Literary Vibes - Edition CLII (25-April-2025) - POEMS
Title : Done in water colour (Painting 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,
Happy to present to you the April edition of LiteraryVibes, the 152nd avatar of the eMagazine. April is indeed a funny month starting with a cool All Fools' Day till it ends as a hot, sizzling ball of fire from the sky. Bhubaneswar is about to touch 41 degrees Celsius, while some parts of Odisha have already crossed 45 degrees. Even the air-conditioner (we have an ancient, apologetic, remote-less window version) groans in agony when switched on. In these burning conditions it is a miracle that our diligent, committed, passionate, devoted-to-literature poets and writers have produced beautiful stories and lovely poems for LiteraryVibes. Hats off to them. Hope you will enjoy their offerings with an endearing smile and an open heart.
Isn't it wonderful that LiteraryVibes continues to attract new poets and writers month after month? This time we have Ms. Annapurna Pandey, a globe-trotter Academic from Santa Cruz, California, who loves to write about her experiences in different lands she chooses to visit. Her anecdote about Mahakumbh in today's edition is incisive and thoughtful. Ajit Patnaik, a retired senior government official from Bhubaneswar is an avid reader of LiteraryVibes and a regular commentator on the rich fare dished out by our eMagazine. He has ventured into writing poetry and LV is proud to host his poem. Let us welcome them to the LV family and wish them tons of success in their literary pursuits.
In December 2024 my classmates from the 1974 batch of M.A. (Political Science) from Utkal University celebrated our golden jubilee year with unlimited joy and nostalgia. Some of us saw each other for the first time after fifty years and the effusive bon homie was indeed indescribable. Many wanted to speak elaborately on the occasion and since there was a time-constraint, I, the incorrigible editor, proposed that we should publish a Memoir, recollecting our reminiscences of the two years at the university. The response was electric in spirit, many classmates offered a donation to meet the cost of the publication. In a few minutes we mobilized the princely sum of 60000 rupees, and I offered to edit the magazine. The reminiscences poured in - thirty eight of them - and in February we took out a splendid Souvenir which warmed the hearts of our classmates and many others who love a trip down the memory lane. As an editor it was one of my most satisfying (although tiring for all the obvious reasons - chasing articles, begging for photographs, repeated cycles of proof-reading and sitting at the Press for more than a week for setting the pages etc.) experiences.
As a coincidence, I recently came across a beautiful piece of writing in the intetnet about the value of classmates. Let me reproduce it here, along with my heartfelt tribute to the unknown writer:
CLASSMATES AND THE TRICKERY OF LIFE
There is something both amusing and tragic about classmates.
When we are young, sitting side by side on stiff wooden desks, everything feels equal.
We wear the same uniforms, complain about the same teachers, and dream the same big dreams.
We believe, with the foolish confidence of youth, that life will reward us fairly. That the one who topped the class will top in life, that the one who struggled will always struggle, that effort will always equal success.
But life is not a classroom. Life is a trickster, a mischievous storyteller who loves plot twists.
Then one day, years later, we meet again at ordinations, weddings, funerals, airports, or by accident at a supermarket. And suddenly, we see what nobody warned us about.
The boy who never did his assignments now owns a mansion. The one who won all the academic prizes is still searching for relevance.
The one who was always quiet now commands boardrooms, while the one who once led every debate now sits in silence, waiting for an opportunity that refuses to come.
And we ask ourselves: how did this happen?
Nobody told us that life does not follow the rules of the classroom. That hard work is important, but so is luck. That intelligence is valuable, but connections sometimes matter more.
That some rise not because they are the best, but because they were in the right place at the right time. That life does not grade us like exam scripts, it rolls the dice and sometimes, the results are baffling.
There is a good side to all of these: no matter how far life scatters us, when classmates meet again, the years disappear.
Titles do not matter.
Bank accounts do not speak.
We laugh over memories of forgotten nicknames, of teachers we swore we would never forget but now struggle to remember. For a brief moment, we return to a time when we were just young with dreams, before life stepped in with its unexpected script.
And just maybe, that is the real lesson: success is not just about who has more, but about who still has a heart that can remember.
-Classmate !
.......................
Dear Readers, hope you related to the above article the way I did - with a bit of affection and lots of nostalgia.
But as I resume writing this editorial a day prior to the publication of LV152 tomorrow, my heart bleeds for the unfortunate victims and the grieving survivors of the terrorist attack at Pahalgam in Kashmir. The sorrowful picture of death and mourning is so real that it refuses to leave the mind. I wonder how long our country will continue to bear the brunt of terrorism, hatred and intolerance in the name of religion. Dear Readers, like millions of our countrymen let us join our hands in praying for a permanent solution and and an end to this persistent nightmare. Our prayers are also with the families who lost their loved ones - some of them their sole bread-winners. And prayers for the country to unite, each one of us contributing whatever little we can, in whatever way possible, to strengthen our resolve to fight the scourge of terrorism.
Despite these sorrowful times, I hope you will enjoy the offerings in LV152 and share them with your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/589 (Poems and Anecdotes)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/588
(Short Stories, Anecdotes and a Travelogue)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/587 (Young Magic)
There is also a nice anecdote from the pen of the renowned Gyanecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/586
There are sixteen excellent short stories in the Pooja edition of October, 2024, which can be accessed at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/562
Hope you remember that all the 152 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Please spare a few minutes to post your feedback in the Comments box located at the bottom of each page.
So, be brave and keep praying uir our beloved country till we meet again on Friday, the 29th May.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE GUEST
SHORELINE
02) Dilip Mohapatra
A TIME WOULD COME
AND THE SHOW GOES ON
03) Baldev Samantaray
URBAN MUSE TEMPLED CITY
04) Madhumathi. H
"GOD LEFT A NOTE ON MY WINDSHIELD"
"MY MOTHER`S HANDS..."
05) Abani Udgata
THE SEARCH WITHIN
06) Bipin Patsani
THE CRESCENT CONTEMPLATION
REDISCOVERY
07) Sachit Mishra
ANOTHER DAY
08) Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
…TOUCHING LIFE’S SHORE
09) Ajit Patnaik
BELATED DREAMING
10) Shri Satish Pashine
THE STRANGER WITHIN
ON THE ROAD TO EIGHTY
LET LIFE FLOW
LIFE IS ALMOST OKAY!
11) Leena Thampi
BECAUSE, I BREATH IN POETIC WORDS
12) Jairam Seshadri
ALL MY HOPE ON GOD IS FOUNDED
13) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
THE VOYAGER’S AWAKENING
THE JOY OF SURRENDER
THE MEANING OF LIFE
14) Lopamudra Mishra
LOVED MYSELF
15) Rudra Pati
POETRY OF MONSOON
TO CRITICISE
16) Snehaprava Das
MY TIME SITS DISPSSIONATE
FALCON, FLAG AND FAITH
17) Sujata Dash
TIME FLEETS IN NO TIME
18) Arpita Priyadarsini
LOVE`S EMBRACE
19) Aneek Chatterjee
TRULY EPHEMERAL
20) Matralina Pati
THE UNSPOKEN NAME
A PRAYER FOR THE UNVOICED
21) Kunal Roy
THE NOON THOUGHTS
22) Sudipta Mishra
MY WISH
23) Braja K Sorkar
NEIGHBOR
STANDING IN FRONT OF
24) Asim Ranjan Parhi
OF HEADS AND TAILS....
25) Ajit Dash
ODISSI AND MAA PARVATI
TAVERN OF LOVE
26) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
A FRIENDLY CAT
27) Ms Gargi Saha
EMPEROR MOTH
PEACE
THE HORIZON
28) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
GOBLETS OF SOIL
THREAD IN GARLANDS
HEART IN GOOD DEEDS
29) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
PAIN GIVES BIRTH TO BEAUTY
30) Dr. Thirupurasundari C J
LOOKING INWARD- THE KEY TO WELL-BEING.
