shyamal Kumar Pramanik’s The Untouchable & Other Poems is a translation from his Bengali poems. Pramanik speaks for the Dalits characterized by subversions, protest, defiance, resilience and emancipation. The fifty poems that comprise The Untouchable & Other Poems are seminal markers for social change. The sensitive reviewer probes deep into the poems and highlights the poet’s strong self-awareness to his social and personal dignity and commitment towards a casteless society. The readers are startled in these poems by a language that resists both aesthetically and functionally. The maestro is at her critical best when she quotes and examines, “Awake, awake O world’s primitive man.” Only a sensitive reviewer can do it with ease.
One of the champion poets’ from the North East Robin Ngangom’s My Invented Land is a collection of poems which is a faithful exploration of desires and the heart’s multi-layered longings for peace, hope, justice, cultural/political understanding and human credence. The review shows how the seasoned poet crafts an entourage of life’s daily resilience to fight back from every upset. For him poetry is therapeutic. Self, land and poetry constitute a thematic confluence:
“It is never too late to come home.
But I must first find a homeland
where I can find myself(.)” (p. 218)
Allahabad based Smita Agarwal’s Speak, Woman! is a treat to read and long for more. In some of the poems the past leans out silently. At times, the poet’s thoughts go beyond the world of facts where things are non- negotiable with human wit and routine grammar of living. The reviewer captures most of these impressions poignantly and convincingly. Agarwal reminds:
“Recall, how Kunti had to
dispossess herself
of a son,
Sita, walk into fire,
despite all the wrists
adorned with sacred thread.” ( p. 128)
Here is a gyre of poems in which life is portrayed firmly and vividly. Usha Akella’s I Will Not Bear You Sons is an urgent, demanding tone. The book is divided into two sections, I and We. The reviewer goes deep into a planetary history of women’s victimization, dispossession and suffering, and the transcultural and strategic disempowerment of women’s self hoods by the stereotypes. Basudhara claims the collections as, “an anthem of intersectional
feminist solidarity.” (p.134)
Noted poet-diplomat Abhay K’s Monsoon: A Poem of Love and Longing is a confluence of two dominant passions – his love for landscape and his quest for tracing kinships across cultures and traditions. The poet-reviewer cortically examines how a single poem of 150 quatrains, Monsoon describes the journey of the south-west Monsoon from the island of Madagascar across the Indian Ocean and the Indian subcontinent to the Himalayas. Kashiana Singh’s Woman by the Door is about women at the door. The woman, throughout these amazing poems, remains the nerve centre of the collection and a vital node of consciousness through whom ideas, ideologies, images and intuitions flow, circulate and sediment into knowledge. The reviewer considers, “Kashiana’s woman, as the reader will note, is not one.”( p.163). Her woman represents, for the poet, an ontological collage for the experience of plural identities; the poet lived in two different lands; India and US. A perfect soul-maker Sukrita Paul Kumar’s Vanishing Words fluidly transacts between poetry and painting, cross-borrowing ideas. Sukrita’s images are pictorial:
“Numbers don’t matter
Till they become razors
The edges rubbing into the heart
Sending shards of pain
And the tunnel to death widening
for the rising numbers to enter.” (p. 186)
All reviews and the individual collections demand our careful attention. Many poets are professors. Among many myriad reviews we may mention, Anita Nahal’s What’s Wrong With Us Kali Women?, GJV Prasad’s This World of Mine: Selected Poems, Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca’s Light of The Sabbath: Poems about Memories and the Sacredness of Light, Sanjukta Dasgupta’s Unbound: New and Selected Poems (1996-2021), Vinita Agrawal’s The Natural Language of Grief, Sanket Mhatre’s A City Full of Sirens, Malashri Lal’s Mandalas of Time. Each of these reviews is a call from within. Theseindividual poetry collections are amazingly remarkable for their obsession with Indian mythical knowledge systems , the authentic emotional inflections, the loaded metaphors/idioms, and the oscillations across a wide thematic range of living and longing, existence, estrangement, erosion, redemption, hopelessness, pain and forms of beauty and lust.
Let us speak of hands--Black Eagle Books has produced the book elegantly. The book is a face that bears the footprints of India and the world. No doubt that Write to Me will leave us both satiated and wistful for a long time to come.
Jaydeep Sarangi is an Indian poet with ten poetry collections in English latest being Memories of Words, poetry activist and scholar on postcolonial studies and Indian Writings with forty one books anchored in Kolkata/Jhargram,.. With Rob Harle he has edited six anthologies of poems from Australia and India which are a wealthy literary link between the nations. With Amelia Walker, he has guest edited a special issue for TEXT, Adelaide (Australia). His recent books include, Mapping the Mind , Minding The Map:Twenty Contemporary Indian English Poets , Sahitya Akademi, 2023 and A Life Uprooted: A Bengali Dalit Refugee Remembers, Sahitya Akademi, 2023. Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map ( 2023, Sahitya Akademi) is his latest book. Sarangi is currently the President of Guild of Indian English Writers, Editors and Critics (GIEWEC) and Vice President, EC, Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata. Living with poets and poetry, Sarangi is principal of New Alipore College, KolkataHe may be reached at: jaydeepsarangi1@gmail.com Website : https://jaydeepsarangi.in/
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