Literary Vibes - Edition CLVII (26-Sep-2025) - POEMS
Title : The Goddess (Watercolour by 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.
Title : Coastal Dream (Pencil Art by Swatishree Parija)
Swatishree Parija is a second year B.Ed..student from Jajpur, Odisha. She is passionate about literature, painting and photography from her school days. She writes excellent poetry. Her paintings and photographic creations are equally outstanding. She has won many awards in essay writing, painting, and debate at the block, district, and state level.
Dear Readers,
Greetings to you from Bhubaneswar, the Temple City.
It's a great pleasure to present to you the 157th edition of LiteraryVibes, decked with beautiful poems, entertaining short stories and interesting anecdotes. Hope they will fill your festive days with joy.
In this edition we have three new contributors. Tanusha, the youngest among them from Greater Noida near Delhi, is an incredibly talented young writer with tons of promise. Swatishree, a B.Ed. student from Jajpur, Odisha, writes enchanting poetry and is also an equally accomplished painter and photographer. Endowed with multifaceted talent, she undoubtedly has a great future. Ms. Sathya Venkatesh from Coimbatore, Tamilnadu, is a serious poet with a lot of zeal and passion. As the two paintings attached to her poems show, she is also a fabulous painter. Let us welcome these new members to the LV family and wish them lots of success and glory in their literary career.
Last week, I underwent cataract surgery in my left eye, an unavoidable scourge of old age. One of the irritants of this surgery is the numerous restrictions the doctor puts on the patient as a part of post-operative recuperation. I have to wear dark glasses all the time, should avoid reading, watching TV and looking at screens of the mobile and the computer, thus snapping the three lifelines of modern living. I am a terribly restless person and this confinement has made me feel insufferable.
But, lying on the bed, contemplating on my restless life, has done one good thing to me. I have realised, one needs to slow down once in a while and recharge the batteries of the body after servicing its different components. Give rest to the roving eyes, the blabbering mouth, the ravenous stomach, the overworked liver and the poor kidneys. I don't know how much I have rejuvenated these selfless companions of mine over the past one week, but I have looked at them with a new, sympathetic fervour.
And like many pleasant coincidences in life, I found an interesting anecdote in one of my WhatsApp groups echoing something similar. I can't resist the temptation of reproducing it here:
...........................
SERVICE DUE
The AC in my bedroom conked out in the middle of the night. Not sputtered. Not whimpered. It just gave up, like a resigned bureaucrat on a Friday afternoon. One moment I was wrapped in Himalayan bliss, the next I was drenched in Sahara sweat.
And so I tossed and turned all night like a chicken being barbequed. By morning, I looked like I’d spent the night dancing in a steam room, and felt like I’d been at war—with a mattress and my melting dignity.
The mechanic arrived late morning. Snooty fellow, eyes half shut with indifference and an air of casual brilliance, like he knew the secrets of the universe…or at least the secrets of split ACs.
“It’s a good brand,” I told him hopefully, pointing at the machine like it was a pedigree dog that had soiled the carpet.
“The best,” he nodded solemnly, opening the unit with the reverence of a surgeon unveiling a chest cavity.
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t suggest I replace it with some obscure cousin from a new brand he’d conveniently be selling on the side.
“Air vents clogged. Filters dirty. Fins choked. All jammed with muck. Sir, there’s construction going on next door?”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s been going on for the last two years!”
“All the more reason,” he replied, with the wisdom of the Himalayas. “That you should have got it serviced regularly.”
He tinkered for the next hour while I hovered like a parent outside an operation theatre. Then, like Lazarus from the tomb, the AC sprang back to life. Cold, sweet air whooshed out, almost like a sigh of relief—mine, not the AC’s.
And as I sat under the newly sanctified breeze, I couldn’t help but think: Aren’t we a bit like that air-conditioner?
We go through life with dust collecting in our systems—stress, deadlines, family drama, cholesterol, WhatsApp forwards from those hatred filled friends. Slowly, our vents get clogged, our filters don’t work, and our emotional fins seize up.
Then one day we snap. Tempers flare. Health breaks down. Relationships stall. Spiritual life flattens.
And someone gently tells us, “You need servicing.”
Not a vacation to Bali, though that sounds lovely. But simple, quiet servicing—like regular walks, fewer gulab jamuns, annual health check-ups, forgiving that ex-friend, meeting close friends and a little conversation with the Divine each morning—not a rant, not a chant, but a chat.
You see, our lives are surrounded by constant construction—of expectations, responsibilities, ambitions. And in all this dust, we forget to clean our vents.
My AC’s working fine now. Whisper-cool. Just like the soul after a bit of prayer and the body after a morning stretch.
Hope your vents aren’t clogged, dear. If they are—well, you know what to do.
Service due, sir. Service due…!
(Author unknown, but my grateful thanks to wherever he/she is.)
...........................
Hope you will like the offerings in this 157th edition of LiteraryVibes and share them with all your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/608 (Short stories, Anecdotes)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/609 (Poems)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/607 (Young Magic)
There is also a medical related anecdote from the pen of the famous Gynaecologist Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/606
Please post your feedback in the Comments Box located at the bottom of every page. That will be your blessings to the poets and writers.
Wishing you a Happy Dussehra and a joyous festive season stretching right upto the New Year. May your days be filled with flowers and chocolates, evenings with music and nights with sweet dreams.
