Literary Vibes - Edition CLIII (30-May-2025) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEWS
Title : Sunflowers (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,
Happy to present to you the 153rd edition of LiteraryVibes with a hope that it fills your heart with joy in these difficult times. The month of May has been a roller-coaster ride with an Indo-Pak war and the accompanying noise. The collective psyche of the nation has gone through a churning of intense patriotism - love for the country and hatred for the enemy in equal measure. In the process we have celebrated our countrymen all over - the soldiers who laid down their lives for the nation and the common men who stood united. Amidst the deafening shrieks and screams for the enemy blood, the war came to an early end, bringing out yet again the painful truth that two neighbouring countries can achieve much more prosperity and development if they do not waste their resources and manpower in war. Yet, everyone in our country felt that this war was necessary, as a response to the barbaric cross-border terrorism unleashed at Pahalgam.
In the thick of patriotic fervour there was an inspiring story doing the rounds in internet. Let me share the story here for those who might have missed it, because the undiluted patriotic love in the story fills the heart with glowing warmth. Here is the story:
Meal on the Plane
I was seated in my seat on the flight, heading to Delhi—a journey of around three hours. I planned to spend the time reading a good book and getting an hour of sleep.
Just before takeoff, around 10 soldiers came and sat around me, filling the nearby seats. Thinking it would be interesting, I asked the soldier next to me, “Where are you headed?”
“To Agra, sir! We have two weeks of training there, and then we’ll be sent on an operation,” he replied.
An hour passed. An announcement was made: “Lunch is available for purchase for those who wish to buy.”
I thought to myself—still a long way to go, maybe I should eat. I reached for my wallet to book my meal when I overheard a conversation.
“Shall we also get lunch?” one of the soldiers asked.
“No, it's too expensive here. Let’s eat at a regular hotel once we land,” another replied.
“Alright.”
I walked up to the flight attendant and said, “Please give lunch to all of them,” and paid for everyone’s meal.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “My younger brother is posted in Kargil, sir. It feels like you’re feeding him too. Thank you,” she said, bowing in gratitude.
That moment touched me deeply.
I returned to my seat. Within half an hour, all of them received their lunch boxes.
After finishing my meal, I headed to the restroom at the back of the plane. An elderly gentleman came from a rear seat.
“I noticed everything. You deserve appreciation,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’d like to be part of your good deed,” he added, slipping a ?500 note into my hand.
I came back to my seat. Half an hour later, the flight’s pilot walked over, scanning seat numbers until he found mine. He smiled and said, “I’d like to shake your hand.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood up. As he shook my hand, he said, “I was once a fighter pilot. Back then, someone just like you bought me a meal. I never forgot that—it was a symbol of love. What you did brought back that memory.”
All the passengers clapped. I felt a little shy. I didn’t do it for praise—I simply did a good deed.
I walked a bit toward the front of the plane. A young man, about 18, shook my hand and slipped a note into my palm.
The journey came to an end.
As I waited near the door to exit, a man silently placed something in my pocket and walked off. Another note.
As I stepped out of the plane, the soldiers were all gathered in one place. I rushed over, pulled out all the notes fellow passengers had given me, and handed them to the soldiers.
“Use this for food or anything else before you reach your training site. What we give is nothing compared to the protection you provide us. Thank you for what you do for our nation. May God bless you and your families,” I said, eyes slightly wet.
Those ten soldiers were now carrying with them the love of an entire flight. As I got into my car, I silently prayed, “Lord, please watch over these brave souls who are ready to give their lives for this country.”
A soldier is like a blank cheque made payable to India, redeemable for any amount, up to and including their life.
So many still don’t understand their greatness.
Respecting the sons of Mother India is the same as respecting ourselves.
– Jai Hind
It is quite heartening to note that when the nation was brimming with patriotic fervour, our poets and writers were busy with expressing their emotions in blissful words. I received many articles this time and am happy to arrange them in a beautiful bouquet and present to you dear readers. I am also delighted to welcome the new contributors to the LV family. Prof. Triloki Nath Pandey, a renowned anthropologist from USA has just started a memoir on his journey from Balia in Uttar Pradesh to Santa Cruz in California. The first instalment of the series makes interesting reading, presenting a realistic picture of the socio-economic milieu of rural and urban India in the middle part of the last century. I am eagerly looking forward to further instalments from the erudite Professor Emeritus. Ms. Ramya Madathilthodi Is a very talented poet from Kerala who writes with great zeal and passion. Mr. Sreekumar, one of the founding members of LiteraryVibes, has traslater her Malayalam poem to English. He does a Yeoman's service by translating beautiful poems from the talented poets of Kerala for LiteraryVibes from time to time. Dr. Sigma Satish, a brilliant Professor of English from Trivandrum, has sent us an excellent review of a book of the celebrated poet Joydeep Sarangi. We also have Rohith, a young, 11 years old genius from Trivandrum, who writes in his biodata that his dream is to be someone who can make others' days better. What a noble sentiment at such a young age! Let us wish all these new contributors the very best in their literary journey and hope we will continue to receive their creative offerings in all our future editions also.
I often wonder how great writers keep churning out immortal works. What rules they follow, which protocols? Do they believe in too many words to give a touch of immortality to their works or they trust impeccable style more than the contents? Is emotion more important or powerful delivery? Recently a few friends shared some articles to answer a bit of my question. Let me present them to you, dear readers, for an amazing literary experience:
Some of the Shortest Stories Ever Written:
1. Ernest Hemingway’s Six-Word Story
Legend has it that Hemingway once wagered he could write a story in just six words that would outdo all others in emotional impact. He won the bet.
For sale: baby shoes, never used.
2. O. Henry’s Shortest Tale
Winner of a contest for the shortest complete story (with setup, climax, and resolution):
The chauffeur lit a cigarette and leaned over the gas tank to see how much fuel was left. The deceased was twenty-three.
3. Fredric Brown’s Horror Masterpiece
Often cited as the shortest horror story ever written:
The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.
4. The British Short Story Contest
The rules demanded mentioning God, the Queen, a hint of sex, and some element of mystery. The winner wrote:
“My God!” cried the Queen, “I’m pregnant, and I haven’t a clue who the father is!”
5. The World’s Shortest Autobiography
In another contest, an elderly Frenchwoman submitted just one line:
“I used to have a smooth face and a wrinkled skirt; now it’s the other way around.”
Below are additional mini-stories—each under 55 words—written by various authors.
Jane Orvis, “The Window”
Ever since Rita was brutally murdered, Carter has sat at the window. No TV, no books, no letters. His entire life is framed by what he sees through the curtains. He doesn’t care who brings food or pays the bills; he never leaves the room.
Joggers pass by, seasons change, cars come and go, Rita’s ghost lingers.
Carter doesn’t realize there are no windows in a padded cell.
Larisa Kirkland, “The Proposal”
A starry night—the perfect moment. Candlelit dinner in a cozy Italian place. Little black dress. Gorgeous hair, sparkling eyes, silvery laughter. Two years together true love, best friends, no one else. Champagne! I get on one knee. People are watching? Let them. A dazzling diamond ring. Cheeks flushing, a beaming smile.
“What? No?!”
Charles Enright, “The Ghost”
As soon as it happened, I rushed home to tell my wife the dreadful news.
But she didn’t seem to hear me. She didn’t even notice me. She gazed right through me, poured herself a drink, and turned on the TV.
The telephone rang; she picked it up.
I saw her face collapse. She burst into tears.
Andrew E. Hunt, “Gratitude”
The wool blanket he’d just received from a charity warmed his shoulders, and the boots he’d found in the dumpster that morning fit perfectly. The streetlights soothed him after the biting cold. The curve of the park bench felt so familiar to his tired back.
“Thank you, Lord,” he thought. “Life is simply wonderful.”
Brian Newell, “What the Devil Wants”
Two boys watched Satan walk away, his hypnotic gaze still clouding their minds.
“Hey, what did he want from you?”
“My soul. And you?”
“A coin for the payphone. He had to make an urgent call.”
“Wanna grab something to eat?”
“I’d like to, but he took my last cent.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty.”
Alan E. Meyer, “Bad Luck”
I woke with every part of me throbbing. A nurse stood by my bed.
“Mr. Fujima,” she said, “you’re lucky to be alive after the Hiroshima bombing two days ago. You’re in a hospital now; you’re safe.”
Barely conscious, I whispered, “Where am I?”
“Nagasaki,” she replied.
Jay Rip, “Fate”
There was only one way out. Our lives were too tangled—rage and bliss knotted together—so we left it to chance: heads, we marry; tails, we part forever.
