Literary Vibes - Edition CXLII (28-Jun-2024) - POEMS & REVIEWS
Title : Lonely Cottage (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
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,
Amidst the lyrical cascade of soothing monsoons, I have great pleasure in presenting to you the 142nd edition of LiteraryVibes. It comes decked with a platter of lovely poems, enchanting short stories and interesting anecdotes. We also have some wonderful poems from two very accomplished poets from Bangladesh, who have contributed to LiteraryVibes for the first time. Both Ms. Fatima Zohra Haque and Mr. Avik Sanvar Rahman are poets of international acclaim and their poetry bears the signature of spectacular talent. There are two other new contributors - Ms. Swatileka Roy, an Assistant Professor from Cachar, Assam, and Professor Ammangi Venugopal, an award-winning poet from Vikkarabad, Telengana. Both of them have a tremendous passion for literature and pour their emotions into beautiful poetry. Let us welcome all of them to the LV family and wish them the very best in their literary career.
The month of June, a period of transition from scorching summer to the cooling rains, comes with a lot of promise - the fiery hot winds giving way to moisture-laden breeze, trees washing off their dust and bursting into green laughter and colourful flowers blooming with infectious smiles - rainy season has been the source of poetic inspiration for ages, right from the time of Kalidasa. Those who have allowed themselves to be drenched by pouring rains in the open will know the bliss of pure, unadulterated water washing away their grief and worries. If you haven’t tried it, do it at least once. You will know what I mean.
June is also the month that harbours Father’s Day. To celebrate that occasion on 16th June, and knowing my fondness for books, my children gifted me a book “The Little Liar” by my currently favourite author Mitch Albom. I have not read it so far since I will be carrying it with me to India in July. Meanwhile I have finished reading two more of Albom’s books. The first one, “The Stranger in the Lifeboat” is a wonderful story of a fancy luxury ship sinking in the sea with celebrities of multiple hue, including a former President, a fashion designer, a few billionaires and a hot-shot beauty merchant. There are only a dozen survivors, including the eccentric billionaire who owned the ship. A young man is rescued a day after and strange things start happening once he is in the lifeboat, because as he himself announces eventually, he is the God. Practically no one believes him and challenges him to prove himself by taking them to the shore. He announces that he would save them if all of them accept him with total faith. There are doubters till the end and everyone dies, except the narrator of the story. He writes about his ordeal, and in the process many mysteries get unravelled. God, man, nature settle down to a fine equilibrium which holds the universe together.
The second book “The Magic Strings of Frankie Pestro” is an astonishingly beautiful story of a child prodigy born in a dingy corner of a church. Abandoned by his mother due to extreme poverty, he is raised by a crude businessman who discovers the boy’s musical talent and puts him in charge of a blind maestro. Soon the boy amazes everyone by his talent in playing guitar with extraordinary ability. Music in his hands turns into a magical experience, transporting the listeners into surreal realms of ecstatic joy. He keeps conquering the world, through a journey of musical rapture, intense love, weird experiments with life and finally returns to his homeland to discover truths about his life beyond his belief. On a stage for his final performance he collapses, his body raises from the ground and is suspended midair, as if the angels from heaven and his devoted fans on earth are waging a battle to claim him. But, in his death music triumphs, because no one can take away the memory of the legendary Frankie Presto.
I often wonder how modern writers like Mitch Albom, Haruki Murakami, Garcia Marquez, Orhan Pamuk or Khaled Hosseini get such extraordinary ideas for their novels and how they weave one masterpiece after another. The answer probably lies in their ability to envision a picture of supreme serenity and aesthetic beauty in human thoughts and action. We, ordinary mortals, can only dream of that. Our good luck lies in the opportunity given to us to read their works and immerse ourselves in pure joy.
Coming back to Father’s Day, let me share with you a beautiful story I came across in Social Media a few days back:
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When I came to Mumbai, I stayed as a paying guest in a posh building in Pali Hill. Not that I could afford it, I was lucky to get it cheap for an emotional reason. The landlords were an old couple and the apartment was huge. Their children were all abroad. They were lonely and afraid that if something happens to them who would be there to take them to hospital.
They gave me a small room to live. I was struggling and used to buy very cheap food like bhelpuri, vada pao etc from Linking Road, heat it in their microwave and eat alone in my room.
One day, auntie asked me to eat in their dining room. So, next day I bought some extra bhelpuri and offered to them. Hesitantly, they accepted it. Uncle told me that it was after some 20 years they had eaten street food, as their children had asked them not to eat street food.
Slowly, this became a ritual, They started waiting for me to come back with some street food. This brought joy in their life. It also gave me a sense of family. They told me this must remain a ‘secret’ between us and I must never tell their children, just in case we ever met. Their children called every weekend but the old couple never ever mentioned this ‘secret’.
I started researching for all famous street food vendors in Mumbai. I travelled distances in local trains, walked miles to get some special street food from corners of Mumbai. Kheema Pav of Gulshan-e-Iran at Crawford Market or Dosa from Anand at Ville Parle or Bun Maska and Mava Samosa of Mervan’s at Grant Road or Samosa with Chola of Guru Kripa in Sion or Khichdi of Swati Snacks or Sadguru Pav Bhaji from Chembur.
It gave me purpose and hope to old couple.
We became a small family seeking that ‘dining table’ moment of bonding. Uncle was very old, 90ish. He would tell me same ‘kissa’ (story) everyday. Later, I learnt from auntie that the entire day he didn’t speak. This was the only moment when he came to life.
Gradually, his health started deteriorating. He started forgetting. Then came a time when he forgot that I wasn’t his real son. One day, on his birthday, I brought poori and aloo ki sabzi from Pancham Pooriwala near VT station. He smelt it for a very long time and then he called me by his son’s name. Auntie told me most of his working life in town, he had the same poori aloo for lunch as his office was next door to Pancham. Once he retired, his son asked him not to eat it anymore. After relishing it for more than an hour, he got up and walked very slowly, with his walker, to his room and came back with a box. Once again, he addressed me with his son’s name and gave it to me. “I had kept it for the day when you grow up to fulfill a son’s duty. Today, you did. It’s yours now.”
When I opened the box, there was a ‘Hero’ fountain pen in it. Later auntie told me that he had written his engineering exam with this. The pen was gifted to him by his father.
That night, I hadn’t found a Hero pen. I had found a father.
That pen is with me to be given to a son who will bring me my favourite food, when I am old and cold.
*We are born to one father. But we can be son to many fathers*
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Hope you liked the story as much as I did. Human love has no limits and no boundaries. It can come to us any day, in any form. Let us celebrate it with joy in our heart and bliss in our soul.
Please do share the joy of LiteraryVibes with your friends through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/548 (Poems and a Book Review)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/547 (Short Stories and Anecdotes)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/546 (Young Magic)
There is also a medical related article by the famous gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/545
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 142 editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Take care, enjoy the rains till we meet again with the 143rd edition of LV on 26th July.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Friday, the 28th June, 2024
Table of Contents :: POEMS
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
RITUALS OF MOKSHA
02) Dilip Mohapatra
EPITAPH
03) Raju Samal
HISTORY
COSMIC LOVE AFFAIR
04) Abani Udgata
THE ROAD
05) Fatema Zohra Haque
YOU LOSE SOMEONE ONCE
SADNESS
JUNE ROMANCE
06) Avik Sanwar Rahman
SELLING SOUL
I AM JUST A BONE
GENOCIDE
A PRAYER TO A KILLER
07) Swatilekha Roy
CRAZY
UNIVERSE AND WORDS
08) Ammangi Venugopal
ATTIC
09) Hema Ravi
HOT, HOTTER…
10) Snehaprava Das
WHEN I DREAM MY LAST
11) Dr R S Tewari Shikhresh
OFT THEY CALL LOVE...
ONE AMONG MILLIONS
ENLIGHTENED EFFUSION
12) Jay Jagdev
SANS THE SHROUD
STAY THERE
13) Sreeja Sree
MY LORD, MY LIFE, MY WORLD
14) Leena Thampi
MY HEART DOESN'T WRINKLE
15) Jaydeep Sarangi
PATTERNS ON STONE
KNOCKER-UPPERS
MY LONELY HEART
16) Braja K Sorkar
MY WINDOW
RIVER OF DESIRE
BLEEDS IN SILENCE.
ROOTLESS
17) Matralina Pati
MAKING OF POETRY
LAZARUS
PROMISE OF CURE
18) N Rangamani
SHADOW : AIN'T I TRUE, AND REAL?