31) Sreedharan Parokode
THREE SPOTS
TOTALITY
ONE PLUS ONE
32) Shreeya Sampada
THE SONG OF THE SEA
33) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE FINAL SUNSET
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The Sea
until my last visit
was a distant purr.
A mile away it would
come and wait and go
slithering on belly
leaving by the bay
middens, fuming brine.
Last night
it came calling
at my window.
Its mane, painted moon-white,
was shaken sparking silvery.
My city-born wife shouted,
"Hello, hey, come around
to our front door and enter."
Mother pulled a long face, “Ugh!
Father looked worried, “Aw! Aw!”
Wife smiled, "How romantic!"
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I stand on the shoreline,
behind me a hot loo blows,
hot and dry; before me dance
bunched-up mad-bull human waves.
The water music doesn't soothe
the racked-up nerves, the bulls break
around my ankles, sucking toes into sand.
I walk back into ankle deep sand,
a burning hot sun, hiding inside it,
the earth's April, shaping up
as tongues of fire, engulfs me.
Like my country, halved into two
by our unwise savants, blow hot
and blow cold, double entendres.
We have our loved ones on that side
as they on this. We divided our crumbs:
stolen glory, looted wealth, debt; we
hugged the thieves but spurned our brothers.
A paradox of fate or a manmade trigger
to shoot imaginary vultures but the bullets
ricochet carrying the pain of heartbreaks.
The shoreline grows surreal by the days
history bows in shame when saviours
of the two halves, the hollow avengers, hearts
filled with straw, distribute guns, not roses.
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.
Dilip Mohapatra
A time would come
when poised between
memories and hopes
you would have to fight
with your loneliness
and find peace within yourself
with malice towards none
and no regrets either
you would welcome
each day as a blessing
a gift that is so graciously
granted from above…
A time would come
when even memories
would shut the doors on you...
and dreams too would desert you
and you would get up
everyday morning
and play Russian Roulette
praying to be redeemed
feeling the chill of the steel
travelling down your spine to
your tailbone
every time you pulled the trigger
but God would grant you
one more day...
A time would come
when passions too would subside
like tides do
but once they do
unlike the tides
they won’t come back again
and eventually you would
outrun your fears and doubts
getting used to all the indifference
around you
developing a thick skin
like that of an armadillo
going numb bit by bit
and stop pitying your depleted self…
A time would come
when apathy may
become a virtue
and when you would discover
that your life is nothing
but just
a function of time
and one day it would
exceed your fluid dreams and
non existent aspirations…
and in your final moments
your life would even outrun
your death which is nothing
but a pit stop
just an event in the continuum
and give it the slip.
Dilip Mohapatra
The Baisaran meadow
of Pahalgam sobs
bathed in the blood
of the innocent
the victims of virulent vipers
hiding under
the cowls of cowardice
as the air chokes
with the agonised wailing
of the hapless.
The heartrending cries
echo time’s hollow script-
it’s the same old story
etched in endless refrain
and in its wake
tears fall
some true and some
carved out of stone
while some don’t care
and look the other way
some indulge
in the blame games
debates flare
tongues clash
while media feasts on
grief’s fleeting pulse-
pursuing their TRP.
And soon all is forgotten
the uproar dissolves
all brushed under the carpet
of memory’s fraying weave.
Life resumes its mask
till the grim wraiths return
with their gory scythes
spewing venom
till blood floods
yet again-
and tears spill
in endless tides.
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
Baldev Samantaray
The city has lost it's song
The shabby backyard
makes way for the terrace garden
overlooking the manicured lawn.
The gentle sprinkler
Good looking cushioned garden chairs
comfortably perched pajama legs
resting on the coffee table
The ruffled greys
look upto the sky
The half open eyes
look at the wet blades
Eyes that look tired and despondent
devoid of any purpose
trying hard to see
what's next
He doesn't want to stay there
That's what he's done always
moved on and moved up
He can't do otherwise
The music that he hears
are the premonitions
of erupting volcanoes
and earth shaking tremors
that only ants and dogs hear.
But songs never die
because the cities are never born
they just exist
like drifting air
and there's always
another beat
on a nimble pair.
There are temples
all around in the city
of all ages
and different lore.
There's forever
room for a few more.
Baldev Samantaray is a retired banker who lives in Bhubaneswar. He did his post graduation in English literature from Ravenshaw College (76-78).He started writing from his Ravenshaw days. Many of his poems appear in various journals and anthologies.
"GOD LEFT A NOTE ON MY WINDSHIELD"
Madhumathi. H
Yellow, pink blossoms, few tender leaves on my windshield
Along with the summer rain drops…
Should they be read, as God’s note, poems, answers?!…
Are they messengers? Trailer? Another test?
Nature, is God’s pseudonym
Writes beautifully, mysteriously, leaving us seeking for more...
Reluctant towards doors, windows
Windshield is my new letterbox, of hope
Tired of being tired, faith evaporates
Scriptures, Chants, philosophy, quotes are jarring…
How deeply I trusted you, loved you, storm after storm
Uflinching then, but trudging in fear, now…
Have you chosen to go far away from me?
What cruel joy of yours, to let me down
I feel like an orphan, a perennially ANGRY child
Waiting with dozens of questions
Refusing to take any more tests from the “Almighty”(?!)
Drought in the eyes, tears consumed by pain
I stopped hoping, accepting everything but ungracefully
A chirpy sparrow, wanderer, dreamer
Mountains placed on my tiny wings to carry…
Gratitude never leaves the heart, but
Grudge exists towards life’s cold, rude ways
In the name of destiny, deprived of healing, peace…
Oh what are these, on my windshield now?
Tiny feather, a damp paper…
I paused, picked them carefully
Smudged ink, yet i could read
“I did not give the toughest battles to my strongest soldier
I gave my little one, pain after pain
I know it hurts, my dear, but
She knew what to do with them all
So she writes poems, from pain
For herself, and for any tired soul to heal…”
The feather as quill, my tears as ink
I left a note on the windshield for God:
“You win, creating inexplicable pain
I win with my poems, that will keep questioning you
Yet, i love you
I love you more for choosing poetry, as my healing…”
It rained heavily…
I knew they are God’s tears.
"MY MOTHER`S HANDS..."
Madhumathi. H
If “meticulous”, is a body part
It’s my mother’s hands
Now, calloused…
Her childhood stories shared, are of struggle
A slow transformation from poverty, to little comfort
Always a selfless giver, her palm lines bear stories of toil
My mother’s hands are warm, beautiful
Meant for mehendi leaves’ ancient scents, patterns
She loves rings, i love her fingers happily hugged by rings…
Petite soul, her hands carry aroma of delicious food
Lip-smacking sweets, savouries, pickles, festival menu
Special feasts, parcels for her darling grandchild
Best grandmother’s hands too, pouring oceans of love
For generations, she is the Annapoorani…
Refreshing shikakai, or sambar powder, my mother’s hands create wonders!
Maintaining home, or accounts at work, her hands know perfection
Simple, smart multi-tasker, my mother’s hands are magic wands…
Her hubby, my dearest Dad is her mentee
He cooks like a pro, helps around, despite being Tom and Jerry…
My mother’s hands fragrant with our garden flowers
Garlands for worship, strings of jasmine, and December flowers for my plaits…
The tiny girl those energetic hands nurtured, nourished
Now writes a poem on them with a aching heart
For, those tired hands need rest from adversity’s cruelty
Attending, taking care of unconscious husband like her child
My mother’s hands i wish I could heal
Miracles restoring marudhani(mehendi) on her palms…
My mother’s hands, are my strength, muse, home.
A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi. H is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry,
Photography, Music.
Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), CPC- Chennai Poetry
Circle's EFFLORESCENCE, IPC's(India Poetry Circle) Madras Hues Myriad Views, Confluence, Spring Showers,
Amaravati Poetic Prism, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, Storizen, OPA – Our
Poetry Archives, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes, Science Shore.
e-Anthologies Monsoon moods - Muse India, Green Awakenings - On Environment, by
Kavya-Adisakrit.
Madhumathi's poems are part of YPF's(Yercaud Poetry Festival) Ignite Poetry, Breathe Poetry, Dream Poetry, Winterful Whispers, Auburn Ambrosia,
Of Soul Scribers' Soul shores that have 10 of her poems
published, Soul Serenade, Soul songs, Soul Dance, Shades of Love-AIFEST - Special Jury Mention, and
secured 'A Grade’ in the International Poetry Writing Competition(published Anthology)
conducted by All India Forum for English Students, Scholars, and Trainers (AIFEST) in March-
April 2023 in connection with International Women’s Day celebrations, Arising from the
dust, Painting Dreams, Shards of unsung Poesies, are some of the Anthologies her poems,
and write ups are part of.
Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, takes part in related activities to create awareness, break the stigma, believing in the therapeutic, transformational power of words.
Abani Udgata
I could be anybody, may be
that fisherman who sails on
his little dinghy bathed in milk
of early morning smoothness.
when the sea is a lake and
there is no movement as if in dream.
And they told me look for message
in the stack of waves piled on each other ,
the death of an evening mourned
a hundred springs after your tear dropped
my grieving hands on to
the burning charcoal of finitude.
I could well be that evening light
when you changed your appearance
and your breath had a different smell.
From then on you became a stranger
who had never heard of our promise
and words of love for each other.
May be I could be that light on shore
that blinked off and on when the wind
picked up speed and then dropped off.
I have been doing this for ever, for ages.
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
Bipin Patsani
Fulfillment, vulnerable to the ravages of time,
Flits like a floating cloud.
Words mean one and the same thing;
The absurdity of human existence
And a gift turning out to be a serpent,
We don’t recognize from the wavelength.
Be it in exile or in Ayodhya,
Our human limitations we cannot ignore
Even if we reach a height in the capacity
Of a king, commoner or a political leader.
Our freedom is a welcome-arch
To a new prison, vast and open,
Our contemplations being conditioned
By values related to the world we live in.
Why do we feel so restless at home as well
Like Ulysses, unable to accept the inevitable,
And crave for the unseen, unknown,
The creative ache crescent, ever since
We learnt to raise our fingers at the moon?
Peace is an unknown face we take to be
Someone, we have been looking for long
And feel contented to have found out
Till we are familiar with the flaw.
Empty again, we look into the dark
And brood over some new offbeat track.
Bipin Patsani
The noise in the street, people passing,
And the shouts of hawkers and vendors
Disappear in the striking echo
Of your footfall in my garden.
And now that you have come, you have
Awakened the hidden pristine perception.
When I was at sea, struggling hard,
Looking for land and a handful of sand,
I hardly knew it could be so sweet;
I hardly dreamt of getting you near
Busy as I was in my ship, hopeful yet
In my mission to truth and beauty.
I do not rely on such false modesty
Of clutching something not relevant
To forget the real being that I am,
Nor do I seek escape afraid of rain.
I don’t believe in judgment either
Beyond this life, beyond this death.
Through enough of misery and scrutiny
As I come, I ask you for no boon
When I see you with warmth of passion.
I forget things around and all I have,
And in the dark of your eyes I see
Whole of the universe and where I move.
Not conscious though before, I love you
As one loves music without purpose.
May be, you are the music in me;
The cradle song and bridal song,
The song of rain and songs eternal,
You are the harmony of the moving soul.
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.
Sachit Mishra
Leaves murmur to the wind’s howl,
As skies turn grey to a fervent chill,
Though in the dark, I feel the shade
Of the passing sun beyond the hill,
Beckoning the end of a fleeting day,
And the dawning of an addicted misery;
Another day’s done,
Another day’s gone;
There’s someone knocking I hear,
Adamant, violent knocks they bear,
A damned ritual every day,
From dawn till dusk do they stay,
Friend or foe? I do not know,
Yet how I wish to open the door,
And step out or let them in,
Have them read me my sins,
But I don’t, or rather I can’t,
For my self’s a scab, and gallant’s scant,
All I hear in the sprouting dark,
Is dormant time’s maniacal laugh.
Sachit Mishra is a PhD scholar at the Department of English, Utkal University. He is a published poet with numerous publications in the poetry column of Western Odisha Plus, a weekly newspaper affiliated to The Times of India. He is a passionate litterateur who tries to paint his experiences of the world in his verses.
Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
The waves still stand tall
even when it is hard
for, little is left there to rise together.
Discrimination they face
but handle it with grace.
Anguish in their faces they show
for, no more illusion they have to suffer from.
Nothing can comfort them
for, in the routine of sameness they languish
as no more they can choose their own path
nor swim for new horizons.
Also, they have to settle for less
as they are denied access to the zone of silence
that remains a pipe dream
for, in silence one reveals more.
They find no music in the sea’s roar—
only jarring loud noise
that adds to the endless cacophony.
Also pitifully poised is the sea,
it looks distant.
The richest people sometimes
have the emptiest hearts
for, the wounds caused to them
blurted out impulsively
by the loved ones
deep as they are, not to be healed near
or in future.
Buried alive they live, still suffering from an illusion—
waiting for someone’s love
that is never to come.
Life uses clever words
when it tells one no,
rejection it doesn’t mean;
redirection it may be for something great.
So, the waves lap against the shore
despite remaining unheard.
Nostalgic they become
for, the pleasure of the “pathless woods”
they miss
while being in the journey on the road
leading to nowhere.
Beguiling was the song of the sea breeze
that had the definitive tone of assurance:
the sea shores up a falling wall
and sees one securely anchored.
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.
Ajit Patnaik
From abysmal unknown and unfathomable bottom,
To mountainous heights exciting envy of co- travellers,
Life has travelled up and down the bumpy road,
Fixated single-minded on the immediate goals.
Perched on the final stairs of penultimate days of life,
Looking back in the rear view mirror at the years travelled,
Was it justified settling the goals as had been fixed and reached,
Are they to be accepted as the best or to be subjected to scrutiny.
Are goals attainable as per the dreams of life?
Dreams are of the stuff never to be realised unfailingly,
But dreams are the aphrodisiac to live life buoyant,
Dream and dream for ever, unbothered
About the hiatus betwixt dream and the mundane world.
Ajit Patnaik is a former government official who retired as the Deputy Comptroller and Auditor General of India. He is an avid reader of books particularly of the genre of spiritual. He has edited the book "Government Audit and Governance" and has contributed regularly to Professional journals.
Shri Satish Pashine
I sit at the window,
a prisoner of time,
wrapped in wrinkled silence
and careful breath.
The world spins by—
young limbs, loud laughter,
new hopes painted in fresh colors
I can no longer name.
But inside me,
a boy still runs barefoot in the rain,
a girl still writes love letters in her mind,
a dreamer still maps the stars
as if they belonged to him.
My hands tremble,
but they once reached for everything—
for justice, for passion,
for the impossible kiss of eternity.
Now the mirror lies,
or perhaps it tells the cruelest truth—
that the shell grows brittle
while the soul stays raw.
I speak less,
not for lack of thoughts,
but because the world has changed its tongue,
and I was never fluent in forgetting.
I ache not from decay,
but from distance—
the aching chasm
between who I was and who I remain.
This is the tragedy:
not age itself,
but youth still alive
with nowhere left to go.
Shri Satish Pashine
Seventy came in,
silently, softly slow,
In the shadows
of time’s soft glow.
The body tires,
the steps become slow,
Yet the heart still blooms
in spring’s domain.
The mirror speaks in whispers true,
With lines that hold old tales in view.