The coin flipped, clinked, spun, and landed on heads.
We stared at it, baffled, then both asked at once:
“How about best two out of three?”
Robert Tompkins, “Seeking Truth”
At last, his search ended in a remote village. In a tattered hut by a small fire sat Truth—older and uglier than he had ever imagined.
“Are you Truth?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What should I tell the world? What’s your message?”
The crone spat into the fire and growled,
“Tell them I am young and beautiful!”
August Salemi, “Modern Medicine”
Blinding headlights, a sickening screech, pain so savage it swallowed everything…then a warm, beckoning blue light. John felt suddenly free, young, wonderfully happy as he moved toward the glow.
Darkness and agony slowly returned. His eyes fluttered open to bandages, tubes, a cast. Both legs gone. His wife was weeping.
“They saved you, darling!”
AND THE LAST ONE - A BIT LONGER BUT DEVASTSTINGLY POWERFUL IN IMPACT:
Anton Chekhov writes in one of his stories :
At the bus stop, an old man and a young pregnant woman were waiting together.
The man kept staring at the woman’s round belly, intrigued. Then he gently dared to ask :
— How far along are you ?
The young woman seemed elsewhere, lost in thought. Worry was written on her tired face. At first, she didn’t answer. Then, after a few seconds of silence, she murmured :
— I’m at twenty-three weeks...
— Is this your first child ? he asked.
— Yes, she replied, her voice barely audible.
— Don’t be afraid, he added. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.
She placed a hand on her belly, looked straight ahead, her eyes shining, fighting back tears.
— I hope so… she replied.
The old man continued:
— Sometimes we let ourselves be overwhelmed by worries that, in truth, don’t deserve it...
— Maybe…, she whispered sadly.
He looked at her more closely, with more compassion.
— You seem to be going through a hard time. Your husband… is he not with you ?
— He left me four months ago.
— Why ?!
— It’s complicated…
— And your loved ones? Your family, friends ? No one to support you ?
She took a deep breath.
— I live alone with my father… He’s ill.
A long silence. Then the old man asked :
— Is he still the pillar you once knew as a child ?
Tears rolled down the young woman’s cheeks.
— Yes ..… Even now.
— Even in his condition? What’s wrong with him ?
— He no longer remembers who I am ..…
She spoke those words just as the bus arrived.
She stood up, took a few steps… Then changed her mind, came back to the old man, gently took his hand, and said tenderly :
"Let’s go, Dad"
..................................
So we had the experience of a few micro-stories, some mini-stories and a superb short story.
What more do we ask from life? A dash of poetry and a dollop of lovely stories - that more or less sums up the length and width of our wish list.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings from LV153. Please share them with all your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/593 (Poems and Book Review)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/592
(Short Stories, Anecdotes and Travelogues)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/591
(Young Magic)
There is also an interesting medical anecdote from the famous gynecologist Prof. Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/590
Sixteen outstanding short stories can be found in the Special Pooja Edition at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/562
Happy to remind you that all the 153 editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at
https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Dear Readers, wish you a happy reading. Relax and enjoy till we meet again on 27th June, the last Friday of next month.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Friday, the 30th May, 2025
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
FIG LEAF
02) Dilip Mohapatra
CHRYSALIS OF WAR
MEDALS IN A CASE
03) Snehaprava Das
SEARCH A SKY FOR CLIPPED WINGS
04) Abani Udgata
A HUT ON THE SHORE
05) Sujata Dash
LOSING AND FINDING
06) Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
TIME
07) Avantika Vijay Singh
STEADFAST
08) Hema Ravi
RICKSHAW OYALA TARATARI ASO
09) Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
A SPRINGTIME PROMISE
THE PATH I LEAVE BEHIND
10) Shri Satish Pashine
MASKS
11) Bipin Patsani
THE HELLFIRE OF HATRED
THE BALLOON
A PAPER KITE
12) Matralina Pati
OF TIME
THE LAST EMBER
13) Leena Thampi
IN OUR NEXT LIFETIME
14) Baldev Samantaray
RAVENSHAW MISTY EVENING AT COMMERCE BLOCK
15) Dr R. S.Tewari
PIVOT OF HUMANITY
FAR FROM GLOOM AND SIN
EXTREME IS EXTREME
SAVE THE SURVIVAL
16) Ajit Dash
MUSK ROSE
YOUR THIRSTY CUP
17) Fatema Zohra Haque
WHAT REMAINS
18) Aparna Ajith
IN THE FADING SHADES OF GOA
19) Ramya Madathilthodi
PATHS A WOMAN TREADS
20) Rudra Pati
POETRY OF SUMMER
POETRY FROM A MARGINAL FARMER
21) Kunal Roy
MAGNIFICENT
22) Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
THOSE CLUSTER OF ROSES…
23) Sangeeta Dey (Roy)
METAPHORS
24) Arpita Priyadarsini
MYSTERIES OF LIFE
25) Ms Gargi Saha
HUNGER
MULTIPLE SELVES
VEHICULAR VOYAGE
26) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
THE ART OF LOVING MYSELF
27) Sreechandra Banerjee
MY HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO RABINDRANATH TAGORE
28) Chaitrakana Pati
CATS AND DOGS
29) Swatilekha Roy
IN MY MIND
DISHEVELED
30) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
NATURE IN LOVE
BARRIERS AND BORDERS
31) Srikant Mishra
MOTHER
32) Dr. Niranjan Barik
WHEELS OF ENVY
KUMBHA
33) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
AFTERNOON
Table of Contents :: Book Review
1) Dr. Sigma Satish
A LIVING ARCHIVE OF INDIAN ENGLISH POETRY-A REVIEW OF WITHIN HER HOME, AND OUTSIDE: ESSAYS ON INDIAN ENGLISH POETRY
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
My God wears nothing.
My love dons nothing but a dream.
The maverick living
in my head walks in the buff.
But I wear the sky as my attire,
fire as kohl for my eyes.
I question even God's
peremptory commands.
From Kabir, I took
a bit of cloth for my cloak,
Tuka gave me ropes,
to hang my hammock.
Mira’s lullabies
lulled my agitated mind to sleep,
Salabega* cross-stitched
my tears with bhakti.
I roam the corridors
inside my head
digging for toys buried
under innocence.
Often my father’s silhouette
from my pastoral past,
walks out of the dust whorls
behind distant treelines.
I ask Google,
the God of Small Things
of our daily life,
for a 'made easy' kit of moksha.
Ready to rerun, rejoice,
and adopt. But for some mischief
at the courier's delivery system
I get a 'DIY Kit’*, packed with emptiness.
In my shrine
the all-time impassive Lord
wears a teasing smirk,
"Serves you right, jerk".
His riddle-ridden joke
reduces even Mona Lisa
to a lesser conundrum,
her slip showing!
My Lord, you seem
as insecure, as unsure,
as your mystique is bare;
you, are sort of, her doppelganger.
I bite my tongue,
"O, I shrunk you, Lord.
But you look cuter
like a toddler in the buff.”
(Salabega* - an ardent devotee of Lord Jagannath, born of a Brahmin mother and a Muslim father, a Muslim Bhakti Poet from Puri in the 17th century AD, who composed hundreds of hymns in adoration of Lord Jagannath. DIY Kit* is a kit of parts to 'Do It Yourself', or assemble the parts yourself to get the item ordered.)
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
Peace is not given
it comes with a price tag
and that is war.
It’s just a barter
between lives-
war’s sacrifices
for peace’s preservation.
Peace is desirable
without a doubt
but is not the natural state
of the world
that’s always tumultuous
for the turmoil
a restless tide
a rebellious storm
an inferno
that rages within
on the surface
and above too
and that spills into
the human domain.
Echoes of horses hooves
clanging of swords
booming of the artillery
thumping of the boots
massacre and mayhem
genocide’s shadow
holocaust
apocalypse
script the history
of defeat and victory
written in blood
sweat and tears
a debt etched in time.
Peace doesn’t come cheap
it follows in the wake of
destruction
and devastation
like the calm after the storm.
So pause before you curse the war
since the suffering
and struggle to
order and harmony
are as natural as
that of the caterpillar’s journey
through the chrysalis
to emerge
transformed
and fly away
as the beautiful butterfly
with wings of peace
soaring in the gentle breeze.
Dilip Mohapatra
My medals still shine
and glitter
though no longer
displayed on my chest
but enclosed in a
glass case.
They remind me
of my good old days
when we tamed the tides
and braved the waves
when we defeated
the wayward winds
and reined in
the unbridled rains.