BABY'S DAY OUT
19) Dr. (Col) Rekha Mohanty
AMAZING LEGACY
20) Setaluri Padmavathi
DELICACY
THE FACE – A PICTURE OF THE MIND
21) Sudipta Mishra
WAITING FOR RAIN
22) Saroj K. Padhi
ANGUISH OF A DESERTED GIRL
23) Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra
ERASE
24) Bipin Patsani
WORLD HISTORY
SONG O F THE HAPPY CRIPPLE
POETRY ON WHEELS
25) Dr. Nanda K. Biswal
FAIRIES IN GOD’S SEQUESTERED HOME
26) Avantika Vijay Singh
YES, I HAVE SEEN GOD!
27) Priyalakshmi Gogoi
THOSE MEMORIES
28) Arpita Priyadarsini
PALE WISHES AND DAFFODIL DREAMS
29) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
ALL TO GROW SURELY TO GLOW
DELIGHT IN FLIGHT
RAYS OF THE ROOTS
30) Bijayalaxmi Rath .
TWINKLING STARS AND FLOATING DARK.
31) Sheena Rath
LABURNUMS
32) Dilip Rakshit
STATION
REMINISCENCE
A CUP OF TEA
33) Ravi Ranganathan
RECOMPENSE
34) Annamalai M
SECRET OF SUCCESS
MIS(S) CONCEPTION
THREE GORGES
35) Prof Niranjan Barik
MERA BHARAT MAHAN!
36) Nandini Mitra
LET ME LOSE MY WAY IN YOUR EYES
37) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
RAINS
Table of Contents :: BOOK REVIEWS
01) Fatema Zohra Haque
DHAKA DYNAMICS: LENSING THROUGH JOURNALISM
Table of Contents :: SHORT STORIES & ANECDOTES
01) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
A RIDE BACK
02) Prabhanjan K Mishra
APPU, THE ALIEN
03) Ishwar Pati
MONSOON IN THE COUNTRYSIDE
04) Dilip Mohapatra
SILENT SCARS
05) Snehaprava Das
THE LADY IN WHITE
06) Usha Surya
BLOOD ON HIS PALMS
07) Dr. Bidhu Mohanti
SAMBHAV:
08) Jay Jagdev
JADOO KI JHAPPI
09) Sreekumar T V
HOLY HAIR
10) Soumen Roy
THE SMILE
11) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
NEEDS
12) Hema Ravi
HOSPITALITY AKA ATITHI DEVO BHAVA
13) Ashok Mishra
SORRY APSARI
14) Bankim Chandra Tola
MY TRIP TO KASHMIR – AN AUDACIOUS ADVENTURE
15) N Meera Raghavendra Rao
WHY NOT A HAT?
16) Sukumaran C.V.
NEST BUILDERS & THE EGG-RAIDERS
17) Nitish Nivedan Barik
A LEAF FROM HISTORY
18) Sreechandra Banerjee
TRIBUTE TO LITERARY LEGEND KALIDASA’S MEGHADUTA
19) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PERFUME
Table of Contents :: YOUNG MAGIC
01) Trishna Sahoo
OCEAN AND THE SKY
02) Anura Parida
DELICATE
03) Usha Surya
ONCE UPON A TIME
POEMS
(ONE)
None loves her except me; she has
loved none but me who has
warmed her bed, body, counted
her heartbeats and heartbreaks.
Heating and eating cold suppers every night,
the cold bed labouring in vain to warm up,
rare nights plucking wrinkled fruits,
wilted flowers from her dark's labyrinth.
In the middle of a rare ritual, she may
call out, "Baby, an egg pudding, please.”
The bed goes cold, limp.
But the pudding could be a detonator.
That’s my whore, taking bath, putting makeup,
her evening ritual; I, her bodyguard, paramour,
and pimp, wryly gawk – does her look improve? No.
But her mood? Sure. Her ruins break my heart.
In bedazzled mood, she awaits her admirers
at her bower, overlooking the road,
a habit of years. A tortoise sticking out
an neck, until luck struck.
(TWO)
Our neighbours, a saffron-couple,
early birds on morning stroll;
catch us like their proverbial worms
with a morgue's resolve.
In ochre and Rudraksha;
counting beads all hours; perhaps,
to convince themselves more than
convincing us, or God.
It is dusk, their home also hums with hope.
Our neighbours from their foyer
skim the road dimming light, notice
a distant figure; as does my whore.
(THREE)
To catch a single worm
crawling along the road,
their ochre with dour-promises
of a long-cherished moksha
competes with my whore’s feminine elan
offering moksha like an instant Capuchino.
I rejoice my whore’s win,
I hear the trapped worm in her creel
thrashing with the pangs of moksha.
The neighbours sulk with jealousy; so do I.
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.
In a body bag you returned my love
its fragile pulse uncertain
did it ever truly exist
or was it a phantom born of longing?
The doctors baffled
whisper in hushed tones
unable to ascribe a cause of death
The postmortem yields only emptiness
a void where passion once thrived.
The police indifferent
close the case
an accidental demise
they say
while the assassin roams free
careless and unburdened.
But I refuse to let love fade ignobly
though it slips through my desperate fingers
vanishing into the heart’s twilight…
Its shadow a ghostly companion
crosses the river with me
and beneath the ancient acacia tree
I lay it to rest.
Once we etched Cupid’s mark
upon its bark
now weathered and scarred
a testament to our shared vulnerability
And so I carve anew
a fresh yet fractured heart
just below the faded motif
and inscribe upon it
an epitaph :
“Love, forever bleeding.”
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
Those great men of power
and fame
are now merely some pictures
and words in the pages of history
men of love
with their ordinariness
are the blank space of those pages
once you are there no more
how does it matter
whether you are a written word
or a blank sheet of paper
Why do you
look at me that way
is it love
or it is not
let it be anything
you look at me
that way
says the earth
to the ever-staring sky
Raju Samal is an international award winning poet. He writes both in Oriya and English. He is M.A.in English Literature from Ravenshaw College. He has five volumes of poetry in Oriya and four volumes in English. He is a visiting Faculty to Mumbai University. He retired as General Manager from The New India assurance Company . Mob.no.9029970144 ,email rajusamal007@yahoo.co.in
One who is beside me
does not know the answer.
The road we walk together
through the hills, forests, rivers.
Does it have a master?
Against the April sky that
has turned violet, the evening droops
like the petals of a dying rose.
It is not that I walk as if
I am in a dream - no, no.
The sun well behind me
the steps dig the earth,
draw out flints for spark.
The entwined limbs, the deep
burrowing thrust of desires
reaching in to the crevices .
The luscious lips of the cloud
on the upturned crest of the hill.
The green, dense green, desire
of the forest in rains sets sail
the nubile grace of thousand streams .
The traveller has seen it all
through the heartless summer and
the anonymity of dark, cold winter.
The road renews itself .
Walks through cave after cave and
the talking pictures on the stone-walls
go on and on .
When do the road and the traveller
become one ?
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
You lose someone over and over,
Same time same day
Again and again
Your loss momentarily forgot
Haunts you day and night
Over and over again!
You lose someone over and over,
Waves of anguish hits you high
They are never gone.
Again and again
Your energy is ebbing or blown
Over and over again!
You lose someone over and over,
When your eyes see a new dawn,
Your memories are awaken
As if thunder bolts of lightning
Rip into your heart,
Over and over again!
You lose someone over and over,
There is no end to the loss,
Stay afloat when it washes over.
You don’t lose someone once,
Lose every day for a lifetime
Over and over again!
Enjoying more is suffering more
Sensitive souls know it all
But is suffering that bad?
Suffering is a cleansing
So they said!
Sadness has a divine depth
No happiness can ever have.
If you know not sorrow
Have not known the depths of life
Have not touched your being
Just been on the periphery
Need to move within
These two banks
That flows the river of life.
My heart calls like raindrops
In June's gentle embrace,
Pale petals hold tight
To daylight's promise.
Love renews,
Fresh from winter's chill,
Rainbow hues blend,
Green life awakens.
Our eyes bloom,
Flowers spread wide,
Our future fragrant with roses,
Though years of solitude passed.
Silver replaces gold
Yet we shine on bold
A blossom takes place
In our heartland grace.
Fatema Zohra Haque, an esteemed international educator and Fulbright Scholar, has authored 25 poetry books. Her columns on education, literature, social issues, and translations appear worldwide in Bengali and English media. Her poetry, including "Selected Love Poems," "Weeping Sky Solitary River,” “Blinded Eyes Looted Dreams” and “Pain in The Epitaph of Art,” are cataloged by the Library of Congress and top 15 US universities. She is also a column editor for the New York-based News magazine The Bay Wave.