Hands may tremble, feet may sway,
Yet dreams still laugh along the way.
Illness knocks, goodbyes feel near,
Memories drift, yet laughter’s clear.
Through every ache, through every sigh,
The warmth of love still lights the sky.
A sip of tea, a morning stroll,
Old friends’ chatter, a heart consoled.
A favorite meal, a book held tight,
A glass of beer on a peaceful night.
Don’t chase tomorrow, don’t count the past,
Just hold today, make each breath last.
Live, laugh, love—let worries cease,
For this, my friend, is life’s true peace!
Shri Satish Pashine
The river bends,?it does not break.?It presses on,?no past to take.
Rocks may block,?but not its will.?It finds a path,?a whisper—still.
Winds may howl,?skies may weep,?yet dawn arrives,?no night too deep.
The firmer the hold,
the quicker life slips.
Water confined
loses its drift.
Mountains rise tall,?firm in their pride,?yet rivers shape them,?soft yet untied.
No hands can halt?the rushing tide,?no heart can bind?what stirs inside.
Loosen your hold,?let burdens go.?Drift with the stream,?let moments flow.
For life is not?a war to claim,?but tides to ride,?a dance aflame.
Shri Satish Pashine
There was a time when his voice commanded the office,
every decision bore his seal.
Files moved at his gestures,
and people waited for his words.
Today, he stares at old shelves,
where once his documents shaped destinies.
The phone still rings,
but not the way it used to.
No new projects, no urgent meetings—
just a quiet reminder from the bank about his pension.
The morning tea is still served,
but with a little less sugar.
He still flips through the newspaper,
but the headlines don’t stir excitement like before.
The gatherings with friends have faded away,
some have departed, others have simply drifted apart.
The kids still call—
“How are you, Dad?” they ask,
but they’re always in a hurry,
and the conversations feel more like a routine now.
His knees often give in while walking,
but his mind still dreams of new roads.
Memories make him smile, yet his eyes well up at times.
But he has not forgotten the art of living.
Life is almost okay,
yet sometimes, the heart whispers—
“If only I could reopen an old file,
if only I could hear those familiar voices again.”
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Jairam Seshadri
All my hope on God is founded
All faith rests on Him alone
Any help received from humankind
In truth are from His hands alone.
All 'my doings' are His workings
Even if it wreaks havoc in some
All evil my way from others
Are from Him, for my good alone.
If thou sends dire harm toward
And work a fever in fiendish tone
Thou may well succeed! Or thou may not
Whatever ... know it is God alone
'I', in truth, do nothing. 'I' say nothing.
It is all Him and Him alone
I may think it is me acting
But no, It is all Him alone
Thinking, saying, doing,
Aware or unawares
No malice accompanying
Believe! It is all Him, and Him alone...
Jairam Seshadri returned to India after several decades in the West. He founded the India Poetry Circle and has edited several anthologies and authored MANTRA YOGA published by Rupa Publications. He can be reached at 9884445498
BECAUSE, I BREATH IN POETIC WORDS
Leena Thampi
May I craft words more radiant than dawn,
To light up the darkest corners of the mind,
To illuminate the paths of lost souls,
And guide them towards peace they need to find.
May I craft words heavier than gravity,
To anchor the wandering hearts to the ground,
To remind them of their roots,
And the strength within that can always be found.
May I craft words more enduring than time,
To stand the test of centuries long gone,
To echo through the ages,
And inspire generations to carry on.
May I craft words more tender than the touch of rose petals
To soothe the wounds that life unjustly inflicts,
To heal the broken spirits,
And remind them of the love that still exists.
May my words be a beacon of hope,
A source of strength when all seems lost,
A reminder that no matter what challenges we face,
We can always rise above them at any cost.
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.
Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
I rose from sleep
as the morning breeze
caressed my closed eyes,
whispering softly—
faint echoes of a distant chant
drifting through the universe.
The sun emerged in the east,
its soothing rays of hope
washing away the lingering dark,
filling me with new energy
to continue my unfinished journey.
I longed for rest,
to lie back and sleep,
but my body refused—
awake, alert,
pain at its peak,
reminding me of tasks undone.
A butterfly broke free
from its cocoon—
and in that moment,
something in me stirred.
So much remains to be found,
so much to become
before night descends.
Birds soared high,
unshaken by drifting clouds,
driven by the will to fly.
I watched them fade into the horizon
and turned inward—
my own path awaited.
Summoning my strength,
I stepped beyond the known,
for somewhere ahead,
a new life—
full of love and belonging—
waited for the voyager
to arrive.
Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
I look up,
seeking divine intervention.
Enough is enough—
show me the path to joy.
Do not take away
my pain or afflictions
if they serve as reminders
that life is never monotonous.
Waves follow a rhythm—
every ebb meets its rise.
Grant me the strength
to endure the tide.
I wonder—
is it your love
testing my patience,
making me suffer?
Or is it mere indifference
toward a fleeting sorrow?
Whatever the reason,
you remain my only beloved,
no matter the trials
or changing seasons.
I see your essence
woven into the universe—
in the sky, the ocean,
even in the smallest creatures.
My love for myself,
my pain, my struggles—
all are your manifestations.
How can one escape
the pull of your presence?
I surrender to love—
in joy or in sorrow,
in light or in pain.
Perhaps true joy
is not in escape,
but in embracing it all.
Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
What is life?
Most of it drifts in sleep,
lost in dreams and illusions,
while restless thoughts
stir the mind like wind through trees.
I gather the strength
to break free from logic,
to truly live—
without chasing meaning,
without asking why.
If life is but a pause
between birth and death,
woven with pain and trials,
then what lies beyond or before
is the real mystery.
Rivers rush toward the sea,
clutching at names and shapes,
but is that not just a dream
within the endless flow?
Nothing stays as it is—
life renews itself each moment,
brimming with new energy.
If I exist,
I can never be erased.
If I don’t,
there is no conflict.
Either way,
it is never mine to decide
whether life is fleeting as mist
or endless as the sky.
Whatever its meaning,
life is meant for living—
without end, without beginning.
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura, is an Engineer from BITS, Pilani and has done his MBA and PhD in Marketing. He writes both in Odia and English. He has published three books on collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love” , “The Mystic is in Love” and “The Mystic’s Mysterious World of Love” and a non-fiction “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. He has also published three books on collection of Odia Poems titled “ Ananta Sparsa”, “Lagna Deha” and “Nirab Pathika”. Dr Behura welcomes feedback @ bkbehura@gmail.com. One can visit him at bichitrabehura.org
Lopamudra Mishra
Today’s morning is bit different
Bit special
I prepared the cardamom tea
Sipped listening music
then I picked an outfit of pink and applied cheery red lipstick
the glossy nail paint, loose plait
trendy footwear along with the branded bag
changed my style, altered my tone
from the golden frame specs
I accessed every tangible and intangible
I visualised them as
The paragon of beauty
I loved the view and enjoyed its hue
I felt a change
The care for myself
Really brought a change
I could feel the warmth of my skin
I could feel the pores receiving more air
Glow in my face
Confidence in my steps
The sparkle in my eyes
Brighten my look
After all, I became aware of me
As person of dreams and desire
A person whose amber burns moment to moment
A soul restless with
A boundless horizon
I realized today, within the span of my journey
I have to fulfil my wishes
One by one
I wish to be I am
As a human with humanly touch and heart.
A small change for self will build a pyramid in our mindset.
Lopamudra Mishra, a contemporary poet, author, translator, editor, social activist, motivational speaker, orator and personality development coach, hails from Bhubaneswar, Odisha.