They are not just
reminders
but are testimonials
of our blood and sweat
that we dedicated
to our sovereignty
and our ensign
of our valour and might
that we displayed
day and night
searching
striking
enemy targets
guarded our honour
and upheld our pride.
No longer adorning my chest
now relics in a glass case
on my mantle
not languishing but
shining in their glory
a legacy
they remind us
and those to come
that these honours
are earned
and not given.
No mere memory-
they are signatures
of our sacrifices
and our victory.
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
SEARCH A SKY FOR CLIPPED WINGS
Snehaprava Das
A small sound, a soft tweet.
She looks up. A bird in the ventilator.
A couple of glass-slides have broken in the venilator. They are like that for years. Her mother never cared to get them replaced. The bird perches calmly in between them. She wonders how it has escaped the razor sharp edges of the glass.
It cocks its tiny head and stares at the vegetables sizzling in the frying pan.
A woman, her mother probably, laughs somewhere outside. Or inside her?
She leans to look at the bucket under the kitchen platform. She dips a small bowl in it. Her face in the water swirls wildly, grotesquely..
It is like looking into a trick mirror. A strange flowy face painted in sweat and smoke stares at her.
It looks like the face of her mother. She laughs aloud and bites her tongue. It is not funny. Her mother has died just a month before.
She feels suddenly light headed. She looks up again at the bird in the ventilator. Is it trapped between the broken glass slides?
But it looks so unperturbed. Not like a creature trapped.
She wonders if it is the same bird that used to sneak into her mother's kitchen or one of its progeny.
They look so alike. Like the sloppy faces of her mother in the stirring water and her own!
It is all so mussed up and clumsy.
A man hollers from the phone screen.
'Are you going to stay there forever? I am tired of running this household. Come back soon.'
The girl stuffs books and copies into her school bag hurriedly.
'Why is the neck of this frock cut so low? Why don't you wear your hair in a pair of braids?'
Another man. Another voice. Same disaporoval. Same distaste.
Voices could be so volatile! They filter through the interstices of the dense, deceptive time to create a simultaneity of experience!
The bird cranes its curious head and peeps in.
It looks at a young woman standing before a blotchy mirror, mopping the sweat off her tired face. A movie actress winks at her from the mirror.
Her face swirls in the water in the bucket then blurs and disappears.
The young woman returns her gaze to the mirror, rubs a powder puff to her face, and hums a tune of a romantic song.
'You are heroine -stuff' A female voice. Young, happy... lost.
'Why haven't you washed my socks? What have you been doing all day? Just lolling on the settee watching the darned soaps?'
'Where is my compass box? And my maths book? Why haven't you readied my school bag?'
Voices could sound so alike.. so loud... playing a game of hide.and seek through the interlapping layers of time!
The bird flaps its tiny wings, gently at first, then hard. It turns around its tiny neck and inspects the kitchen.
'Try to bring the taste of your mother's cooking into whatever you are making.' Another voice, a little wheezy.
The phone.shrieks back to life.
'Are you or aren't you comkng back?'
A woman's finger swipes the red icon up and disconnects the phone.
She turns off the gas. The swirling water in the bucket settles. The smoke from the frying pan evaporates leaving her face clean. She looks in the water and smiles at the movie actress's face in it. The face is not floating this time but steady and firm. It was not like looking into a trick mirror.
'
The phone rings again. 'How could you cut my call off?
When are you coming back?' Voices travelling through time.
'Can't say. I had given an audition a few days back and I got selected for a role in a tv serial. The shooting starts from tomorrow. It will take time. Take care of the boy.'
She waits.
There was silence at the other end. No voice, none at all. She sighs and breaks the connection.
'Ask him what he would like for lunch and make it tasty'
The old house maid nods her obedient head.
She turns and walks out. Her eyes go up to the broken ventilator. The bird's gaze is fixed on her. What is there in those tiny round eyes?
Smile? Trust?
The bird flaps its wings again and flies out of the ventilator.
It should have flown away years ago, and never returned.
Should have deserted the ventilator.
The trap of the broken glass.
Her mother had never tried to look beyond the broken glass.
She walks into the sunlit garden.
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.
Abani Udgata
Rivers, sometime in a rush, sometime
in reluctant steps arrive here at any hour.
The roads do not matter; they are numerous
like the hours, days and months.
Here they terminate and then, disappear.
His hut on the shore with palm fronds on roof
and doors made of bamboo reeds breathes
in the fragile air packed with salt and shards
of ever- crumbling waves.
Meanwhile, the young rivers elsewhere
continue to flow on in their disparate ways.
That day under the evening sky hanging low,
outside his hut, leaning against the wind,
he stood contented.
His shadow stretched
farther than he ever knew.
Some tiny wave out there
in the undulating waters carried
his name to the distant hills and
the happy birds circling above them.
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
Sujata Dash
I lose and find myself not once or twice
But many times as I reckon
Sometimes to escape from traps of boredom
Sometimes to indulge in quiet reflection and calming nerves
Weather beaten by the weight of expectations
Intimidated by predictable failures
I find a sanctuary of gaiety and happiness
In the quaint escapades, unburden and reclaim self
I traverse in the alleys leading to solitude
To escape from whys and how/s of the materialistic milieu
Shelter my unnerved soul and rejuvenate
Make peace with the quirks inhabiting mindset
Call me an escapist! I don't mind
A sanctuary of peace and bliss I need to find
To rack up the essence of living
After navigating through scabrous plains of life
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.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
What is Time?
If time is like
a flowing river,
When did we see it
flooding its banks?
Or, when it went dry
to show the riverbed?
If time is like an arrow
In perpetual flight,
where is its bow?
And, what is its target?
Time, no doubt,
dominates our life.
How strange, then,
the thought of death
makes it even more powerful?
If time is no more than an idea,
why are its shadows
more significant
than its substance!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Avantika Vijay Singh
Steadfast remained her determination,
Steadfast beat the rhythm of her heart,
They mocked her for a failed expedition--
Steadfast remained her determination,
Undeterred by their jeers and exposition.
She financed her own mountaineering cart.
Steadfast remained her determination,
Steadfast beat the rhythm of her heart.
Steadfast remained her determination,
Steadfast her ambition to conquer a mountain
Not just any, but the highest, Everest, her destination.
Steadfast remained her determination,
Steely guts, fiery spirit, and fitness—her foundation
To charting path on the rocky, icy, slippery terrain.
Steadfast remained her determination,
Steadfast her ambition to conquer a mountain.
Steadfast remained her determination,
No ice-chilling fears haunted her this time.
The first attempt lost to fears of frostbite at that elevation,
Steadfast remained her determination,
Forged in the fires of an extraordinary conflagration
She soldiered on, losing a few toes in minus 30, on this climb,
Steadfast remained her determination,
No ice-chilling fears haunted her this time.
Steadfast remained her determination,
The last stretch to the summit climbed in the darkness—
3,000 feet in the death zone of near extinction,
Steadfast remained her determination,
In the darkness, her torchlight completes her isolation,
17 hours to make it back to base in the harness,
Steadfast remained her determination,
The last stretch to the summit climbed in the darkness.
Steadfast remained her determination,
Howling winds test her strength—
‘Move, move’—the refrain runs in her mental conversation,
Steadfast remained her determination,
The oxygen cylinder on her back—her salvation
Tiring her with her backpack, testing her strength,
Steadfast remained her determination,
Howling winds test her strength.
Steadfast remained her determination
The new dawn brings her to the summit.
From her perseverance, she now knows exultation.
Steadfast remained her determination
An extraordinary woman born to this nation
Shattered dreams inspiring, not restricting her limit.
Steadfast remained her determination
The new dawn brings her to the summit.
Avantika Vijay Singh is a communications professional, wearing the hats of a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She has authored two solo anthologies, edited three anthologies, and has been published in national and international journals. She received the Nissim International Award Runner Up 2023, WE Gifted Poet 2024, and WE Illumination Award 2024.
Hema Ravi
Through the traffic-snarled roads and by-lanes
he trudges on with his regular customer –
the plump lady continuously jabbering.
He plods on unmindful, as beads of sweat
trickle down his weather-beaten face.
Rain or shine, he is ready when the sun is up,
The little ones need to be dropped off at school
and picked up in the evening… in the remaining
time, he pulls his rickshaw to earn a few pennies.
Know something? In the monsoons, when the roads
are chock a block, he knows too well
which route to take – through the narrowest of lanes
to your destination, in record time…
Seldom, one cares to give him that extra tip –
He too has no escape from the baksheesh,
and manages to take home a few pennies to feed
his family – a meagre meal. Yes, for his paan,
beedi, sharab… he sets aside!