I cannot sell my soul
Whatever I am told
Whoever has been sold
The stories that are told
That old is gold
I cannot behold
The world is multifold
No one is to ones
Oh Lord evidence so bold
We are not alone
Look up the sky
Milky way is unique
Ground water is sweeter
We drink from the same pond
Thirst knows no bound
I can only give my soul
If you ever say so!
I am just a bone
On my own
Standing still without flesh threading vein
Covered with dry dead skin
Like a living skeleton.
I don't want to be sworn
To the pomp and frowns
Don't want to be at the lower frequency
Yes, without any mass it's only energy
But my heart still beats for the lost reunion.
How many bodies suffice a genocide
How many children suffice infanticide
Set a number for God’s sake
One is no number
Thousands, millions, count deadlier
Yet we count bodies
As we weigh genocide!
I can’t imagine why human kind
Die for someone who is so blind!
Good deeds are forsaken
Bad deeds are taken
For granted!
I don’t know how we pray still
To someone who only knows how to kill!
Oh God my lord
Help us spare us
Calling a sinner
Take my words
A prayer to a Killer!
Avik Sanwar Rahman is a journalist and a published author and poet. His novel "The Box" is cataloged at the Library of Congress. His poems have been published in literary journals in UK, USA, India and in Bangladesh.
“Dhaka Dynamics: Lensing through Journalism" written by Avik Sanwar Rahman was published in February 2024, launched at the New York Book Fair and was nominated for a prestigious award by the American Bangladesh Press Club in New York, recognizing Rahman's significant contributions to journalism in both Bangladesh and the USA.
Some moments are so crazy
Won’t give any time to organize
But at that very moment you may feel like floating around the cloud
Within a fluffy protective sheild
Nothing could make you happy or unhappy
Far from blemish-free dilemma
You are amidst totally perfect craziness
With lots of work to finish
I have seen my father
Writing a lot
His apathetic eyes were
In search for words
Words
by which
He could write a poem about
A shattered life
And a perfect house
Universe and Words
In a silent but constant pace
Writing Life in many poems
Swatilekha Roy , She is a bilingual poet,Lecturer ,F.A degree College ,Cachar Assam.She is creative and passionate nature photographer too
(Translated by: Elanaaga)
It's a museum just beneath the top
floor.
Strong with iron bars, cement,
concrete,
it withstands enormous weight
like a bonded labourer.
It contains some frozen past
memories:
grandfather's easy chair,
the crown donned by father in a
drama,
the vermillion casket mother
inherited from her mother,
a dented copper cauldron,
brother's tipcat striker,
sister's vamana guntalu,
monkey doll bought by mother
for granddaughter in the carnival ...
All are sighing, recollecting
their glorious past.
This attic is a zoo; lizards, cats,
rats inhabit in it.
Not yielding to the three-lingo-tenet,
they're making much din.
There's a bookstore in a trunk;
its lid is broken.
Untie a bundle, and Nannayas, Thikkanas will gush out.
From another, will escape Shakespeares and Shellys.
Maths subject ravaged me
with its x in school days;
it's still new.
(When did I study it?!)
I see a group photo in a newspaper
dating back to my schooldays,
with my chums' faces gleaming.
All of them must be having
offspring spread out like
an ancient banyan tree.
A generations-old kiddy bank in a pot!
In it is concealed the history of old
coins
This attic is a time capsule that hid the history of bygone generations.
Dr. Ammangi Venugopal is a popular poet and critic in the field of Telugu literature. He hails from a small village in Vikarabad district of Telangana State. Born in 1948 into a middle class family, he entered the teaching profession after completing his M.A. and Ph. D. in Telugu. He worked as a lecturer and principal of many colleges, and retired as a principal. He is known for his gentle, amiable and pleasant demeanor.
His oeuvre comprises six collections of free verse poems, four books of literary essays, and four books of translation (English to Telugu). Also, he composed many playlets and musical ballets. He has the credit of editing nine books and penning forewords to about 40 literary books. He bagged four major awards, viz. Kaloji Narayana Rao award, Dr. C. Narayana Reddy award, Arudra award, and Telugu University’s Pratibha Puraskaram. Besides these, he was decorated with several other honors.
Born in 1953 in Telangana State of India, Elanaaga is a well-known poet, writer, translator and critic in the field of Telugu literature. He is a paediatrician, but now only pursuing his literary interest. His actual name is Dr. Surendra Nagaraju.
He penned 38 books so far, 18 of which are original writings (16 in Telugu and 2 in English), and 20 are translations. Of the latter, ten are from English to Telugu and ten vice versa.
Sizzling summers bring storms
sudden and dusty.
Rains that follow as per norms -
cheery and gusty.
Seasonal shifts keep mind and body fresh, not fusty!
The season’s changed here -
stay home or head out?
The choice is not at all clear.
All around, a drought,
a dullness called climate change – time to fret, to shout?
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
I wouldn't ask you tonight to write a poem for me
Just say a few soothing words while I grope blindly
for the star that had sparkled that night
under our ancient Palash tree,
I know this night is not secret and cosy
As the other one was,
The tree too is tired of growing
new leaves again and again all these years
And now relishes the chill settled on it,
But my face is still warm from your touch
Under the descending ice sheet,
My sky does not need a moon tonight
I know I ll have to settle for the clouds sweeping darkly over it
No more longing for the soft splat of
The Palasha buds dropping gently around us as they did that night
No more longing for the gentle breeze to wrap us in its folds
To remember the touch is just enough,
Your touch.....
Hushed, shy, and light;
I wouldn't ask you to walk with me to the end of the road or burn with me
on the pyre of my dead dream,
just move together a few steps towards our crumbling tree
before it is time for the final returning;
Through all the warmth of the springs and summers till the inevitable snowflakes on the branches of the tree
that stood a mute witness to our
Wasted yearnings
Time has held us apart
But I no longer mind that,
I just want to hold you in my ultimate wish
As the only eternity of my past
When the moon goes to sleep under the clouds and I dream my last!
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.
Oft they call love true or fake ,
Truly not so, if it does exist ,
no stake .
Love is ever engendered
selflessly ,
So does it continue relentlessly .
Love as such needn't be conveyed,
Nor does it make one dismayed .
The fake imposes varied ifs and buts ,
True heart does dwell even in huts .
Fake love plays a conditional game ,
Tries to indulge in the blame game .
True love knows not altering and affecting,
For it is nourished in the pious throbbing .
The truth and the good call for no trial ,
Born are they enlightened and ethereal .
Fake love dies in the cradle of lust ,
Tries to strangle both truth and trust.
Either for something or for all ,
Immaterial whether big or small ,
Their interests must be served ,
No matter, one is at peace or disturbed .
They are hardly concerned with
One's strife and misery here with .
Also are they unmindful of
ventures undertaken
By one and dishonour the itinerary to enlighten.
With materialistic resistence
fighting
For the victory of mundane
crafting ,
Their tender zones are turning so rocky ones ,
That the amorous lullaby is one among millions .
Ultimately the truth wins
And makes the rust rinse
With which selfish shopping
Makes one suffer all reeling.
When one is so self-centred
That ,in fair weather, is altered ,
Gets blind treading humanity,
Forgetting creed and credibility
Dr R. S.Tewari 'Shikhresh' is a retired Assistant Director(O.L.)from Govt of India ,awarded by Honourable President of India,Honourable Governor of Uttarakhand and U.P.,Honourable State Home Minister (Govt of India) for commendable work in Official Language of the country is an M.A.( English Literature ,Hindi Lit. Philosophy ),PG Dip.(Translation and Journalism )and Ph.D.in Philosophy of Religion ,
Dr Tewari to his credit has 23 books of English verses,Hindi verses,books on Official Language and English Grammar.He has delivered more than five hundred lectures in various workshops on various topics.He has written more than a dozen of reviews of books in Hindi and English. Having started his career as an English teacher ,Dr Tewari worked as a Translation Officer, Hindi Pradhyapak and Assistant Director (Official Language) in Income -tax Dept.He has also served as a Consultant, Officilal Language and Communication in a training Centre of the ministry of MSME.
He has also worked in the Departments of Philosophy and Journalism in Agra University as a visiting faculty for a short span. Presently, he is a Visiting Faculty in the distance cell of D E I Deemed University, Dayalbagh ,Agra (UP),India.
You love me, you desire me,
You want to write poems on me, you want to paint me,
You want to be entertained by me.
You want me to carry your child,
You want me to nurse your child.
When you are angry with me,
When you see a witch in me.
When you want to feel victorious,
When you want to feel like a man.