Her writings are intended to touch the inner chord softly by emphasizing on "Sense and
Sensibility" of attachment and bonding. She has six books till date on her name- “Rhyme of Rain”,
“First Rain”,” Tingling Parables”, “Rivulet of Emotions”, “Red Tulips” and “Hurricane Heart under the Honeyed Sky”. Her poems have been published in various magazines and anthologies. She has been Editor of Radical Rhythm-4 & Co-editor of Radical Rhythm Series and Durga.
She is a proud alumnus of Sailabala Women’s college and Ravenshaw University.
Rudra Pati
“In exchange for annas
My boat shall ferry your friends ;
But to sail with me, O, Radha
Pay me your gold earrings!”
The rivers have receded
Further …to the East.
Refined crops and polished families
Revolve around the vast Gangetic plain.
Our arid table land
Is bereft of rivers!
Symbols of rivulets, alone,
Cascade through my heart
In secrecy .
Monsoon descends.
Then, the secret rivulets in my heart
Awaken with a sonorous outrush.
Rudra Pati
If you want to criticise me
Please restrain your tongue.
The ice between the two of us
Is about to melt down.
Oh Love! Look straight into my eyes!
Please do not turn your back on me
Once again. Incessant falsehoods
In words and thoughts
Untrue reports of progress
Unveil their dark features.
The farmers of the rural land
Have been reduced to dust.
Snake-bites, thunder clap,
Falling price of crops
Conspire their fall.
Unthinkable losses accrue!
Who shall fathom this pain?
To whom shall I explain
The hopes of the villagers?!
Chastise me with a restraint tongue.
If you insult this son of a farmer,
I shall quit the city,
I shall go back to my hamlet.
I won’t transform myself
Into a rebel or a lovelorn lunatic
I shall cultivate the ploughland of poetry
I shall send you poems through letters.
An eminent poet of contemporary Bengali literature, Rudra Pati (born in 1968) is an authentic representative of post-modern Bengali poetry. Rudra Pati teaches in a government-aided school and has a penchant for astronomy, Euclidean geometry, farming, and shepherding cattle in his native place, a drought-ridden rural region of Purulia in West Bengal. His published works include Prantik Chasha (1993), Lathe Othoba Osomprikto Hydrocarbon(1993), E Bachar Shrabon Bhalo (2004), Bekarer Kobita(2004), and Guchhomul (2005).
He was invited by All India Radio to present his poetry at Akashvani Bhawan, Kolkata. He has read his poetry at numerous literary festivals such as Paschim Banga Bangla Academy, Bangla Kobita Utsav, International Poetry Festival, Biswabangla Kabita Utsab, and many more. He is a recipient of the ‘Krishnamrittika Sahitya Award’ (1997). Rudra Pati says: "My dream shatters, yet I dream anew."
Snehaprava Das
My time sits dispassionate
Like a paralytic in a wheelchair
And watches the days floating around
like scrapes of useless paper
Outside the lonely window,
getting stuck in the branches of
Yellow trees and on the cracked panels
it sits still and untouched
In its frozen world
When images struggle and shift
in the mirror to break themselves free,
It sits staring at the ugly stains in the ceiling that grow and shrink
and then grow again in a regular pattern,
It has nothing to say, nothing to complain about,
A resigned acceptance of
The small cry under a quilt of silence
And all around it the shadows dissolve
In the walls of darkness
Snehaprava Das
The huge flag swings on the holy wheel
Promising deliverance to the sinner
Redemption to the renouncer,
Untouched by the elements it flutters high,
Capturing the sun and moon,
And etetnity in its sprawl
It scans our spiritual sky..
And, one smoky afternoon a falcon appears from nowhere and circles the crest
Then clutching the holy flag in its taloons, vanishes somewhere far beyond the sea,
Down below in the Lord's land the oracles
Decipher the omen and
The 'holier than thou' souls
Tremble at the dark prohecy,
A sacrllege is suspected, a secret flaw
A talk of a penance
Prescribed by the sacred law
The god-men watch in abject terror
Their hope stuck in the falcon's claw,
But we the baser ones
Watch the miracle in happy faith
As the flag merrily circles the holy crest
Our spirits elevated, blessed,
Our hopes soaring high
As the falcon with the holy flag fly
Spreading divine bliss over the ocean,
Across the earth and the sky..
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.
Sujata Dash
Days bleed into evenings
Evenings surrender to the whims of night
Dribbling way through both linear and circular motions of time
Hugging the turns, curves and twists,
Life plies like a camel's affinity for aqua pura
Coping with excess and deficit
Life flows like a river in spate Inundating stony corridors and beatific stretches
Showcasing utter desperation and haste
To mingle with the calm, fathomless ocean
Happiness,sorrow -form a cohesive cocktail
Like a temple teems with incessant belief and faith
The whole gets more discernment than the scrappy details
Like love courses through the bosom of a large undivided state
Engaging days lose identity in berating weeks
Noisy whiles seek solace In weekend's cosy retreats
Yet each day bolsters up it's own
distinction
Inspite of routine yanking of happenings
Accords to our growth as a human being.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has four published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm and Humming Serenades -all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
Arpita Priyadarsini
Love is not the epilogue
That's been written
On the walls of
Memories and music
But the calmness that it holds
You hold hands
To find and trace the calmness
Within one another
And ask each other's permission
To invade deep inside
And pluck out the roots
Of the chaos
That's been growing wildly
Inside you since ages
You sit alongside the memories
And constantly ponder over the fact
That how the love
That you've been offering constantly
should be delivered
with a prominent promise
Of being each other's calm
And a decaying self
Of nostalgia and bruise
you hold their hands
With utter numbness
and a sigh of guilt inside
Cause you know that this love grows
With a gazillion memories
Yet you let them move away
Slowly yet steadily
Accepting the fact that
You're nothing but
Paradigm of love and threat
You've halted and moved
With no self explanatory notes
To make yourself believe
That you're nothing
But another piece of your broken dreams
That once has oozed out
From the exact place
That you've lost your instincts to
Your love never demanded
to be cherished
Rather
It demanded to live through
Anything and everything
That can possibly exist
Your love never demanded
to own something
Rather
It demanded to caress the moments
Before they slip away
Yet all you got
Was miseries of the times
That's synonymous
With the pain that you've left behind
Arpita Priyadarsini, I`m currently working under Home department, Government of Odisha, 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.
Aneek Chatterjee
You mailed with your complaints
and allegations.
Accumulated lyrics peeped from
inside, and led me to silence.
After all, our earth will be devoured
by the ubiquitous sun in the long run.
And we humans, try to be immortal with
our dislikes and disdains, with our lost love.
Make these truly ephemeral; --
our mails, schism, raised eyebrows …
Let us smile bravely to
the waiting sun.
Aneek Chatterjee is a poet and academic from Kolkata, India. He has published more than six hundred poems in reputed literary magazines and poetry anthologies across the globe. He authored 17 books including five poetry collections titled, “Seaside Myopia” (Cyberwit, 2018), “Unborn Poems and Yellow Prison” (Cyberwit, 2019), “Of Ashes and Persiflage” (Hawakal, 2020), “Archive Avenue” (Cyberwit, 2022) and "Last Evening Was A River" (Penprints, 2024). He also co-edited the “Poetry Conclave Year Book 2022” (Authors Press, 2022). A Pushcart Prize nominee, Dr. Chatterjee also received the prestigious “Alfredo Pasilono Memorial Panorama International Literary Award 2023”. He was a Fulbright Visiting faculty at the University of Virginia, USA and a recipient of the ICCR Chair (Govt. of India) to teach abroad. His poetry has been archived at Yale University. He can be reached at: akchatjee@gmail.com
Matralina Pati
The garden exhales a thinning breath,
Its roots tangled deep in the loam
Of truths too fragile for daylight.
The air thickens,
Heavy with the weight of unspoken names,
Each a prayer whispered
To a heaven deaf with indifference.
Once, you bloomed here—
In the fleeting hours between dusk and dawn,
Your face a quiet flicker of light.