Promises from the governing authorities,
occasional hue and cry from human-rights groups,
to train them in other professions…
Yet to see the light of day!
The iconic rickshaw puller
walks on the streets of Kolkata – unfazed.
(Rickshaw puller, come soon...)
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
Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
You had called in spring—
but why are you nowhere to be found?
No fragrance stirs the breeze,
no laughter flutters in the sky,
the river’s waters run pale—
I wonder why
everything feels so empty?
The village paths are cracked and dry,
the courtyards stand barren,
the holy basil withered,
the rose petals scattered—
Are you not at home?
You had called me in spring,
but why did you leave, breaking your promise?
The temple bells ring,
whispers fill the shrine,
“Hari Bol” drifts softly in the air—
I know you must be there,
your steady gaze searching,
your hands lifted in prayer,
your heart kept silent within.
And still, today,
small and grand memories return—
forgotten waves of laughter and sorrow,
words half-formed, scattered,
the language of love stirs once more.
I search through empty rooms,
hoping against hope
to find your shadow.
Wherever you are now,
my heart whispers—
you must be well,
whether cloaked in spring’s mist,
or braving summer’s fiery heat.
Free from life’s tangled webs,
your soul must be soaring
with the birds of love.
And if not—
there are no more stories to tell,
no wild songs of spring to sing.
If you had promised to return,
yet now the fields, the village paths,
lie barren,
and thorny forests spread where flowers once bloomed—
still, without you,
I will not grieve.
I will understand,
and find my joy,
for I have kept my word
to come and seek you.
Dr Bichitra Kumar Behura
When you call me back,
I may no longer return—
my legs too accustomed
to moving forward,
leaving the past behind.
Yet you’ll still sense my presence
in the dust of the path,
and in the air I once breathed—
its warmth and essence
still intact.
You’ll recognize my soul
with quiet certainty.
You may not follow my trail—
you might carve your own path
through the wilderness.
Still,
you’ll hear my songs
echoing in the wild,
faint but familiar,
in rhythm with the forest’s music.
You’ll know the voice—
gentle and true—
encouraging you onward
with love and quiet strength.
Don’t be shaken by chaos,
nor let hardship
leave you feeling alone.
Look within
when the path grows dark—
you’ll find a part of my soul
wrapped around your own.
Life may not always feel gentle,
but every trial holds meaning.
In sorrow or delight,
each moment is a thread
woven into your becoming—
guiding you onward
toward the quiet light
of joy and happiness.
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
Shri Satish Pashine
You won’t know
who someone really is—
not right away.
You have to walk beside them.
Not just on good days.
But through tired mornings,
and long, heavy nights.
When roads twist.
When sleep slips away.
When life feels
too heavy to carry.
When money’s tight.
Tempers short.
People angry,
but they don’t know why.
And silence—
hurts more than shouting.
That’s when truth
starts to show.
So stay.
Be still.
Don’t rush to judge.
Look past the wanting,
the smiling,
the trying-too-hard.
In smoky eyes,
in late-night sighs,
sometimes—
the real self appears.
Say “No,”
just once.
Then watch.
Do they pull away?
Do they burn inside?
In grief,
in loss—
you’ll see them clearly.
No mask stays on
in pain.
When craving stops,
and limits rise—
does kindness remain?
Or does it fade
with the light?
If all you bring
is time—
only care—
will they still come?
Will they still stay?
With their family,
their roots,
their pride—
is there peace?
Or just ego in disguise?
And when they meet strangers—
what version shows up?
That tells more
than years ever could.
Because truth
won’t shine on a stage.
Not under lights.
Not in claps.
But in the storm,
in the dark,
when dreams break—
who stands beside you
then?
That’s who they are.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Bipin Patsani
Any act of terror anywhere
executed for sadistic pleasure
or what may be the cause
is sheer madness and unfair.
The Pahalgam coldblooded killing
of innocent tourists, no doubt,
is heinous and barbaric.
Those block headed perpetrators
had no compassion at all,
the savage infiltrators ravaging
the peace process and progress in the valley.
What harm did those victims do
If they went there to have some good-time
and to treasure the experience of being
in Jannat for a while with family and friends?
The miscreants, they snatched away
twenty-six precious lives
hellfire opening its blind militancy.
Was it an illusion for those
who trusted the men in power
and their empty alluring assurances
to have come there?
What wrong did those Hindus
and other Non-Muslims incur
in coming there?
Did not those tourists deserve security cover,
common though they were
and two thousand or so in number,
touring in a trouble-torn vale
just seeming to have become normal?
Was is disgraceful to be
a kind compassionate Muslim
who tried to defend the innocent visitors
and was shot dead?
They unleashed the tide of hatred,
they unleashed death and distrust
in their targeted killings
that they may see us divided,
the hellfire of hatred spreading far and wide
consuming us bit by bit.
And equally condemnable is the attempt
to paint the whole damn thing
with added spices and flavour
that the disaster may be used
as an opportunity,
an advantage for political gain,
no matter how much strain
the families of the victims undergo and endure,
how much pain they drink and devour,
a hapless newly married wife
sitting shocked and speechless
beside the lifeless body of her dear-departed
and an unfortunate son feeling lost
when he sees his father shot dead in front of him
contrary to minutes before
when he was feeling like a Happy Prince
walking confident and carefree
just being there beside his father.
Who is responsible if there is no safety
at our own place, no safety in our home?
What use in sheer sympathy,
what to do with false promise and propaganda
amidst wailing of families victimized
and their unanswered questionings?
Security lapses in the past are no excuse
for the lapses later
and such impending incompetency tomorrow
whosoever may be there at the helm of affairs.
Bipin Patsani
Not exactly the love and loss
Of some particular thing or person,
A diversion like a balloon
Or a kite, though it seem so,
What torments us most
Is our disillusionment and the death
Of our emotional spring
That makes life monotonous.
But when the balloon comes again
Into the infantile grip as a microcosm,
When it comes with all sensible riches,
A warm smile sweeps again over the valley
And the magic fingers of the wind
Pass through, fondling
The green divine delicacy of leaves.
And the baby feels as if
He is holding the world of his little concept,
His own world that revolves around him,
And it is not a mere balloon.
Our heart’s harbour needs constant digging,
Dredging of sands accumulated.
It needs something to enter and fill its void.
An empty box,
Thirsting for what it thinks precious,
Feels proud of its possessions when filled.
Bipin Patsani
A kite is not as free as a bird.
Its flight depends on the hand
that holds the thread.
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.
Matralina Pati
A dwindling ember of you
Smoulders deep within my chest—
A quiet litany I cannot unlearn.
Time, relentless and cold,
Has tried to erase your name,
Drowning it in still waters
Of forgetfulness.
I breathe in the smoke of your absence,
Its shape lingers, yet,
A shadow etched by a dying sun.
One gasp.
One tremor.
I reach out—
To find only
The melancholy scourge of fugitive ashes.
Matralina Pati
The last ember of you burns still,
Small, defiant, a quiet star
Resisting the relentless breath of winds.
I had believed you forgotten,
Yet here you remain—
A steadfast pulse alive in the void,
Softly glowing against the dark.
The cold encroaches, an eternal thief,
But you refuse to vanish.
And I wonder:
What binds you here,
What unseen force keeps me
Suspended in this ceaseless vigil?
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).
Leena Thampi
IN OUR NEXT LIFETIME
The memories of hymns my grand mother used to sing,
Resonated the temple chimes at dusk grandeur,
Lamp lit with sesame oil shone
The front yard sandalwood scented garden beckoned,.
And an armchair rocking her thoughts remained in the front courtyard.
There's something in these bones of mine that refuses to break down,
As I hold on tight to the ancestral roots beneath the sands of legendary class,
Those were the times of pious words and charitable deeds ,
This cringey world took away my innocence ,
like fruit plucked too soon from the trees.
Breath after breath intensely sinking in evanescence of dreams,
The gargantuan black clouds were overcast by a dense,opaque fog,ever converging,camouflaged with the caliginous sky that surrounded.
Still I could see her face by the distant light flaunting her goddess heart.
I wish I could live those days
The wounds others inflicted would heal,
and the causes will change ,
the memories of overflowing tears will live forever like you !
And i strongly try to conjure a flame to reincarnate you from the remains.
The convoy of memories,
travel very far,
I don't need light to see you , for my cells flicker like fireflies at night.
Then your voice echoes in my ears,
"Suppose there is a shortage, life is slow,doubtful and scary,
Never ignore the heartbeat! You will definitely find a new excuse to live."