When you want to spite another man,
When you want to emotionally crush another man.
You make me naked – every time.
Why?
My heart aches and longs for you,
To relive those tender days and stolen moments.
You seem so beautiful in my memories.
Stay there – Always!
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
(Translation by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
(Illustration by Sreeja Sree)
You are the moon, a silver gleam in the night,
My one and only, my guiding light.
Through the tempest and the storm,
You are the one who keeps me warm.
In a world of shadows, you stand apart,
A beacon of hope, a steadfast heart.
Your touch, a whisper of divine grace,
The only solace in this desolate place.
Your eyes, deep pools of endless love,
Reflect the heavens, stars above.
Each glance, a promise of forever,
A bond no force on earth could sever.
When doubt and fear cloud my mind,
It's in your arms that peace I find.
A sanctuary, a safe retreat,
Where our hearts in rhythm beat.
Your voice, a melody soft and pure,
In your words, I find my cure.
Each syllable, a tender caress,
A balm for wounds that time won't bless.
Your presence, a gift of precious worth,
The anchor that grounds me to this earth.
In your embrace, I find my home,
With you, I'll never feel alone.
Through the labyrinth of life we roam,
Hand in hand, never on our own.
Against the tides of fate, we stand,
Unyielding, unwavering, hand in hand.
When darkness falls and all seems lost,
I count on you, no matter the cost.
Your love, a beacon shining bright,
Guiding me through the darkest night.
With you, I've found my one true north,
The only one who proves my worth.
In this chaotic, fleeting existence,
Your love is my sole resistance.
To you, my heart will always cleave,
For you're the one who makes me believe.
In a world of shadows, you are my sun,
My one and only, my only one.
Mrs. Sreeja Sree from Kattuppara, a village in Malappuram, Kerala, India, is a multi-talented mother. She writes, composes, sings, illustrates, and makes her living as a dance teacher at her own dance school, after teaching herself classical dance forms like Bharatanatyam which is almost impossible to learn on one's own.
Dressed in elegance and grace,
A testament to time's embrace,
I wear the badge of age with pride, For it's our journey's sacred trance.
Why are you dressed so well ?
They ask me often whenever I step out,
I smile and tell them without horror
I want to please the person I see daily in the mirror
My skin may fade,hair may turn grey
Anything that changes on the outside
Will never shatter my inside.
Age is just a number, a mere digit so fine,
A label that's placed upon us, without care or a whine.
It's a measure of time, a count of the years,
But it doesn't define us, or bring us to tears.
I am made up of more than just my skin and hair
My sense of humour is quite rare
Let me not count the days and years
But live my life without regrets and fears.
A poignant journey of menopause reminds
No words would hurt you more than the negative self talk you repeat to yourself.
Aging, a process that none can escape,
A journey marked by memories we can't erase.
Gracefully, we age, with wisdom as our guide,
In every wrinkle, a story we can hide.
Those who speak of age with whispers sharp and cruel,
In shadows of envy, they dwell and fume,
So let them try to bring you down with their taunts,
For in their shadows, you shall always stand tall
Your heart, your soul, your spirit, forever unfazed,
In the mirror of life, their reflections will be erased.
Though youth may fade, our spirit remains,
An eternal flame that never wanes.
Aging gracefully, a gift to embrace,
A testament to the beauty of time and space.
For in our hearts, we're forever young, Our souls ageless, our love never done.
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.
My dear love found
the colours to paint me
where the living world
had left me brown.
My insomniac love has grown deep within me.
Nothing, nothing can I tell?
Hope is the thing with dyed feathers
that perches the soul spaces.
I am safe, Anubis protecting
my ancestors sleeping for ages.
A diabetic life is all Nazca lines
drawn in a different light, different times.
Clothed in night I want to return
to the shadows and from there to geoglyphs.
My solitude has my own moon.
Leave me alone to all the heavy lifting.
For everything there is a reason
and good time to every thrust
a time to be healthy, a time to be sick
a time to be born time to be ashes
There are knocker-uppers to live with
there is time to get up
time to leave out in slow pace
reminding time to have business
There are days for full sleep, shadows deep
weary pains to open our eyes and reading
all birthday cards and new year gifts
recall every word, love every loss.
This is just a place, coiled and free
That’s it for the leaf
We arrive and go to touch and joining with
Barren trees taking away all leaves gently.
All these agree with me
unbounded, panting for more.
My expectations define
no wound elsewhere
Nothing to her happiness.
She will write to me, someday.
May be, may be never to be so.
Without care, without brightness
only my heart bleeds, bleeds deep.
Jaydeep Sarangi is an Indian poet poetry activist with ten poetry collections in English and scholar on postcolonial studies and Indian Writings with forty one books anchored in Kolkata/Jhargram,. Widely anthologised and reviewed as a leading contemporary poet Sarangi is on the editorial boards for journals of repute, devoted to poetry and poetry criticism. 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, Australia. His recent book includes, 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. He may be reached at: jaydeepsarangi1@gmail.com Website : https://jaydeepsarangi.in/
Many doors and windows around a life,
Light and wind wrapped in endless possibilities,
Termites write the diary of time and the will of the tree in the soft body.
Trivial force! They also know all the insults of the household today.
The innocent window that lives forever by the door,
Watching who comes and goes, Seasons change step by step,
Inside the house is still dark.
The lonely gloom of the window!
At the closed door stands the wary watchman,
However, the neighbor's cat entered the house
and took a look at it one by one…
The domestic sky filled with yellow pages!
A sick cat sits next to a dead mouse in the dark.
The wind soothes the lonely window
Of my life..
Every day I meet a young river
Something dark happens in the rain,
I Hug her with words.
Aquatic lust knows no bounds, rushing through the bloodstream.
The sea breathes, stone pulses.
Gradually, my mind wants attention.
In the smooth body of the river,
I give it the luxury of ports and dense towns.
I continue to sink slowly, into a strange dreamy sleep
in the depths of the river, in that slumber,
sculpture of Greece, hanging garden of Babylon,
and a lovely youth wake-up.
The fish are gradually being pulled up
from the upstream current of water.
My ship anchored at the navel of the river of desire...
What you could not imagine even a dream,
Just you can’t get rid of this inhabitable earth;
What else you could act, it was just a miracle,
A miracle that never happened.
You seem a strange creature, A stranger to me,
Though I have been with you for a long.
The time peace at the corner of the living room
is sleeping now. You are also sleepless, pretending
As a sleeping baby in the middle of the bed.
A night bird calls now and then,
I understand, you are a woman of secret heart
Bleeds in silence.
It is difficult to say that the city I live in is not
exactly a city but a modern village!
Such a moving city, it seems like a miniature version of India.
Time here goes clockwise.
As iron melts from the blast furnace of a steel mill,
it flows into the right vessel.
Everything grows at the same rate as people in this city.
Shining roads, long-armed trees on both sides,
hundreds of dogs roam on every street,
cows-buffalos, careless, everyone riding fast bikes-motorcars,
sophisticated shopping malls, young ladies, eco-parks,
smart and professional criminals roam in the dark of night.
I know, one day everything will be digital here,
Swachh Bharat Mission is working.
There is no lag in the work of artificial intelligence.
In this brilliant industrial land, everything is there, like itself.
Yet no one seems to have roots deep in the soil...
(I declare that the poems submitted today are original and never published before in any form)
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
Droplets of blood
Oozed out of
My mangled heart,
They congealed into
A wailing pot of ink;
In it I have dipped
My rusted pen.
In my sickly journal
I have corralled
Many a lost dream
And their expired tales.
Sweltering squalls of drought
Had tossed vernal blossoms.
Still
They did not swoon to Lethe!
Yesteryear’s light, too, had traversed
The torrid terrains of summer!
Like a time-worn pile of hay
I started to wither away …
I clutched at twigs of hemlock.
Shreds of my soul invoked stupor!
Summer faded to naught slowly.
Its pale pall plunged into
The green candour of Autumn!
A mighty green arm
Rises from the grave!
It rends through my shroud.
My yellowing self
Treads the illumined realm.
Beads of poetry
Wreathe my brow.
Ah! I had harboured
An ancient angst for long.
Your solacing fingers then
Rollicked on my face, care-worn:
Guileless smiles of the kindly morn.
Pre-historic longings for grace
Inundated the strands
Of my once arid chest.
O Poetry! You have promised to cure
The silent pain of my diseased brain.
In your palliative light,
I will bathe, once more.
Won't I?