Now, it dissolves into a spectral blur,
Vanishing into the folds of silence.
And I wonder:
Did you ever exist beyond memory’s reach?
The earth, unyielding, swallows all—
Lives, moments, voices lost.
Only brittle remnants remain,
Stories too delicate to survive till the end.
Matralina Pati
Let this pen carve a bridge
For those who dwell in shadowed silence,
Bearing the weight of cries
That never found their shape.
Each word, a muted hymn;
Each verse, a balm laid softly
Over wounds that the world refuses to see.
In the stillness of unspoken thought,
I gather the fragments of their struggles,
Weaving a tapestry of quiet light,
A fragile offering
To the forgotten corners of solitude.
A whisper lingers:
We are never truly apart—
Only scattered among the same sorrow.
Matralina Pati, is a PhD research scholar working on marginal Indian bhasha literature (UGC Junior Research Fellow), a bilingual poet and a translator from Bankura, West Bengal. Her critical and creative writings have been published on national and international platforms. She has authored a book of translations titled Monsoon Seems Promising This Year (selected poems of postmodern poet Rudra Pati translated from Bengali into English).
Kunal Roy
The molten sun,
slitherrs down the sky,
resembles an egg yolk,
slices the lambent darkness around!
The singed sky
complains of the scorch in vain!
The aves faint ,
fall from the height
or tree -
The withered leaves
rustle on the ground.
A stillness pervades,
weaves the memories,
mystery chuckles-
the water stops to gurgle!
The depeopled streets,
The long silhouettes
instill fear,
tremble the limbs-
urge to run away!
The somber noon
not less than necromancy,
not less than necropolis!
I, with a heavy heart,
sit beside the casement,
witness the unbearable silence -
eats into my brain,
glistens the corner of my eye,
the visages of yesterday
appear in haziness,
cause ripples in the placidity!
I shout and scream,
chase the figures at distance
like the clouds chased by
the dollops of sunshine!
An abrupt disappearance,
Confounded I am!
The shaking noon thoughts -
melt into an afternoon glow,
The horizon drapes in solitude,
Stars peep in -
announce their arrival!
A deprived soul
shyes away from the moon -
to count the stars !!
Kunal Roy has always been an ardent lover of literature. He has received various awards for his literary contributions. He is a poet and a critic of poetry. His works have been published both here and abroad. Currently working as an Assistant Professor of English Language and Communication in George Group of Colleges, Kolkata.
Sudipta Mishra
In the gossamer wings of my dreamy nights.
I embark on cosmic travels
On a time machine,
A soul-stirring expedition begins
Of so many years and so many ages
I fathom the distance between the Earth and the stars
Betwixt you and me
There lies a gap of million years of emotion
A thousand secret tales
are weaved on
those sleepless nights
With the wake of a new dawn
I save those memories
in the chest of time
There lies a hidden wish
in one corner of my heart
To find solace in your warm embrace
To lie with you in your empire
in the soft dews of morn
Now while making
sand castles
damp with tears of
repentance
I wish I could measure
my last moments
by leaning on the known walls of your solitary chamber!
Sudipta Mishra is a multi-faceted artist and dancer excelling in various fields of art and culture. She has co-authored more than a hundred books. Her book, 'The Essence of Life', is credited with Amazon's bestseller. Her next creation, 'The Songs of My Heart' is scaling newer heights of glory. Her poems are a beautiful amalgamation of imagery and metaphors. She has garnered numerous accolades from international organizations like the famous Rabindranath Tagore Memorial, Mahadevi Verma Sahitya Siromani Award, an Honorary Doctorate, and so on. She regularly pens articles in newspapers as a strong female voice against gender discrimination, global warming, domestic violence against women, pandemics, and the ongoing war. She is pursuing a Ph.D. degree in English. Her fourth book, Everything I Never Told You is a collection of a hundred soulful poems. Currently, she is residing in Puri.
Braja K Sorkar
Sometimes the city seems very strange to me.
I feel even more unknown.
I don't know myself.
I look at my neighbor,
though I don't know him.
Who lives next door to me?
Who is called neighbor?
I don't know yet.
There's an old tree beside my house.
He's a longtime friend of mine.
I know him very well.
His long arm is holding me up
So many years he give shelters.
And the man? On the other side of the house
A neighbor lives.
He can't even see me!
There is a huge rally in the city today;
A procession for seeking justice.
Everyone's face is sad, but they are silently
walking behind the hearse.
I've never known the dead.
She was the victim of a secret conspiracy –I heard.
Her death was unnatural-
They are telling thus .
All the people in the procession are strangers to me,
Are they my neighbors!
I also walk beside the mourning people,
the procession is going on.
Today, we are all neighbors.
Today everyone is a neighbor
in the hope of justice.
Braja K Sorkar
My high School, in the wilderness, on a steep hill,
mud-caked knees, a tiny lake below, racing in the lunch time,
huddled beneath the large banyan tree,
It was a yellow afternoon years back..
I have passed the school days by leaps and bounds,
Running the race of life , decaying feathers are falling every day,
Hasty decisions, the pit ahead, the alluring moon, the boring sky…
Run away and came back to the cave of life for taking refuge.
The color of life is changing everyday,
I feel nostalgic.
I only draw a dot on the pages of my life,
and searching the face once I drew on
the black and white paper.
Looking back to the past is a game of love!
The mind goes back to that school
Time and again…
The clouds are gathering point by point in my skies.
Do the accumulating clouds portend a storm?
Both the emptiness and the noise are overwhelming!
The school that I adore is still stays in mind
all the time
Braja K Sorkar is a bilingual author, poet, Essayist, and Translator. 10 Titles have beenpublished in his credit and a highly acclaimed poetry collection in English, titled ‘ Syllables of Broken Silence(2021) for which he received ‘The Indology Award’(2021). He has edited 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 into many languages. He lives in Durgapur, West Bengal. Contact: email: brajaksorkar369@gmail.com. And brajakumar.sarkar@gmail.com Whats App: 9064231839
OF HEADS AND TAILS....
Asim Ranjan Parhi
Of heads and tails and leaving or retaining
I have to respond,
to an uncertain future that I always stitched from my past
I have to be ready for,
some sacrifice, certain glint immersed in hurt that last
few nostalgic sighs, and love ambivalent
the faint face of victory and defeat glued to my present
as I am not bred in the ambitious mood
nor at a juncture to be famous even if I could
I am rather stuck to my being in time
that is an ‘all time’, cyclic rhyme.
Does the kurushrestha has a space?
crowned after death yet design the race?
where is the sun born, towery warrior
dazzle your armour my mystical lover
you my patriot, glorious brother.
As day breathes into thickening night
or as history breaks into a sickening fright
we shall break into glowing bright
staunch nationalist, we two, right?
I am you and you are I
see, the sky has fashioned its eye
let us alter history or myth that lie
and restore majesty from dharmic cry.
the nineteenth day of hastina’s war
that we wished is near
the day of action against the enemy or dear
is now, here.
Asima Ranjan Parhi is Professor and Head, Department of English at Utkal University, Odisha. He was formerly the Dean, Faculty of Languages, Professor and Head of the Department of English at Rajiv Gandhi Central University, Arunachal Pradesh. Author of a book Indian English through Newspapers, Parhi has published a number of research papers in Translation Studies (CIIL), Indian Literature (Sahitya Akademi), Journal of English and Foreign Languages (EFLU), Studies in Humanities and Social Sciences (IIAS), International Journal of Multidisciplinary Thought, Journal of media and Communication Studies, a Monograph from Sahitya Akademi, book chapters in publications from Springer and Routledge. An Associate of Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla, Parhi pursues an interest in ELT, Translation Studies and Children’s literature. Recently he has published an anthology of poems titled Of Sons and Fathers from Pakhsighara, Bhubaneswar. His forthcoming publications include an edited anthology on Gopinath Mohanty and Tales from Sarala Mahabharata in prose from Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi.