I have not lost you, we will find each other again and again.
Leena Thampi is a renowned author and entrepreneur, celebrated for her captivating writing style that transcends the ordinary. With five published books and numerous articles featured internationally, her work has garnered widespread recognition and accolades.She was recently honored the "Women Face of the Year 2024" by Fox Story India, and City Excellence Awards by Bharat Times in recognition of her multifaceted talents.She is also the recipient of Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honours and Gujarat Sahitya Academy honours for her literary acumen.
Her unique blend of luminous prose, magical realism, myths, and raw realities of life invites readers into a world of wonder and introspection. Her deep passion for music, coupled with expertise in entrepreneurship, relationship coaching, and child psychology, enriches her narratives with a distinctive perspective.
Born and brought up in Delhi ,She has her roots in Kerala.Her work portraits richness of tradition and heritage.
She's 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 five books to her credit -"Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze" , An Allusion To Time' Embers to Flames and Celestial Melodies.
She has many articles published in India and abroad. She has received more than hundred accolades from different literary platforms worldwide.
Leena is the Co founder and COO of HAVL Hi tech pvt Ltd a company based at Chennai (India)
Besides her flair for writing and deep-rooted love for music, she has multiple areas of interest,she's a certified child Psychologist Relationship coach,and TEFL trainer .
She is currently working on her sixth book which is a collection of short stories.
She has always been in the limelight
With numerous articles,poems anthologies,interviews and features published in national and international magazines and newspapers.
RAVENSHAW MISTY EVENING AT COMMERCE BLOCK
Baldev Samantaray
The moth eaten fringes
of grey asphalt
holding on to the sweet memories
of soil beneath with all five
whispering petals of yellow Gulmohar
doting it’s edges.
Gentle gusts of evening wind
painting the air
with shades of green and yellow
with a dash of dust and fading light.
Dark corridor of yesteryears
lead us to the neat
glass and concrete
A well laid out library of silence
to harvest ideas
that mesmerise and impel us
to walk their way.
The thrill of discovery
Is intoxicating.
The heady times of
liberating ideas
the mushy smell of old books
The southern end
the closed grill
the evening sky
the half hidden
long and lazy street lamp
and it’s oozing fluorescence.
The sudden wind
and stormy petals of yellow
that caress my face
and stealthily settle on the open book.
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.
Dr R. S.Tewari
Rosy luster of life is arrayed on the revolving pivot of humanity,
Beyond caste,creed and colour in the wake of cosmos creativity .
The cosmos calls and considerations lie in human harmony
That opens the doors of piety,patience and life's symphony .
In absence of humanity, all mundane ascending is proved futile,
Despite the globe's pompous and oily art of speaking and style.
Dr R. S.Tewari
No Philosophy other than unflinching trust is acceptable,
Howsoever mundane miracle it is,if farce and forbidable.
Pseudo morality is odious, and tall talks 're void brains,
Making dry all the sproutings of emotional drains.
When deluding doldrums weave the texture of life,
The complexity is coined, leading to a frivolous strife.
Smiling,crying,rising,falling,
gaining and losing,
Truly go together in the journey without baffling.
It is only and only truth and trust unfolded within
That paves the path to goal, far from gloom and sin.
Dr R. S.Tewari
Now the incited and imposed war may go long,
The enemy will put into danger its own innocent throng.
For sure, their defence system in toto will be destroyed,
And its compulsion to the globe has also to be conveyed.
Let the owners of terror factory see with their own eyes
How their stored gun- powder is killing them from earth to skies.
Extreme is extreme and it leads one one day to adversity,
The enemy, serpent of sleeve,has to pay for enmity.
War doesn't mean the fight between the two armies,
It pushes a nation decades back losing all amenities.
Alas!The demon doesn't accept this hard reality,
And invites the sad demise of shrivelled humanity.
May God shower His mercy on these cruel monsters,
So as to awaken in them good sense to escape disasters.
Dr R. S.Tewari
Humanity and stability ever go together,
Oppression in long run turns into slaughter.
Let us be kind, considerate and compassionate
To each other, and let it every where resonate.
'Live and let live ' be the motto of all human kind,
So that the cassette of sweet songs we can rewind.
Done is done and it can't be undone,
Yet can be leant by the wise and one.
Let us be humble and humane, loving and loyal
To one and all to save the sad and sobbing survival.
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.
Ajit Dash
Capricious Beauty blooms
In the Autumn sky of Walmer Castle
In the Shakespeare’s image
Musk Rose brings never fades away
John Keats delivers the perception
Indeed, it returns to my cognizance
Joyful dance of sweet Musk-Rose
Having extremely fragrance
Multiplies many times over anytime
Sculpture and Architectural style
Antique artefact transformed Modernity
Made me mad in royal affairs
I am invited to drink
Beauty as a heavenly tonic
Endless fountain of nectar
Resulting in everlasting joy
resemblance of a flowery wreath
leave an unforgettable imprint on minds
Every beautiful thing is worth preserving
Ajit Dash
I saw you for the first time
My heart beat with full of love
Keep looking at you till dawn
School of love is increasingly budded
Heart spread seems like a cloud
In the lake of eyes my heart drowning
Made a cupful wine of soft emotions
Bartendersaluted you in a Hostelry
Sweetness of wine even now showered
Started worshiping you in my dreams
You become the drinker by drinking me
I am your thirsty cup by filling yourself in me
Poet bartender filling the beaker of poetry
It will never be unfilled even a bit
Being reader keep on craving the drink
I would pour my poetic wine till dawn
Will sacrifice the entire Tavern of Love not only
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.
Fatema Zohra Haque
One day—
not today, maybe not tomorrow—
but one day,
you’ll wake up and not feel
like the world is sitting on your chest.
You’ll look in the mirror
and not flinch.
You’ll say,
“Hey. You made it.”
Not whole,
not untouched—
but here.
Still here.
You’ll remember the nights
you thought would break you.
The silence that screamed.
The prayers you didn’t believe in
but whispered anyway.
You’ll trace the scar
no one else can see—
the one grief carved
right between your ribs—
and you’ll say,
“This too is part of me.”
You’ll say, come closer.
You’ve carried enough.
You’ll sit with the ache—
not to erase it,
but to understand how it shaped you.
You will remember
how you kept breathing
when it felt impossible,
how you stood
when everything had fallen.
You’ll find pieces of yourself
in the ruins.
A laugh. A dream.
That little light
you thought had gone out—
flickering, stubborn, alive.
You’ll open the drawer
where you hid all the memories—
the photos,
the songs you couldn’t bear to hear,
the name that still makes your chest tighten—
Take out the letters you never sent,
the names you whisper in the dark,
the dreams you buried.
Let them breathe again.
You’ll pour a drink for your sorrow.
You won’t run from it.
Not this time.
You’ll sit beside it,
like an old friend
who stayed too long
but taught you something.
And then—
you’ll stand.
Shaky, maybe.
But standing.
And you’ll whisper,
“I’m still here. I’m still becoming.”
You’ll walk back into the world—
not as the one who was broken,
but as the one who lived.
Who healed.
Who survived.
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.
Aparna Ajith
In the fading shades of Goa, my cutie lives,
A cornucopia of memories, he daily weaves
Unaware of the unexpected sojourn
Unmindful of the unruly moments in the pattern
All set to travel anytime
Kunjapp in the sweet memoirs of Goan time
The tiny one in the infant to toddler stage
Is unfurling a novel life’s page
Withering are the gone days
Blooming are the new ways
It is time to bid adieu
From the accustomed earth to something new
The Portuguese city of beaches and sea waves
Shacks and snacks, he often craves
Will those days remain in his memory?
My darling infant, I really worry
It is going to be tomorrow’s history
For me, it is his treasured newborn story.
Accha’s Goa for Lil App forever remains precious
With the delights of the city in all its freshness
And for sure, the quarters will be missed in depth
Ruminating on the days on the banks of Mandovi with all the worth
We will come again for sure
As Lil App still misses those days, it is too pure.
*Accha - Father in Malayalam
*Mandovi - The river that is known as the lifeline of the state of Goa.
PS: This poem is dedicated to our charming city of Goa and all the dashing days Kunjapp and his family enjoyed on the banks of the river Mandovi. Kunjapp misses the shacks, beaches, Momos, and the lane of Tittos.