Matralina Pati, a Ph.D. scholar at Bankura University, specializes in marginal Bhasha literature in English translations. As a UGC-NET-JRF awardee, she holds an MA in English Literature, graduating First Class First in 2020. Her has presented her research articles and creative writings at various literary and academic forums. She is an emerging bilingual poet and translator, based in Bankura, West Bengal. .
SHADOW : AIN'T I TRUE, AND REAL?
Born to light and an(y) object dark
I'm black, that's true, as well as stark.
Size and shape matter; yes they do,
And naturally, the time, too.
A giant silvery airplane flying at high altitude
Or your colourful avian friend far below- my dude,
I cast them simply down to earth, nude..
And, do I show any attitude?
School kids revel when I walk along in the front, as leader;
Some may get scared when I'm on their side taller,
Or, follow them from behind, much closer!!
White patches in the vast azure blue sky, of Cirrocumulus
I reveal as black beauty on the sheet of river water, still and colourless,
That the aquatic species underneath rejoice, when in no peril,
Having a lovely, clear fish-eye-view, that's nonpareil !
Until they fall a prey to the old miserly angler there
Or, when a mischievous boy pelts a stone deeper
For, the big splash created thus would put me, too, in danger !?
Artistes paint me in different colour schemes
And poets pen verses with varied rhyme-schemes
Yet none of these works can overshadow another
Yes, I know; why should I ever bother?
.....
......
As Omar Khayyam and Fitzgerald in 'Rubaiyant' append:
"We're no other than moving row,
Of magic shadow-shapes,
That come and go, sans end! "
In...
A unique, vast, wonderful and picturesque landscape
That none here, sans beholding, can escape?!
Grandpa takes me out on a cozy stroller
And I enjoy looking around, at things colourful and closer.
The daily outing that I always yearn,
For, there's many a thing in store, for me to see or learn!
I see people from different walks of life, of different races
Or colours; they're on a walk, too, at varied paces...
Elders, youngsters, couples or singles, in pairs or sets
A few, with their lovely feline or canine pets!
They all take a walk for reasons healthy, or none
To simply while away time, be with nature, all alone?
I belong to the group that rejoices in the scenic beauty around,
Oh, that's when our joy knows no bound.
I see trees on either side, tall, stout and big
And some short, with many a slender twig.
Lovely spruce, pine and fir trees or cedar that allure,
Spaced between some giant red wood trees mature.
Lush groves and shrubs bearing beautiful flowers fragrant
In colours purple, red, yellow and blue, all vibrant!
Don't they attract butterflies and some sweet little humming birds
To circle around, just for company, or to share their scent?..... I lack words!
Get to see large, exotic blooms of different jasmines, Philippine or white
Or apple blossoms and snap dragons, so fine and bright;
Birds like myna, crow, sparrow, and parrot flock together for their feed, and bond
And one can see a couple of ducks taking to water on the nearby pond.
Leaving behind white smoke trails, some fixed wing planes fly high in the sky
While a few seagulls flapping their wings make a perfect landing without a shy!
Oh, what's that ....swiftly crossing our path?, some kitten, feral?
No.... ! grandpa says it's a Californian tree squirrel.
With furry tail, grey and a fluffy body stout,
Biting with rodent teeth, some fallen fruit, fig or nut,
Could see that climbing steep, up the tall redwood tree with ease.
It isn't blessed by Ram?? has no stripes on the body, or some crease?
There comes my cute little toddler friend
Gazing at the speeding white Tesla along the roadside bend;
We both stay motionless in awe, looking at the chirping birds hovering,
At times get jolted from above, and scared by the fighter jet roaring!!
"Love All", a feeble voice I seem to hear,
When we approach the green turf tennis court near.
No pussy's in the well, yet I hear some bell ding-dong,
As I watch some Chinese boys playing on a table, ping pong!
Want to see a high fountain, of clear water?
You may take a detour, walk a little farther.
When the chill wind blows a bit too faster,
You tend to get some misty spray all over!
The sun is bright, and gives us light
Now late in the evening, even at night!
Grandpa says: Oh, it's a big ball of fire,
We can't go anywhere near!!
Back home cheerful, I get my feed lukewarm
Before I go to sleep in my papa's arms
Or retire peacefully in grandpa's arms,
They all give me soothing warmth!
N. Rangamani, a resident of Chennai, graduated from IIT Madras; superannuated after more than thirty-five years of service in (Aircraft Maintenance) Aviation. He has revived his writing passion post retirement. He likes to write and puts it to action, sometimes. He writes in Tamil and English. Contact: rangkrish@gmail.com
You emulate and get
benefitted by legacies
left behind by predecessors,
It’s the human tendency
to leave behind a legacy
to be remembered,
after one is no more,
The legacy is a gift,
It means
dreaming big,
It’s an earnest endeavour,
for changing
the world for better,
you seek
true purpose of life
not a nebulous one,
To be meaningful
and unique,
You stand with your values
hard work and altruism,
Your legacy is the sum of good
accomplishments
that resonate when you are gone…
It can be your money and property,
Your stories and charity,
that benefits others,
That gives you a sense of self actualisation,
a genuine satisfaction,
You are proud of your
ethics, hard work and vision,
You followed your passion,
You have character
and reputation,
All that you pass on
is revered by
next generation,
You believe in contribution,
Carve
your name on hearts
not on stone,
Either write something
worth or do something
worth writing about,
So that you will be
remembered,
When beautiful
Forget-me-nots
have long withered…
It really does not matter
whether raising a
Fortune 500 company,
or putting a smile
on faces benign,
Build a life,
Sculpt an amazing legacy,
That will be just fine…
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.
The homeless kids on the footpath
struggle to fill their small stomach;
Kids from several well-to-do families
waste delicious food with no struggle!
Cuisine surely plays an important role
in a wedding ceremony on the whole;
Guests may either have or dispose
but the owners aim at their service!
The head of the family strives hard
to satisfy all in the house so well;
Everyone waits for his or her turn
to enjoy delicacy at every meal!
Eat not more when you don't need
Surplus food can be used to feed
Waste not, the minds, do you read?
Help and tell all, valuable every seed!
THE FACE – A PICTURE OF THE MIND
The face is the index of the human mind
Sad and joyful emotions, it does bind
A happy feeling is seen on a lovely face
While an achievement takes its place.
People love our smiling expression
They care about our inner perception
A smile begins a pleasant conversation
It often covers the inner contradiction
Facial expression informs innate speech
It explains correlation and has a global reach
Gestures of facial parts reveal the truth
In our discussion, they cannot say untruth.
The eyes are our face’s real interpreters
that play a role and acts as a messenger
The physical organs inform all feelings
They guide us in all kinds of dealings.
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
My parched soul
My dried feelings
Even the cracks in the earth
Everything needs to be drenched in rain
We all wait for Rain
To wash our years of pain
The crackling voices from distant places
The earth is aware of its emptiness
Fading away from the drops of water
Signal the gloomy days
Of waiting only!
Kids are watching the emptied drain
They wait for the rain with paper boats
Loading them with burdens of imagination
A newlywed woman waits for rain
With her, she carries a water pot
The giggling of women standing in a queue reminds me of life
This heart doesn't want to simply get wet
"I wish I could start afresh
while dancing in the rain"
"I know that to embrace the rainbows
I have to fall in love again"
I wait eagerly for the rain
For washing my burdened heart
From the weight of undesired memories
And I wait for the rain
As I don't want to see you again!
Sudipta Mishra ©®
Sudipta Mishra is a versatile artist known for her work as a poet, translator, reviewer and editor. She has authored many books including titles like “ The Essence of Life” and “The Songs of My Heart”. Her recent book, “Beyond the Pandemic”, explores the impact of Covid 19. Mishra has received prestigious awards such as the Rabindranath Tagore Memorial, Mahadevi Verma Sahitya Siromani Award . She advocates social justice in her writings and is pursuing a PhD degree in English .
I lost you
at a crucial time
when the bud of my body
was beginning to bloom,
for making love, I wasn’t ready;
you pounced on my
innocent chest like a wolf
and you wanted me to stay steady.
That’s not love dear,
your lust betrayed you
and me,
With you as a fiancé
I could hardly myself be;
I lost you
yet I don’t regret;
still some moments of togetherness were really joyful
and that’s what makes me rueful.
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.
Those years with you
In the same house,
under the same roof
I have erased now.
I have erased your face
From the canvas of memory
Most of the times ugly with your cruelty
Though you have a good physique
To outward eyes.
I have erased the very fact that
You were in my life once
In spite of things around
Which bear your name.
I have erased you successfully
From my time, my space, my wall
Not to feel any pain,
When you are spoken before me
Or present even.