Ajit Dash
Odissi rooted in the principles
The Bharat’s Natya Shastra dance form
Performed worship for temple rituals
Evidence dating back second century BCE
In caves like Khandagiri and Udayagiri
Mudras and body movements conveying
Emotions and stories of triple world
With sport, Peace of mind, wealth, laughter,
Fighting and sexual passion
Massacre of all activities of life
Imitates the conduct of the world
Dedicating in trice-bent of Maa Parvati
Mother of Elephant headed God, War God
Mediator between worshiper and Divine
Two arms mother alongside Siva
Four, eight and ten arms while solo
Odissi mainly performs acrobatic poses
In praise of Sri Jagannath and Sri Krishna
The Gotipua dance for protecting
The Lord Sri Jagannath temple and Culture
Mahari and Gotipua combined formed Odissi
Orbits around voicing stories of Lord Krishna
Seen in Indian sculptures with themes
By many stances as Bhanga involves
Imprinting of the foot, striking various postures
Ajit Dash
Drank the entire tavern dry
Saw a Jogan in joy in my front
Wave of ecstasy swept over me
Drank down a cup of love
When the desire arose in my mind
Renounced the world to be an ascetic
why did I go crazy in a moment
Momentum of feminine emotions
Magic starts to awaken
Fragrance of the rising Sun
Became out of control
My heart got lost as seen you
lying on a bed just mine looking back
Desires in my heart Storm in my breath
Move to a mountainous island
To be a garland of melodious lolita Ragini
Poet Sri Ajit Dash by birth inherits his forefather Pariskhit Rathasharma’s legacy as one of the Navaratna Ministers of a Royal King. Being an astute organiser, socio-political as well as Development activist, he has made his presence globally. A freelance journalist and motivator, Sri Ajit Dash leads his life with lots of diversifications as an expert, imbued with utmost passion in the fields of Literature, Language, Environment, Governance, Entrepreneurship Promotion. He is experienced in Media house promotion and Electoral Politics too. Now a days his study is going on in the Use of Multilingualism, Wavelength and frequency of Odia Script, Words and Sentence pronunciation by different speakers in a multilingual perspective. Prof D. K. Ray, Late Prof of English, had compared his poems with the legendary Irish poet W. B. Yeats in the preface to his book of poetry “Midnight Dream” published in 2017. Sri Dash follows his father’s poetic accomplishments as his recently published book "Wings of Burning Violin" has been a great success.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
With brownish and grayish patches
Shielding with soft, silky fur
Moving his round yellowish eyes,
He wanders from here to there!
Sitting on the soothing sofa
He observes in every nook and corner
His quest for master is never ending
Wherever master goes, he certainly follows
The human touch consoles him ever
Language and actions are immaterial
Like the shadow, he creeps behind
He proves his presence like air!
Mewing all over the beautiful mansion,
He demands deeds and seeks his meal
The boss of the house often trains him
To be a disciple, disciplined, and devoted!
Originating from tiger's family,
The cat shows pride, and prestige
He's amicable at heart and honest in mind
He's the member of the family
And the soulmate of souls golden!
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
Ms Gargi Saha
So beautiful is nature
I get submerged in its marvellous beauty
Of night butterflies
Appearing to have three faces
What beauty lies in its unique design
So crisp, fragile yet steady
In its flight
Spread joy, mirth all around
Lies on a stone happily unnoticed, unknown, unlamented
Without any grudge or bitterness, hostility
Can transform a leaf to a flower
How I marvel his elegance, nobility, cheer.
Ms Gargi Saha
A small pond besides my
Multistoried buildings
Yet what soothing, cooling effect
It has on the saturated mind
Of heyday competitions, conflicts
Of the mundane, materialist world.
Ms Gargi Saha
The vast expanse of the waters
Overspread without any boundaries
Free flowing waves colliding
Infinite times with bubbly enthusiasm
Signifying courage, determination, perseverance
The azure, open firmament above
Highlighting generosity, benevolence, accommodation
Of all beings in the universe
Without classification, hierarchy, division
How great the sky you are !
Bold and brave without fears
What exilhirating beauty lies in the horizon of waters and skies
I wish I could be lost in the horizon of unparalleled peace, beauty, solitude
Away from the hustle, bustle, humdrum, maddening attitude.
Ms Gargi Saha is a creative writer and has published two poem books namely, 'The Muse in My Salad Days ', and 'Letters to Him '.Her poems have been featured in National and International Journals. She has received the Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Award and the Independence Day Award for poetry. Presently she edits several scientific research papers. She can be reached at gargi.paik@gmail.com
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Soil is the gift of nature,
Serves as clay to a potter,
Highly imaginative in stature
In making goblets to glitter.
On the moving wheel, it is clay
Doesn’t know what shape it gets
But feels sportive in the moving play
To turn into varieties sans regrets:
In the stadium, the potter’s wheel
As sport to turn vases for plant-grow
For hungers as pots to cook meal
To thirsts as jars for life in flow.
The clay gets shapes into variety
With the spirit of service selfless,
It is death for life, acts for beauty
That lies in work, relentless.
Rises from potter’s imagination
Shaping clay into all priceless price
Whether potter is great in creation
Or the clay for self-sacrifice.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
The garland is made of flowers,
Not put together for variety,
Unseen is the thread for powers
The sign of unity for beauty.
The book is famous not for pages
Bulky and voluminous
Written by the author for ages
But the concept remains famous.
The essence lies at the heart,
Unseen and unheard undercurrent,
Words in clusters in the art
The theme all together to present.
Nation’s strength is not population
Nor variety in diversity,
That is the external exhibition
But the main is to bind in unity.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Good hearts for good deeds
Like the sun with the rays
For light and warmth, needs
For happy living ways.
A man thinks of the protection
Of an innocent woman
A masculine and humanist action
Never thinks of rape inhuman.
.
A leader has the aim on his part
In the welfare of the people
If he is good at heart
For good deeds as a principle.
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
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
An oyster produces a pearl when it is wounded.
An irritant like a grain of sand or parasite enters the oyster's shell.
For protection the oyster produces nacre.
This shiny, smooth secretion coats the irritant
Layer by layer, until a beautiful pearl is formed.
A mother carries a baby for nine months
Nourishing it with her life blood.
Her womb protects the baby from all harm.
Organs and other features are formed gradually.
After excruciating labour pain, a beautiful baby is born.
We humans get hurt again and again.
We still go forward overcoming the hurt and pain.
These injuries become our life lessons.
They make us more confident and refined.
We rise up from these wounds, a better and beautiful person.
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist, a national scholar transformed into a globally loved, award-winning poet. Her poems have been translated into 40 world languages and she has published 9 books. A globe trotter she loves calling herself a global citizen. Not only does she write poems but she promotes peace poetry, multilingual poetry, global poetry and passionately promotes indigenous poetry. Paramita believes that by promoting indigenous languages, she can bring some endangered languages into the main stream. In 2019, she got the Gold Rose from MS Production, Buenos Aires, Argentina for promotion of Literature and Culture. Apart from many awards like the Sahityan Samman in 2018, Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore award in 2019, Poetess of Elegance 2019 and many more she was one of the recipients of the prestigious Panorama International Literature award from Greece in 2022. Paramita is the President and Initiator of the Mumbai Chapter of the Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) and also the Cultural Convenor and Literary Coordinator (West India) of the International Society for Intercultural Studies and Research (ISISAR).
LOOKING INWARD- THE KEY TO WELL-BEING.
Dr. Thirupurasundari C J
The best thing given to you,
Learn and renew.
Smile and never you sigh,
Hold yourself high.
Painting your dreams,
Let your eyes gleam.
Fears you unmask
Creating glory in your tasks.
Smaller the efforts may be,
Oh! Messy may it be.