Dr. Aparna Ajith is an academician as well as a bilingual writer who loves to dwell in the world of words. She was awarded PhD in English from Central University of Rajasthan. Her area of specialization is Comparative Literature and Translation Studies. Her interest lies in Creative writing, Gender, Diaspora, Film and Culture studies. She holds a Master degree in English Literature (UGC- NET qualified) from University of Hyderabad (2012) and Post Graduate Diploma degree in Communication and Journalism from Trivandrum Press Club (2014), Kerala. She has presented papers in national and international conferences. She has published articles in journals and edited anthologies of national and international repute. She serves as the honorary representative of Kerala state in the advisory council of Indian Youth Parliament, Jaipur Chapter since 2015.Being a freelance journalist, she has translated and written articles for the Information and Public Relations Department, Government of Kerala. Her creative pieces have found space in ezines and blogs. She is an avid reader and blogger who dabbles in the world of prose and verse. Having lived in three Indian cities and a hamlet, she soars high in the sky of artistic imagination wielding out of her realistic and diasporic impressions.
Ramya Madathilthodi
There is a path—
a woman’s path—
leading home,
one you’ve never walked,
but she treads it,
over and over,
every single day.
An alleyway
you’ve never seen.
Along those paths,
every stretch of it,
her child’s weary face
waits
like a longing for mom's milk film of mist
Along those paths,
numbers scattered
from a monthly budget
lie like sharp, rolling stones—
impossible to grasp,
hard to ignore.
Along those paths,
piles of unwashed dishes,
heaps of stained laundry,
mounds of discarded things
crowd the way.
At the edges of those paths,
thorned vines sprawl—
your forgotten meal schedules,
nearly empty medicine strips,
all tangled in neglect.
Along those paths,
vegetables for tomorrow
often wilt,
left too long in the sun.
Yet,
along those paths,
there is always
the shade of your name,
spread wide like a canopy,
and a quiet coolness
that flows like a whisper.
Along those paths,
there are always
great rocks of longing—
her mother,
her father—
islands of memory
she cannot reach.
Look—
how many hidden alleys
you could never
even dream of,
yet through them all,
every woman journeys,
time and again,
returning,
always returning,
to that great city
called home.
Ramya Madathilthodi Is a poet from Kottapuram
in Palakkad district of Kerala. She writes interesting, sensitive poetry, mostly in Malayalam. She can be contacted at 9142310281
Rudra Pati
Heatwaves sway the season of summer
Dear Love! This life craves water
For its meagre sustenance!
Sweltering sun rays pervade
Such an arid day!
I clasp my natal tongue
I look forward to monsoon.
My unlettered self
Cannot express its ardour
In black and white.
With hurtful wants in my chest
I twirl my voice
To scatter across the sky
The withered tales
Of sunburnt days;
Oral legends roll in the air.
And lo, this month of Summer!
This unmerciful scorching day!
Erudition could not refine
My illiterate, tolerant frame!
In spite of all these, I live!
The unyielding florets of summer
Live, too!
Rudra Pati
As my limbs traverse
The ravines in your topography,
The empathetic rivulets
Beckon to me.
Streams from your mountains
Gush forth.
Both the rills merge
On the fertile plane
With ardour of copulation
Before the Aryans arrived at this land
Urbanism spread through its realm.
Harappa is an exemplar in hand.
With steadfast fidelity,
The streams of the Sindh river
Unfolded victuals of fecundity.
The iron ore did not come in vogue,
Yet the those urban households,
That bathhouse, that reservoir of crops…
Ah! How should I extol the bequest
From that farmer who bathed
In the holy water of the Sindh
And then prayed to the sun-god,
And the deity of rain?!
In truth, I, too, have clung to
His vocation for a living.
I muse over my desire
Of getting my poetry published
With my scanty savings
From this year’s harvest.
I shall dedicate the book
To my sightless uncle and aunt.
In my book I would not mention
The authorities who induce
A fall in the price of crops
To cripple them
And thus manoeuvre
The ruination of farmers
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."
Kunal Roy
The cloudy canopy,
the distant hang,
the black waters,
placid,
pacific,
await the black mass
burst into big drops,
satiate the latent lust
of the mother earth!
The boat is anchored
to the beachy story,
the dark pebbles
lie -
between the thoughts
and reality!
Often the tiny ripples
echo , lash against
the arm's shore,
showcase the story
of the couple
love to drench to the feet:
as -
they coo sweet nothing to each other!!
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.
Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
Cynosure of all eyes
are those cluster of roses.
They welcome all, both known and unknown
with a gleeful smile
even before a glance is cast at them.
Moving ahead in their midst
is like walking in a perfume shop.
Wasting words unreasonably
is against their grain,
for they know, a silent mouth is melodious.
They are exquisite, smile pure
embodying innocence, love synonymous—
new, fresh and alive
beyond the turmoil of thoughts;
they cast a spell of their smell.
Unabashed they are
even by the doubtful stares
of the onlookers.
Countless is their number,
vast and varied in colour.
Their waves of presence rise faster
than one can swim.
Their playful laughter resonates
the campus,
a beauty spot surrounded by beauty.
Solitary are a few,
but when coalesced together, they sing
through the susurrus blowing of the wind
like the soul searching music of a piano
which even silence listens.
They never ask for the world,
when all they want is some time
to take a look at them
with aesthetic passion and intent
that will fill the space of their desire
they have been nurturing long.
Touching them lovingly
sends them to wallow in new-found joy.
Caress of your breath on their cheeks
evokes ingenuous response—
they kneel in gratitude,
they kiss hope into your hand.
One leaves Baha’i,
the air still smells sweeter,
but the reverberation of Panchgani’s beauty
is heard
like the song of the solitary reaper
that lingered long for Wordsworth.
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.
Sangeeta Dey (Roy)
Why, Metaphors?
Someone asked,
As I about to grab the,scintillating rosy and silver sprinklers.
But,I halted in my track,
On hearing this query ,
Armed myself with smile.
Trying to wheedle the fixed, disinterested look,
Of the question holder and
Infuse some love and craving for these beauties,
So I said ...
Sewing selected, impeccable resplendent metaphors,
Builds exquisite stories,out of lifeless,pale ones.
And when they are joined.
They bind the different bridges,
To connect you with the landscapes.
Near,far, away in the farmland, the ocean
And the towers.
They are best cementing agents ,
They have the best soaring wings,
They possess the best colours, of the sunsets
They hold the best lure of the mystic yonder.
Infuses the best redolence from the roses,
They are the best conversationalist.
They are the best merchants ,who floods you with their rich tapestry and ornamental wares.
Before I could carry forth,
I was stopped and told that, I had evaporated her overcast skies with the mirrors of my narrative.
And invoked so large a longing ,
That I have to take her on the journey in the terrain of those fragrant , selected metaphors,
To satiate her thirst.
And add warmth to her icy , fractured ,exhausted horizon.
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Sangeeta Dey (Roy) is a author poet fiction and non-fiction essayist who has been published widely nationally and internationally in several magazines, souvenirs, newspapers ,e journals, national and international anthologies, including Teesta Review ,The Mountain Was Abuzz ,Kabita Live, IPPL Journal, Flame in the Distant Mountain, Different Truths, Soul Connection, Spillwords etc.
Author of two debut books of poems “Whispers In The Blue “and “Twilight in the Woodland”.
She’s the teacher by profession and hails from Haflong Assam.
Arpita Priyadarsini
We tend to lean
Towards the people
Who try to show
even a bit of empathy
In their eyes
And a lot of belongingness
In their hearts
We humans have a tendency
Of appreciating things and people
A lot more
Than they're actually worth of
Which makes us fall in a constant dilemma
Of moving on or staying there
Life is like a roller coaster ride
That takes turn
At the most unexpected time
And leaving you with a chill
Of a lifetime
Moments like falling in love
Or falling out of it
Never comes with a triggered sign
Instead they just sneak in
Like that little butterfly
Sneaking into the least favourite corner
Of your room
And you barely even recognising it's presence
You never tie your feet to the ground
And try reaching out for a sky
That seems less distant
Than others
Instead you free yourself
From all the boundaries
And reach out
For the nearest ladder
That could help you up
Just the same way
You use your feelings
To make an excuse
Of belonging to something or someone
That you were never a part of
The regrets that you feel
Are the constant reminders
Of how life is more like a gust of wind
Than a ship that you're trying to sail
On your own
You learn to accept
And move with the wind
In the directions
That it's meant to be
And cherish all the facts
That align together
Living out of your own life
Is the biggest trauma
That you give to yourself
Without even realising the fact
That nothing works in your favour
Unless you do
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.
Ms Gargi Saha
Aspired for bread, butter, bicycle
Lapped English, skirts, satin ribbons, coffee
Imitated Western culture, outlook, enigma
Became a member of associations
Immigrated to United Kingdom alone
Preferred erudition, beauty, status, standards
Yearned for fame
Became a victim of narcissus
And remained ever all alone
None could be befriended.