You are a dead past now
A vague relationship created and lost
Now no more you haunt my dreams
Nor my waking hours
With your unwanted appearance.
You were that difficult knot
That bound my life to everyday hassle
Which I cut with scissors of courage
To take an advance step towards freedom.
Now my life is a golden valley
Where sunlight plays cheerfully again
Where flowers of joy bloom and spread fragrance
Where every moment is a new found bliss.
Dr. Sukanti Mohapatra, a senior lecturer in English in the Higher Education Department, Govt. of Odisha is a bilingual writer writing both in Odia and English with equal flair. Her poems, stories and articles are published in many state, national and international magazines and journals. She has three published anthologies of poems to her credit. Besides, she has published many research articles in different research journals. She contributes regularly to Radio Bulbul.
Even Tom, Dick or Harry
Can also be somebody
If they are sincere
And continue to work together.
Packed in a handful of dust,
World History, like the history of Odisha,
Is the history of those who want to subdue
And those who resist at any cost.
And Kalinga War, the first mass resistance
Of its kind is a continuous process
For the cause of human dignity,
For the cause of human excellence.
A moment of freedom
Is so potent and precious
That it leaves behind its magic touch
Time’s stolen kisses.
Each fault is a new discovery
In the search for truth,
And hence, a part of the creative process.
What harm is there if Columbus missed the way
And reached a continent?
If you call it ignorance not to be ashamed
Nor penitent of being what I am,
Well then, let it be ignorance.
Why should I know your dos and don’ts?
That is not truth anyway.
I am drawn to the forbidden like a baby.
Only when you stare at my crippled leg,
I feel an ache, a discomfort.
Only when you thrust upon me a sense of guilt
I begin to ask myself , “Am I guilty? ”
Why do you look so strange?
Are you a fish that loves to poke around
From sheer instinct? Poke then how much you like.
If I don’t like my being a cripple,
I don’t hate it either. Grown accustomed to it,
I can well be indifferent.
I am free like a bird in my own world, and can still
Appreciate the vastness of the blue in a cool composure,
Where light is light, and darkness meditation.
Yesterday, when I was in the lavatory,
I recalled some lines from the Gita.
But in the temple or church I forget what to pray.
I simply watch people and the face of the deity
In childlike curiosity.
I don’t remember if I wronged anyone.
Tell me what should I pray?
That I sinned being born and coming such and such way?
I hardly stopped anywhere.
Have I not come?
Truth is greater than making or breaking of laws.
Do you call knowledge a sin?
If it is so, pour it into my cup full to the brim.
I’ll drink deep without any sense of loss or shame.
I’ll embrace any sin that can be of some knowledge
And help the process of evolution.
Watching the relics of the Sun Temple
At Konark and rediscovering the self
Is a wonderful experience.
It is, as it were, enjoying the lyric grace
Of fulfillment and alienation
In a lovely book of verse.
Its sensuous stones, lively,
Deftly designed in the divine splendour
Of a chariot, seem to be telling
The fascinating tale of a people
Who passionately longed to see
The wheels of a great culture moving.
Though the magnetic main temple
Has lost its trunk and visage
By malicious tampering of time,
What yet remains is a clear message;
The dancing damsels, the horses and wheels
Immortalizing its poetry of the sublime.
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.
FAIRIES IN GOD’S SEQUESTERED HOME
In the high mountains of panchgani
high winds blow.
Elsewhere strings of winds weave
the magic of music.
God’s sequestered home it is,
a home away from home
for the herd of fairies and angels them joining;
their appearance is sporadic as if in vacationing.
Pure pleasure in mind and expectation nil,
for expectation is the thief of joy-
they quite feel.
From static mind to elastic spirit-
is their mission’s zeal.
God must be a dendrophile
whose connection is deep with woods
where fine poetry wends languidly
like a river
whose flow has gone slow.
Swathed by clouds
the hills stand tall
where nature’s soulful cadences
rise and fall.
Trees paint a living canvas
in colourful exuberance.
Stunning are the gulmohors
in vivid flowering-
creating a breathtaking display,
the advent of an Indian Summer heralding.
The visiting fairies are not
like anyone else
Nor do they ever try to be.
An aura of mystery surrounding,
aroma of romance exuding,
attired simply, they epitomise acme of elegance.
Spring in their steps and song in hearts,
they feel more and express, like a poem, less.
Frolic of fairies,
frolicsome as a few are,
envy the mortal lovers
in their false fit of anger,
hiding smiles within,
waves of gratification on their lips seen,
caressing their lovers’ hair
like the soft breeze of spring,
crooning their heart out
soaking each other’s grief
finding liberation in love’s spell.
Thus, in the quarrel of lovers
lies love’s fulfilment and renewal.
The call of love
so strong and hard to resist,
like the songs of the Siren,
make them feel the vibration
of being within,
And the vibrations don’t lie.
Their eyes lit up in delight,
as safe havens
they find in the angels’ presence
to invite and remain
interlocked,
reeling in the warmth of
each other’s embrace
while shooting the breeze
in joyful grace.
Rare is the feeling
as if lost and found
in the most exquisite space.
Tedium of heaven’s sameness
what they came here to beat all-
Pan-heaven perfection or steadiness,
not subjected to change at all.
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.
In my darkest hour
As I stood drenched in misery's shower,
Came a ray of light
That comforted us with might.
His very presence like a lotus flower!
Was he God's messenger?
I could only think yes after the first encounter!
A confidence inspired his sight!
Hope once again burnt bright,
He had such quiet power!
The mind stilled its chatter
Stilled the gyrations along the mental ladder!
Raheem... merciful and compassionate his light
Rehmani... God like his sight!
His presence made hope tower!
Faith reinforced by each hour
As miraculous deeds came to flower!
In gratitude we remain for the fight
That put up our surgeon knight.
Yes, I have seen God!
His very presence like a lotus flower!
He had such quiet power!
His presence made hope tower!
Yes, I have seen God!
He is the Doctor
Raheem...Rehmani!
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.
No pain is greater
than losing one's parents
And knowing they will never come back.
What will remain are the fond memories
Of the time spent in the lap
Of two angels who with their warm wings
Embraced the innocence
To build and shape up into someone strong enough
To face the world with a tall warrior attitude.
What will remain are those pages and chapters
Written with golden letters bookmarked with tender love and warmth
That will aid to go back to the memory lane time and again
Not with tears but with smiles
and the beautiful feeling of wishing
for the same heavenly mother's womb
Again and again.....in every birth ......
Priyalakshmi Gogoi from Guwahati, Assam is a teacher by profession and a poet by passion. She has been writing since her school days and her poems have been published in popular newspapers in her city. Her poetry has seen the light in blogs, Instagram, editorial, e-magazines and she has co-authored few national and international Anthologies. She has been awarded several times for winning Poetry contests in various literary platforms. She is a World English Saino Writer and a Gogyohka writer as well.
She has been awarded the 75th Independence Day Literary Honor 2021 and India Independence Day Global Literary Honours 2021-22 jointly given by Motivational Strips and Gujarat Sahitya Academy in "Recognition of Exhibiting Literary Brilliance Par Global Standards". She has also been conferred with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Honour, 2022 by Motivational Strips and Dept of Culture, Govt of Seychelles and its journal SIPAY.
She has been awarded recently with The Christmas Literary Honors 2023 on 25th December by Motivational Strips Global Administration for her contribution to world literature up keeping exceptional literary brilliance and sagacity.
PALE WISHES AND DAFFODIL DREAMS
I see him
Fading away slowly yet steadily
Into the oblivion
Going away a little
With each moment that passes by
I see him
Through my window pane
And try to recollect
the first time
When he looked at me
And I saw my entire world
Fitting right inside those eyes
My pupils dilate
Everytime I think of him
Yet he doubts
My ability
To love him
Today, tomorrow and for every summer,winter and spring
I laugh at his stupidity
And innocence
How can someone be this pure
With a smile that can hide
An ocean of tear
My world revolves
All around him
And I ask myself constantly
To not think of
That one moment
When everything's going to melt away
Like Van Gogh's dreams
Wishes are like ocean
A million droplets
Trying to put together
To form a particular shape
Yet failing to do so
My wishes never formed a shape
But they withered away
like autumn leaves
I see myself painting that oblivion
Which doesn't move
But merges with my soul
I've coloured my dreams grey
And named them after daffodils
Only to find out
That there's never an in between
But an entire eternity
Coloured in black and white
Arpita Priyadarsini, a Post Graduate of Department of Statistics in Utkal University, has keen interest in literature. She loves reading fiction and poetry. She started writing poems few years back and has been published by an international publication house twice. Her Instagram handle is @elly__.writes, which is solely dedicated to her love for poetry.
the caterpillar bears humiliation
for all mock at roughness
for all ridicule at ruggedness
it abides in its firm conviction,
all to grow surely to glow,
all to praise it, roping in row.