That belief contagious,
Courage not outrageous.
Handling setbacks,
Never holding back.
The energy recalibrated,
Your thoughts not to be validated.
Decisions not just by emotion,
Self-compassion the ocean.
Not to sink and gloom,
Experiment to nourish and bloom.
Live it up!
Joy filling your cup.
All that you love!
Rising above!
Self-love fastened with a grip,
Self-love the romantic relationship.
A cheerful Biochemist and Molecular Biologist, Dr. Thirupurasundari C J (Dazzle) has a university rank and gold medal in her Bachelors and Masters respectively. She fetched her state and national level fellowships for Doctoral studies. She started her research and teaching experience at a Diabetes Research Hospital. She is recognised as someone who teaches with passion. She took this ethos to a school and also excelled as Assistant Professor in a reputed University, Chennai and then for a brief stint at the Vector Control Research Centre, Puducherry. She has PG diplomas in Bioinformatics, Clinical Research and Patent Rights. She has participated in national and international scientific conferences and has published her research findings in peer-reviewed journals. Cancer, Diabetes, and Horticulture are the fields, she has traversed. The last of which was put to use at the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research. Her other passions include yoga, sudoku, poetry, sketching, gardening, and experimenting new cuisines. Besides being a science content writer, an editor for “Science Shore” e-zine, she has published her oeuvres in Bangalore Poetry Circle, Adisakrit, Positive vibes, Chennai Poets’ Circle, Indian Periodicals, International Writers Journal, Inner Child Press International, INNSAEI, Spillwords, and other anthology groups. Her oeuvres are also available on literary platforms like TechTouch talk, Cultural reverence, Namaste India, Muse India-Your Space, Story mirror, Pratilipi and others. She draws inspiration from others! Her thirst for dance is being quenched recently. She is happy within.
Sreedharan Parokode
Dawn pours different rays
of hope to think and act!
Sometimes to sprout to
become big!
The Sun extends its support
to the sleepers not to have
the peaceful moments but to
come up
from the bed spread
Vibrantly to the assigned
duties and responsibilities.
Sreedharan Parokode
WHAT
would be the remainder
When ''I"
is deducted from "Me"?
What is the remaining portion
When we
deliberately reduce "My"
from "Us"?
I donot know know exactly !
Sreedharan Parokode
IF
One plus One
Becomes two Ones
How can one move from
one place to the other
without the help of
Others?
Being humble is a noble and
virtuous thought
through out!
P.L.Sreedharan Parokode is a bi-lingual poet and lyricist from Malappuram district, Kerala. He has a Master's degree in English literature and Population Studies and a Post Graduate Diploma in Parental Education. Sreedharan has thirty books of poetry to his credit, including 'Weeping Womb', 'Slum Flowers,'Mahatma Gandhi' 'Nelson Mandela',Poems', 'Don't mum Please' etc. He has also written songs for professional dramas, for albums, songs for competitions, devotional songs etc. He has written songs for animation film also.
Sreedharan has attended various literary conferences in India and abroad. He presented his poems at World Congress of Poets, in Taiwan, 2015, China, 2018, and literary conference in Serbia, 2007.
He has received awards and honours from various organisations, such as, Sahitya shree Award, Sahitya Shiromani Award, Shan E Adab Award etc. He has also received an Hony.Doctorate from the World Academy of Art and Culture
Sreedharan is currently engaged in Doctoral Research in Population Studies from Annamalai University. Earlier he was working in the Administrative wing of the University of Calicut.
Shreeya Sampada
When the wind swirls,
my eyes brim with joy.
When the gentle sea waves dance,
my feelings of remorse shift
and my spirits are high.
A dazzling smile
makes me feel delighted
When the mole crab slid along with me,
it fills me with ecstasy.
As the crystal-clear seawater
washes over my feet,
it feels as if it has
washed away all my sins.
When I inhale the fresh air from the sea,
I am transported into
the bliss of nature.
Building sandcastles
with the moist sand
reminds me that
many colours are waiting
to be added to my hollow life.
As I collect seashells,
I realize there are
many incomplete life lessons still to be explored.
Even when I doze off,
I can listen to
the symphony of the sea
lapping at the shore...
Shreeya Sampada is a multifaceted artist who has a keen interest in classical music and dance from her infancy.She has received numerous accolades by winning state level competitions in music. As a girl of fourteen, she delves deep into the intricacies of Nature and life for adding colour to her canvas. With a noble ambition of being a doctor in future, she nurtures her time in serving the people around her. She is currently studying in a High School in Puri, Odisha.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The sun had set last evening,
After a hard day's toil
Like an overstretched debt collector
Knocking from door to door,
To get some overdue payments.
But tired, the sun set forever,
That's how it seemed, to all those
Who had revelled through the night
It never rose in the morning
At its appointed hour.
The town went into a turmoil,
People came out in hordes
Shaken and scared,
They spoke to each other
Their voice sunk to a fearful whisper.
They wondered why the sun
Didn't take a proper farewell,
Nor left a leave application,
My dear Sirs, sorry,
I won't be at my job tomorrow morning.
I quit my job, you won't see me
At my usual place,
Over the horizon,
A dot in the sky
Rising slowly to my blazing splendour.
I know the wind would whine in sorrow,
The clouds would be confused in the morrow
Where to move, which land to fall,
The trees would sway, hungry for my light
Wondering if there will be an end to the night.
Sorry my dears, I have done my best,
Now I want to take rest.
I am tired of emitting my rays,
Giving off light and heat
To you who don't value my gift.
For too long you have taken me for granted
You have tortured my little daughter,
You call her your Mother Earth,
But treat her like a whore,
Drilling holes and digging pits in her.
You have poured into her
Hot concrete and molten tar,
You have built millions of buildings
Your never ending greed and desire
Have brought her untold sufferings.
I can't even see the Little Earth
Crying for a soothing touch, my daughter,
Looking at me in anguish,
Through the haze of noxious gases
You have created between me and her.
And look at the green cover I had given you,
The billions of trees that grew and grew,
But you chose to cut them away,
Nothing is sacred to you, nothing beyond your greed,
The water, the greenery or the air above your head.
I would rather take rest,
Tired of all your ways of wastefulness,
Sorry I couldn't take leave from you.
But I hope you will learn your lessons
From my gift of eternal darkness.
......AND THE AFTERMATH
When the news of the sulking sun
And the never ending night
Reached the leaders across the globe
They just laughed, these tough men,
They don't easily take fright.
The mighty one in the West,
Roared in anger,
I will teach a lesson to the blighter,
Through a Presidential order,
I will cancel his Visa for ever.
He will come and whine before me
To allow him a peep
Into the bikini clad girls
Swimming at Miami beach,
I will just show him the door.
The one at 10 Downing Street
Flashed a rueful smile,
The sun had set on the British Empire long back
What happened today is only a guile,
To mock at a nation bent and servile.
The kings and rulers in Africa,
Went into a rapturous delight
Ah, an endless night,
Let's have more wives, more concubines,
Let the wine flow before the orgy begins.
The cunning neighbour to our North,
Just laughed it away,
Fellow earthlings, just listen,
You don't know the limits of our power,
We can make a Ying into a Yang
And a Yang into a Ying
From Wuhan to Chiang
From Beijing to Shanghai
We will use the nuclear bombs
And light up the sky
With a thousand blazing Suns.
Nearer home our leaders
Went into a huddle,
Ah, our theory has been proved right,
Everything that happens now
Is a leaf from our past.
It was in Mahabharat days
That the sun was immobilised in the war
And the earth had plunged into darkness
To kill a wily opponent.
If the sun could be hidden, it can also be revealed.
We will spend a billion dollars and create a modern warrior
Who will bring the sun out.
My countrymen, everything will be fine
Just wait, keep us in power.
The sun will again shine.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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