Ms Gargi Saha
Sometimes boss
Somewhere employee
Someday, someone’s friend
Somebody’s nobody
Dogpaddling across different identities
To find a new self every time
Polish, Patronize, Potter
Difficult it becomes
To identify who am I?
What remains remains
‘He’ alone knows
What each man is
Every time a mask he wears
But the real face remains intact
None can transform it
Multifarious Mentality.
Ms Gargi Saha
Two wheelers have become like
Two legs now
Vehicles vehicles everywhere
Feet will shy to swagger
On the meagre space left for him
To crawl.
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
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
Is change the spice of life?
Yes, I do believe
Unavoidable mental changes
Unalterable physical differences
From infancy to adulthood
Then and now, taught me a lifestyle
I began loving myself abundantly!
I'm truly a social animal
Interdependence is my necessity
Being one among animals and mankind,
Journeying to the roads untraveled
I see the culture, customs and traditions
People and places taught me a lesson,
I began changing myself in and out!
I am not the one who I was
From uneducated to educated
From unskilled to skilled
And from ignorant to creative,
I enhanced myself step by step
For I felt I require compassion
I began adoring myself immensely!
I care for me as I care for others
I love myself as I love my fellow-beings
I feel my strengths and weaknesses now
I like whatever I do, I love the way I do
For uplifting myself, I learn and unlearn
I beautify my mind, body and soul
I began admiring myself abundantly!
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 HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO RABINDRANATH TAGORE
Sreechandra Banerjee
The empire that you created is so majestic,
Nothing to describe, no words fantastic.
Your diverse songs amaze with profound words,
set in various tunes, some classical, folk, or from Baul bards.
Your literature is prime, priceless and precious,
eternal, oblivion of time and space, gracious. .
You stand beyond the limits of one Nobel Prize,
as your works are dimensionless, without a size.
Rabindranath Tagore, you are the big brightest bright star
of the creative constellation, stretching the galaxy ever far.
Above image of Rabindranath Tagore
is from the internet to which I have no right (Disclaimer).
Copyright Sreechandra Banerjee. All rights reserved except as noted.
This poem was originally carried by
Northern India Patrika (Allahabad) on 9th May 2010.
Sreechandra Banerjee is a Chemical Engineer who has worked for many years on prestigious projects. She is also a writer and musician and has published a book titled “Tapestry of Stories” (Publisher “Writers’ Workshop). Many of her short stories, articles, travelogues, poems, etc. have been published by various newspapers and journals like Northern India Patrika (Allahabad), Times of India, etc. Sulekha.com has published one of her short stories (one of the awardees for the month of November 2007 of Sulekha-Penguin Blogprint Alliance Award) in the book: ‘Unwind: A Whirlwind of Writings’.
There are also technical publications (national and international) to her credit, some of which have fetched awards and were included in collector’s editions.
Chaitrakana Pati
To be reserved is to be a feline,
To be the opposite is to be a dog.
I'm tired of eating rats, but that's fine—
All of us cats are; it's simply a tradition of our kind.
I know that's no fault of mine.
My alertness is put to ease when you and I sing—
My heart is filled with glee,
My eyes open wide and see,
I feel truly free.
So tell me, it's you who makes me happy—
It's all an illusion in my head, my Lord.
Tell me I'm wrong,
My sisters tell me:
Do not do what you'll forever regret.
If anyone knew, you would be dead.
They'd rip and tear off your flesh.
Just do it without hesitation,
Just like how his forefathers did.
Only follow the rules.
You don't know about His unholy rituals.
Keep yourself pure like you should.
Do yourself some good,
Just like all the other cats would
Do not let yourself be fooled.
This will be your ruin.
Forget about him.
Or You will be cut off
And that will be your fault.
And it will lessen your pain.
Remember what you have been taught.
Forget about that dog.
And just marry a tom.
It's all an illusion in my head, my Lord.
Tell me I'm wrong.
My mother tells me
You share blood with lion kings.
Like his fox cousins, he is a thief.
Your ancestors belonged to royalty like the Sphinx.
He belongs to the streets—
His family will tear you apart with their teeth.
Like his wolf brother, he is a savage.
He’ll show his true colours after marriage.
Blood and filth are ingrained in his heritage.
For once be good to your parents—
The filth is burned into his genes, and you know it.
That’s not where he belongs,
Not even if he prays to our gods,
Not even if he swears it on our cross
Or sings angelic songs.
So just marry a tom.
So tell me it's all an illusion in my head, my Lord.
Tell me I'm wrong.
I tell myself—
He chews on bone, and I feed on fish.
Forget about this.
No one will accept our kin.
His kind will rip off and eat my skin.
I cannot commit this sin.
I cannot waste any more of my nine lives.
It will only be alright
When I ignore the cracking of my spine
And fall into line
For the rest of my life.
The pain will get numb over time.
This is not the love story he and I thought.
There's no longer the fear of being caught.
I’ll forget about that dog,
And just marry a tom.
And so,
Tell me it's all an illusion in my head,
My Lord!
Tell me I’m wrong.
Please tell me I’m wrong.
Chaitrakana Pati, a student of the 10th standard, finds joy in expressing herself through poetry in English. She has a deep appreciation for literature and a quiet passion for painting, both of which inspire her creative journey. Alongside her love for the arts, she enjoys music and has a keen interest in storytelling. She loves nature and enjoys exploring new spheres of knowledge. With a curious mind and a thoughtful approach to creativity, she continues to explore and learn as she hopes to grow as a writer and an artist along the way.
Swatilekha Roy
In my mind, I've made two cups of tea,
One for you, one for me
I quickly finished mine
And took a sip from yours
I reached out for two biscuits,
But the container was empty
In my mind, I reveled in joy,
While my body suffered illness
For many lonely days....
Swatilekha Roy
Clothes, books, and papers scattered everywhere
Words hidden, lost in the chaos
I had wanted to be organized, tidy
If I have found
A fountain pen, a sea-facing balcony
I would have kept everything in order
But in between someone else's study table, their writing time
I couldn't find space for mine
So today, words are free
And I am even more disheveled
Swatilekha Roy , She is a bilingual poet,Lecturer ,F.A degree College ,Cachar Assam.She is creative and passionate nature photographer too
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Nature is in love
Beauty is its treasures
For all sensuous pleasures
Hosts fests to guests of creatures
Keen on offering varieties of gaieties.
In music varieties
Songbirds like cuckoos
Out outpour sweet throats
To please the ears of listeners
For nature is in love for all sonorities.
The sights for delights
In multitude, in infinitude,
Green in sheen, sheen in green
Hues of flumes, charms of blooms
Beautiful, delightful, heartful, soulful.
Aloft is agile nature,
Petal soft and feather soft,
Foetus touch and breeze couch
Leads all by pat, by hug, by waves
A flight in delight the flier knows the fact.
The feast to the nose
In thrill of the fragrance
Of flowers and sandal woods
Pleasing, amusing, and enthusing,
Nature enthrals all, incenses in abundance.
All plenteous pleasures
Nature is rich for its variety
Fruits and roots, juice and nectar
Wow! All revel their sweet substances
Senses are to enjoy all nature’s eminences.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
So broad is the divine creation
That it does not create barriers
In the name of caste and creed
In the hues of classes and races
In the levels of highs and lows
With God’s message to rise high
As his obedience to the divine
For man-to-man, love relation
For man, the concern of man
To live in peace and harmony,
Instead, tears and fears in rise
Clashes between man and man,
A sign of barriers in all corners
For love is not in their hearts
It is man’s creation
Against the divine creation.
Patriotism, love for the nation
If enmity with those of others
Borders echo with explosions
Turning the nations peaceless
Lovelessness leads to battles
For colossal loss of either side
In fact, God is not for borders
He treats them as narrow walls
One is greedy for an expansion
In no citizen-for-citizen relation
Not caring for vast devastation
Aiming at massive destruction
That is the goal of belligerents
It is hatred bitter on either side
It is man creation
Against the divine creation.
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
Srikant Mishra
Great are thee, the best are thee,
I salute thy glory, oh, mummy!
I came to the world by your grace,
And unearthed ecstasy in your embrace.
Being the epitome of love and strength,
You are the giver of my first breath.
Love, patience & care spring from you,
To wash out my filth and lighten my view.
Like cool breeze in hot summer,
Your soothing words fill me with pleasure.
I see in you, “Divine Mother”.