It still cultivates all patience,
when the people say it is ugly
when the people say it is meanly
it goes in its way in all silence,
all to grow surely to glow,
all to praise it, roping in row.
it creeps on leaves as a chance,
facing criticism endless
for being utter charmless
all try to keep it at a distance,
all to grow surely to glow,
all to praise it, roping in row.
It feels good days are ahead,
darkness leads to light,
all low to rise to height,
why to worry, lying in bed,
all to grow surely to glow,
all to praise it, roping in row.
In due course it turns a butterfly
so pretty, so charming
so beautiful, so fascinating
all welcome it to its stature high
all to grow surely to glow,
all to praise it, roping in row.
human lazy and lethargic!
be ready to toil like the bee,
be busy like the ant to foresee,
to shine in the butterfly magic.
all to grow surely to glow,
all to praise it, roping in row.
birds in flight
together in equidistance
spectacular is their sight,
from the earth in our glance.
at the same pace
very jolly as a company
all in the same grace,
it’s their family in harmony.
form V-shape, all in flying,
it seems they have a plan,
of each other’s safety wishing,
so fantastic is their clan.
it seems it is a long flight,
to be settlers in a better place,
as part of their survival right,
how wise is their race!
here the heat, all grown dry,
makes them be on their way,
in quest of the place in sky
cool and congenial for stay.
sure to come back here,
one day they are welcome,
after their short stay there,
for the water in fulsome,
see! how they glimpse us well,
in love and look in tear-dip
let’s bid to them farewell,
for their foreign short trip.
roots spread underground,
unshown and unknown,
but shines bright above the ground,
green in sheen, rays in ways shone,
whose selfless service,
for every creature all bliss?
grows gigantic in stature
with branches farther and bigger
buds blooms to sweeten atmosphere
fruits to shine to fulfil hunger.
whose selfless service,
for every creature all bliss?
rays are born with roots,
sheen in reign by means of green,
oxygen for breath, cool under shoots
to offer life, all responsibilities keen
it’s tree’s selfless service,
for every creature all bliss.
the tree with its all fully seen,
its so-called stature to it adds glory,
the fact all the people not keen
roots give life for its action every.
its roots in selfless service,
for every creature, all bliss.
no child, without parents first
no seeds, without trees first,
students, without teachers first
shoots, without roots first,
from roots, rays rise to pace,
as an echo from the base.
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\
TWINKLING STARS AND FLOATING DARK.
Twinkling stars and floating dark
value eachother's existence with
their silky satin squeeze.
Never do they mess up .
Cozy merge unveil their true beauty.
Being with each other they design and
decorate the heavenly roof top.
Their tranquil love enhanced by the
serene quietude.
Floating in wavey breeze passionately
they whisper.
Love , in them meditate.
Saga of cosmos continue with
Divinity.
Silent symphony echoes in every
Corner.
Night infuses dreamy dreams with
Love's utmost celebration.
Bijayalaxmi Rath done masters in English from Utkal University Odisha. Works as PGT English St Xavier International school Bhubaneswar.
Multilingual poetess writes in English Hindi and Odia. Published in different anthologies like Durga, Rainbow of Eastern Sky',Toshali etc. Bagged Gujarat Sahitya Academy award, Rabindra Nath Tagore award etc .
Golden chains of thousands chandeliers
Dancing as the brutal summer breeze kisses them
Skies filled as though opulent with light
As bright as the yellow sunshine
Spreading mirth as travellers pass by
Not knowing it's toxic though
It blooms only in summer just like the gulmohar
Such a beauty to watch these pendulous hanging lanterns
Unique in it's own way
Raining gold everywhere
Rays of sunshine spreading across the infinite sky
Giving messages of positivity
Yellow flowers remind you of the story of
Rapunzel's lovely locks
The princess in the tower who
Lived a life of loneliness
Just like the tree Laburnums
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)
Under the blue canopy,
light sprinkles down with drizzling rain,
numerous tiny plants sprout
from the copper earth,
our temporary station,
where many offspring emerge
from the mother's womb in twilight.
here,we experience joy, depression and agony,
in a complex, vexing labyrinth.
mother and circumstance guide us
to overcome the hurdles,
through deluges, volcanoes and earthquakes
violently disrupt our station.
yet,we remain grateful for those
who guide us through this lamentable,
elegant temporary station.
Golden light softly kisses
my retina,
while cyan leaves flutter
with boundless energy.
sometimes blue- green eyes glisten
with tears,my eyelashes trembling
with fear,and wavy eyebrows
quiver in the haunted chilly breeze.
my pupils glow,
branches and twigs rustle,
twisting together,
brown leaves gently fall,
reflecting my senses,
like the old,pale,hazel-eyed people
lost in a verdant society.
fourty years ago,life was vibrant,
buoyant in a green lake,
where joy swam with fervor.
today,my wrinkled bluish eyes
glimmer with a fading twilight.
gradually,dusk after dusk,
engulfs me with memories,
from the first page,to the middle,
to the final,sighing page.
A whirling smoke rises
from a cup of tea,the effervescent
delicious essence stirring my sense,
addting me to the gluttonous world.
since then mourners stride
through my intricate mind.
The ebullient fume spins
through the whimsical,fizzy air,
alluring my dizzy mind,
where idleness numbs me
from the boisterous world.
Aeon after aeon,I plunge into deep
hibernation within my authentic soul,
losing myself at the terminal point,
where silence stitches it's lips
under the dark graveyard.
Silently and stealthily, mourners
engulf me with their pseudopodia,
trying to swallow my consciousness,
but abruptly, porcelain cup
shatters by my rigid penance.
The tea rolls down,and the smoke
vanishes into thin air. Gradually,
I find myself in my mind,
feeling and thrilling,finding the way
to the bluish zenith.
(These poems are original,not have been published before.)
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.
Along corridors of my mind that is never mired
Are sweet memoirs of your thoughts…
During the twilight of an autumn time
When mild warmth of the yellow rays
Kiss the earth, my life seems to freeze
At this ethereal embrace of your soft glance.
Like the clustered pebbles beneath a pool
Your memories dwell deeper in the mind.
The whiff of your mild touch is a fragrance
Always sure to flower me from deep within.
The drizzle of your presence will not leave
Until those sprinkles drench me in every sense.
Like thin, invisible particles replete with life
You merge with my being that breathes joy
Your scattered laughter wafts as waves
To keep my submerged spirits supremely afloat.
Like those wondrous clouds that gather and disperse
Your pervasive presence recompense your absence
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.
American enthusiast on Hitler got
Nod through Gestapo to meet in person
The tooth-brush mustached was on a ship's trot
"Der Fuhrer" branded for coercion.
Was asked:"Secret of your success, Sir?"
Haughty leader showed a cadre from front side
To fall into the sea which was obeyed to aver
The behest carried out neatly to abide.
Another ,brown shirt or so, from the side rear
called upon to jump to die did with no word;
Third soldier in compliance did appear;
The guest wondered gratitude to their lord!
Echoing boss's secret man met his end:
"It's good to die than serving his command"!
With her trolley and duffel bag straight
Seated she in the waiting lounge was shocked
By the announcement that the flight was late
By hours three and so took her book and locked.
As time passed the bell rang in her belly
She bought a biscuit pack from the parlour
And set herself on a seat to read welly
In absorbing spree took pace of ambler.
As pages went on she had the biscuit slab
From the pack that lay by a by sitter
He too ‘grabs’ one by one and ate aplomb
She showed faces but got the last half bitter.
Anger that stranger ate without thanks irked until
She opened her bag to see her pack there still!
New bridge is the hallmark of celebration
Thousandth car crossing gets dollar thousand;
Parting with prize money with the rider on selection
Patron asks:”How’ii you spent this bucks on hand?”
Fast comes the reply: ”would get license forthwith”!
Driving sans license drives officer wild.
Smelling some Barney rider’s wife with dire faith
Gets down, prays for mercy for his drunken scald.
At the pesky situation thus zeros in sparks
Volley of anger in the sergeant’s red face:
“Driving without mandate paper as drunk-shark….”
Irate authority’s mood shatters as flower vase:
As ridrs father popped out and earnestly says:
“Ere I advised not to steal this car wise!”
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 .
Mera Bharat Mahan
Mera Bharat Sundar
Not a dragon’s lair, but a garden fair,
Where myriad blooms weave tales rare.