Like a toddler, I know no course,
You are the lighthouse and the source,
Of all knowledge and absolute bliss,
My dear mum! You are the PEACE.
Srikant Mishra is an Engineer by profession. He has graduated from NIT, Rourkela and studied “Advanced Strategic management” in IIM, Calcutta. He is passionate about English literature and has involved himself in literary work since late 90s. One of his poetry “Life Eternal” has been published in Aurovile magazine in Pondicherry in the year 1999. Another poetry “Autumn” has been appreciated by few poetic forums in the United States. Recently he has started writing short stories that depicts real life experiences. Apart from literature, Mr Mishra loves yoga, monsoon outing and occasional singing.
Dr. Niranjan Barik
Neighbour’s Envy !
Not the television that was advertised that way,
But the domestic help to my house, now active on Activa.
A poor but smart girl,
Mother of two at an early age—
Her look defies her motherhood.
Walking on foot, she labored,
Lifting burdens to keep homes afloat.
And her own, carrying weight unseen.
What went wrong? She often pondered,
After frequent rifts and restless nights.
From one house to another, her demands grew,
For her polished behavior and working neat.
Not her looks, but her two-wheeler—
The neighbour’s envy.
Of their domestic helps, and the house mistresses.
She has a phone mobile and smart
Envy of her half-estranged husband too.
The Activa she rides—envy of other working maids.
But strangely, also of the mistress of the household she serves!
Dr. Niranjan Barik
Does it need Prayagraj to happen?
Every ten or twelve years, or with an even longer gap?
Can it unfold on an unscheduled date, in an unexpected place?
Not at a Trijunction, but in book exhibitions,
On barricaded roads outside, in the hum of fairs and festivals.
When just eyes meet,
And electric lighting brightens faces, igniting hearts.
Peace and bliss pour down—a bath of silent joy.
Widening eyes reflect awe,
A subtle signature of admiration—an unspoken endorsement.
Rivers can meet on a road to form a Triveni!
Not so close, yet hearts leap—
Spotting an unexpected book devotee in the swarming crowd.
A Kumbha happens suddenly,
The bath in happiness and bliss unfolds.
A river, perhaps from far-off Atlanta,
One from not-so-near Ahmedabad—
Yet Saraswati was there, though invisible,
Flowing from the temple city, Bhubaneswar.
You, from the old millennium city, the ancient capital—Cuttack,
With traditions deeply rooted.
Taking a bath in this Sangam,
Receiving new life and energy.
The joy it gave—a rare blessing,
Not just a Kumbha, but a Maha Kumbha,
A moment that comes once in a hundred years!
Dr. Niranjan Barik is a retired Professor of Political Science from Ravenshaw University, Odisha and is currently attached there on teaching and research on an ICSSR project. He is passionate about literature and writes poems, short stories.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Some afternoons can be so lonely,
One would feel the sun all wrinkled up
And staring with wondering eyes
Through narrow slits in the window panes.
And the wind wriggling through cracks in the roof
Singing mournful tunes like a blind singer in a deserted street,
The songs touching like icy whispers
And the music freezing on landing on the ground.
The shadows would come creeping
Under the doors, trying to be unseen
And then climb onto the walls
Hiding behind the morose paintings.
And on such dreary moments
You will come like an uninvited memory
So distant, yet so real, alive, breathing,
Touching the soul with soft caresses.
Silent tears frozen on your quivering lips
Your words, never spoken, yet never forgotten.
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.
A LIVING ARCHIVE OF INDIAN ENGLISH POETRY-A REVIEW OF WITHIN HER HOME, AND OUTSIDE: ESSAYS ON INDIAN ENGLISH POETRY
Dr. Sigma Satish
In Her Home, and Outside: Essays on Indian English Poetry is much more than a collection of reviews, it is an intimate mapping of contemporary Indian English poetry. Dr Jaydeep Sarangi, a well-known critic and reviewer, whose relationship with poetry is well into nearly three decades, presents the changing face of Indian poetry. Made up of 33 evocative reviews, the book is a record of intimate and lasting personal and intellectual love of poetry. What marks this set apart is its tone that is reflective and loving. Every review is not so much a literary critical essay as a poetic meditation, but it engages with broader cultural and social issues. The book's texture—its language, shape, and imagination—is so that it is not just a guide to literature, but a guide to poetry. It invites readers to return to poems with new vision and demands that criticism is not an arid intellectual exercise, but a conversation between reader and poem.
In the author's introduction. Dr Jayadeep says, “Reviews make poetry dynamic and attractive. Reviews give different gazes to look at poetry written from plural spaces” he writes, reminding us that critical reading opens new dimensions of the poem. The act of reviewing is described not as judgement but as a way of dwelling within poetry. This spirit of care runs through the book’s landscape. In the opening essay, Life’s Bare Faces: Jayanta Mahapatra’s Noon, the reviewer captures the fragility and profundity of Mahapatra’s verse. In this essay, Dr Jayadeep views so, “He was instrumental in the democratization of Indian English poetry. He made a small historical town Cuttack as a Mecca of poetry. His magazine Chandrabhaga became an important platform for poets in English from different backgrounds and social positions”. The range of poets covered in this book is also commendable and the collection does justice to Indian poetry. Whether it is the mythic and domestic currents in “Sita’s Sisters,” the urban lyricism of “Golden Cacti,” or the spirituality in “Krishna and Other Poems,” each review captures a distinct poetic landscape.
One of the book’s strengths lies in its embrace of diversity. In Poetry as Resistance: T. S Chandra Mouli’s Black Lotus: Telugu Dalit Women’s Poetry, the reviewer frames the anthology as a chorus of resistance. In Churning Life: Sharankumar Limbale’s White Paper, poetry becomes political testimony. These reviews are more than a book review. Feminist theory is richly interwoven in Sita Unbound: Sanjukta Dasgupta's Sita's Sisters and Unknotting Home Memories: Basudhara Roy's Stitching a Home .These reviews are like conversations with new perspective. Similarly, in Touched and Moved: Meena Kandasamy's Touch, the review accurately conveys Kandasamy's intensity, lyricism and struggle for power and autonomy by women poets. Remembering Jayanta Mahapatra Tapeshwar Prasad's Needle of the Night is a radiant review of poetry on culture, silence, and emotional depth. In One Voice, One Community: Chandramohan S's Letters to Namdeo Dhasal, the reviewer challenges solidarity and aesthetics limits. Across Time, Myth and Memory:Malashri Lal’s Mandalas of Time is a wonderful review that weaves myth, memory, and nature into meditative reflections. In New Biology of Words: Rizio Yohannan Raj's Exchanges with the Thinker, philosophical poetry sophistication is countered with critical seriousness. Oracle of the Rivers : Lakshmi Kannan’s Nadistuti captures her poetic use of rivers as metaphors for femininity and tradition. In call it Love: Anindita Sengupta's Only the Forest Knows, the critic ventures into the forest of language with empathy.
Within Her Home, and Outside: Essays on Indian English Poetry does not limit itself to solo-authored collections. Mahanadi of Inspirations: Ashwani Kumar’s Scent of Rain’s review offers a heartfelt, layered tribute to Jayanta Mahapatra. With rich references and poetic excerpts, the review celebrates Mahapatra’s mentorship, cultural depth, and the spiritual intimacy of his verse. The Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English - 2021, edited by Sukrita Paul Kumar and Vinita Agrawal, is a rich, inclusive anthology that captures the vibrant spectrum of contemporary poetic voices in India. This book also does justice to anthologies like 'What Else Is Rain’. Reviews in this book are literary criticism, and cultural documentation too, situating poetry within larger contexts. There is no show, there is presence. Within Her Home, and Outside: Essays on Indian English Poetry is a warm and honest thank you to the poets, reviewers, and readers who have inspired the reviewer. By calling the collection a “Ramayana in a nutshell,” the reviewer shows deep respect for the vast world of poetry. Happy reading.
Dr. Sigma Satish, a poet and academic from Trivandrum, currently serves as the Head of the Department of English at VTMNSS College. Formerly, she taught English at SCT under the Ministry of Manpower in Oman. An accomplished author, her poetry has appeared in various platforms, including Poem Hunter, SETU, Kabita Live, Creative Saplings, Creative Minds, Rock Pebbles, Kavya Kishore, and several anthologies. Her recognitions include the Mirabhai Literary Award (2016) from the Organization of United Working Journalists Forum with support from the Public Relations Department, Puri, Government of Odisha; the Cochin Lit Fest Prize (2019); and the Bharat Sevak Samaj Honor (2023). She has also participated as a poet delegate at prestigious literary events.
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