A chorus of colours, soothing and bright,
For the beholder’s eyes, nay souls , a pure delight.
Dresses, Dances, Languages, and songs
In hues diverse, like flowers they bloom,
Each petal unique, a vibrant plume
Take again only the flowers of grasses
You see so many types and varieties
Also, the grass!
Itself changes its gravitas and colour
Even in a so-called green pasture!
But do we pause, take a heed, and discern
Or rush past, too busy to truly learn?
Look at the Lily
It loves water and ponds
Even while it grows from mud,
Again, Lilies are of different colours,
white, pink, and blue
To standardise them into one in size or colour,
There exists no rule in Nature
They grow with their own identities
For your pleasure, to make you ponder!
The hills, hillocks, and rivers
Big to small, of different shapes and sizes
From Kashmir to Kanyakumari,
Have their share
In making India Mahan!
My Bharat Mahan,
Through ballots, not bullets,
Happen big affirmation or negation,
At the level that is nation or the region,
At regular intermission.
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.
LET ME LOSE MY WAY IN YOUR EYES
Nandini Mitra
Your eyes, my forest green,
Calm and serene,
What if I lose my way in those deep eyes?.
I'm ready for the adventure,
I don't want to be found nor imagine
The thrills and delight,
Let my senses flutter as I get
Pulled into them deeper and deeper.
In your eyes I may discover my light beyond all darkness,
I won't ask for more,
Only a tiny corner of ultimate peace,
Away from the helpless cries of the millions.
Your eyes, my ocean blue,
Floating on the waves of hope
I'll dive in to catch an another dream,
Your eyes my secret sky,
Each moment like in a day dream,
Time can walk away in blissful solitude,
Allow me to stay oblivious to the world around me, Let me lose my way like a wanderer,
I'll leave behind the crowded streets,
Busy cities, the humdrum, the confusions,
The commotion, the contradictions,
Your eyes can be my river of joy,
I'll swim in them without any inhibition,
Touch its lonely banks in an ecstatic power of fulfillment,
Where no feeling of loss will affect my tranquil self,
A moment of magical truth will surround me.
Reality is bitter,
So much pain, violence and suffering,
Let me surrender in your eyes,
Let even the saddest music sound sweeter,
I'll join in and sing like a child,
Don't stop me,
Let me lose my way in your eyes.
Nandini Mitra is a poet based in Kolkata. A post- graduate in English Literature from Jadavpur University. 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. Besides poetry, she is passionate about Music and is a trained classical singer. Her poetry is exquisitely woven with metaphors and imageries. She is an enthusiast of poetry relating to the realities of life and the diversities of nature. Her poems have featured in various national and international anthologies and has also been translated in other languages.
Everyone watches as drops of hope
From a tiny corner of many a heart
Leap into the sky
And burst as rains.
Time stands still
To welcome what it knew for ages
A vibrant heart can expand
And drown the earth in boundless love.
As one sits by the river
Watching the boats pass by
Happy travellers taking in dollops of life
Rains falling on them
And bringing tides of joy.
After days of parched dryness
The trees swing in ecstacy
Playing the music of eternity.
Somewhere over the wild oceans
And in the towering mountains
On the vast lakes and green meadows
Birds break into rapturous songs.
Men gather in the fields
And look to the sky
Their hands folded in prayer
Waiting for a season of bounties.
Kids break into a dance
For a welcome leave from school,
Young hearts flutter
Waiting for secret meetings in the parks
Amidst the cooing of sweet nothings
And even sweeter nothing-doings.
The office-goers steal glances at them
For the happy days brought by the rains.
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
"DHAKA DYNAMICS: LENSING THROUGH JOURNALISM"
by Avik Sanwar Rahman
Welcome to "Dhaka Dynamics: Lensing through Journalism" by Avik Sanwar Rahman, a profound exploration of Bangladesh's socio-economic landscape during the years 2003 to 2005.
In this meticulously crafted anthology, Avik, a distinguished journalist whose insightful contributions have graced the pages of The Daily Star, a renowned daily newspaper in Bangladesh offers readers a poignant journey through the heart of Dhaka, the capital city. Through his perceptive observations and unwavering commitment to truth, Avik captures the essence of a nation grappling with significant moments of change, challenge, and resilience.
From riveting exposes to thought-provoking analyses, Avik’s articles serve as a powerful testament to the transformative power of journalism in shaping public discourse and fostering accountability. With each page, readers are invited to witness the complexities of Bangladesh's dynamics, as seen through the lens of a seasoned journalist dedicated to uncovering the untold stories that lie beneath the surface.
The book exemplifies the realm of journalism, offering a blend of information and narrative that transcends the ordinary. The articles not only report facts but also illuminate the deeper layers of society. This work stands as a testament to the power of storytelling in shaping a more nuanced and informed journalistic profession.
Chronicling the years from 2003 to 2005 in Dhaka, these articles become a time capsule, capturing the city's evolution, challenges, and triumphs. They serve as a historical narrative, documenting the pulse of Dhaka during a pivotal period. From socio-economic shifts to cultural transformations, each article encapsulates a moment, contributing to a collective memory that enriches the understanding of Dhaka's journey through time. Within the pages of this book, readers will find a compelling nature to the essence of investigative journalism.
This book presents a comprehensive spectrum, weaving together narratives from crime to human misery and extending to the realm of development activities. It captures the multifaceted nature of society, offering a panoramic view of the human experience.
Spanning 320 pages, the book comprises over 130 stories predominantly focusing on Dhaka City and opinion pieces. It focuses on various aspects such as heritage, culture, economy, governance, human rights, crime, health, and more. The content is organized into three sections: News Stories, Features, and Columns, offering a comprehensive exploration of Dhaka’s dynamics.
The series of articles highlighting the socio-economic problems of Dhaka significantly contributed to the economic development of Bangladesh's capital.
Some of his articles and features have been cited in various research papers. For instance, his article on food adulteration published in The Daily Star Magazine and his piece on media law, "More Private Television Channels to Go on Air," have been referenced by research papers published on platforms such as Scribd and LawyersJury. Additionally, "Eating Away Our Health" has been cited by researchers and published on sites like ResearchGate, eSciencePress, now.edu.au, helsinki.fi, ulab.edu.bd, aiub.edu, and others.
Avik’s series of articles on circular waterways around the Dhaka city was groundbreaking in protecting the capital from river encroachment, reducing traffic congestion, and boosting trade by aiding government project completions. These articles highlighted the problems and solutions associated with these projects. His numerous articles on local business have also helped the business community of the city negotiate with the government for economic development.
The book, published in February 2024, was launched at the New York Book Fair and was nominated for a prestigious journalism award by the American Bangladesh Press Club in New York, recognizing Avik’s significant contributions to journalism in both Bangladesh and the USA.
Avik’s columns and articles on Bangladesh-USA bilateral relationships have played a pivotal role in shaping and enhancing the diplomatic ties between the two nations.
Avik’s interview with Arnold Zeitlin, the AP Bureau Chief in Pakistan during the Liberation War of Independence of Bangladesh in 1971, provided a unique perspective from an American journalist on Bangladesh's struggle for independence.
The book is a paperback edition with picturesque details published by Rochoita publication house. The cover of this book is designed by the publisher, Luftul Hossain. The cover design and the images in the articles rightly reflect Dhaka’s past, reminding readers of the city's historical context. The quality of the paper is of international standard.
As you go through the pages of this book, embark on a journey through the corridors of power, the streets of activism, and the hearts of ordinary citizens. Whether you are a historian, a journalist, a student, or simply a curious reader, "Dhaka Dynamics: Lensing through Journalism" promises to enlighten, inform, and inspire.
As an accomplished author, Avik Sanwar Rahman penned the novel "The Box," a work recognized and cataloged at the Library of Congress and six US university libraries.
Avik Sanwar Rahman is currently volunteering as an Executive Editor for a New York-based news magazine The Bay Wave.
May "Dhaka Dynamics: Lensing through Journalism" serve as a beacon of insight and inspiration for all who seek to understand and engage with the ever-evolving landscape of Bangladesh and beyond.
Happy reading!
Fatema Zohra Haque is a Fulbright Scholar,International Educator, Journalist, Poet, Writer from Bangladesh. She authored over 26 books in both English and Bengali. Her poetry collections, including 1) Pain in the Epitaph of Art 2) Selected Love Poems 3) Weeping Sky Solitary River 4) Blinded Eyes Looted Dreams and 5) Pain In The Epitaph Of Art are cataloged at the Library of Congress and 15 top ranking American universities.
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