Take care, relax with LiteraryVibes in your hand and keep spreading your good smiles all around till we meet again on Friday, the 31st October.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Bhubaneswar, the 26th September, 2025
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
SHIVA IN THE CLOUDS
HARAPPAN DREAMS
02) Dilip Mohapatra
THE PERFECT TEE
03) Snehaprava Das
HOLD ON TO THIS MOMENT
04) Abani Udgata
LAST SONG OF EARTH
05) Satish Pashine
THE WEIGHT OF WORDS & THE SONG WITHIN!
A FAREWELL LIKE THIS TOO!
06) Sathya Venkatesh
EVEN THE DARKEST NIGHT WILL END AND THE SUN WILL RISE
07) Swatishree Parija
THE CANVAS OF MY LIFE
08) Sujata Dash
DREAMS
09) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
THE KITE BOY
PAPER BOAT
10) Soumen Roy
THE CITY IN DARK
11) Darsana Kalarickal
MOKSHA
12) Baldev Samantaray
DEW DROP
13) Leena Thampi
IT`S TIME TO PAINT YOUR OWN CANVAS
14) Matralina Pati
A BLUNDER
15) Shreeya Sampada
THE TEARS OF MY MOTHER
16) Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
THAT INNOCUOUS TREE
17) Bipin Patsani
THERE IS ALWAYS AN OTHER THING
CORRIDOR
18) Ms Gargi Saha
UNKNOWN TRAVELLER
UNCONSCIOUS WALLS
ROADS
19) Dr.Akshara Rai
MY BELOVED BADAMAMA
20) Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
THE MELANIN GAME
21) Dr. Radharani Nanda
MY BEST FRIEND
22) Dr. Rekha Mohanty
REMINISCE
23) Sharanya Bee
RISING
24) Dr. Niranjan Barik
WHEN THEY COUNT THE STARS
25) Sreedharan Parokode
THE SINGERS
26) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
WHEN WATER SEEPED INTO MY MIND
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The air vibrates with rhythmic music
with touches of the sacred and the weird;
the mind lapses into a soporific trance
when the Damru* beats swinging
into a jig, and the billowing hemp smoke
ignites spirits - sublime and macabre.
Our lord of annihilation, who,
an epitome of compassion as well,
a maverick ascetic; keeps the company
of animals, ghouls, and the dead;
his unparalleled humility allows Kali,
his wife, to trample over his prostrated body.
Third of the Triumvirate of the Pantheon,
an Aryan god, but secular to his fingertips,
bestowing boons of immortality
even upon heretics and apostates,
melting with their grovelling at his feet,
often blamed for his misplaced pity.
A lover of hemp and poppy, he can go mad
with grief over his wife's death; roaming the earth
with her rotting body on his shoulders;
her parts falling off; he propounds
the axiom ‘Anger can be the ultimate name
of love’, like his terrifying dance, the Tandav.
I don't know why the maverick Lord
doesn't revolt when his worshippers
erect him as a phallus, perched perennially
in a yoni; as if the lord has no other
missions than being fixated
on the holy union for procreation.
The most ancient among the lords,
he perhaps holds the Guinness record
as the world's first Aghori*. He camps
in cremation yards, smeared with
ash from pyres, live snakes wound around
his neck, a crescent moon worn in his knotted hair.
What can I offer such a cute, weird lord,
a quaint and earthy superman,
worshipped as a huge lingam
perched in a yoni perennially, except
a shred of maverick thought, an untamed spirit
indecipherable like Egyptian hieroglyphs!
(Footnote - Aghori* means one having a liking for the dead and decay, not repulsed by corpses, necropolis, rot, and grime. Damru*: a musical instrument in Lord Shiva’s hand.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Dust congeals the air
from excavation.
Dry Ghaggar* cringes with pain.
She recalls the bygone days,
houses with gambolling children,
the happy vibes of plenty -
Gone are green fields
sprawling by her wet thighs,
forests abounding with game,
hordes of plunderers from the north
on trails of the smell of wealth,
returning happy with the booty.
She looks at excavations -
lovely ancient artifacts lie scattered,
broken but beautiful;
the remains of designer-roads,
torn tombs of her departed children,
the damaged figurines of failed gods.
She recalls the flavours of recipes
cooked in happy Harappan homes,
their crockery and cutlery
washed in her stream.
Have those diners migrated
in search of new pastures?
She preens in bygone glory,
her perennial green cauldron;
seething, maddening aroma
of ripe crops; icy fountains,
keeping her thighs ever wet,
ever fertile with silt from the hinterland.
Ghaggar laments -
her mother Sindhu
gobbling her up alive,
with crocodile tears in eyes
for her daughter’s death, the exodus
of her hungry grandchildren.
In excruciating grief,
Ghaggar hides under earth’s alluvial,
crying impotent tears
recalling her children’s migration.
Her traces in puddles, rumoured
to be the sacred ‘Sarasvati’; it’s no consolation.
(Ghaggar* is a diminutive monsoon-fed stream visible during in monsoons, flowing between India and Pakistan. It dries into a bed of ditches and puddles during rest of the year. It is believed to be the remains of the extinct mythical river Sarasvati that was gobbled up by her mother river Sindhu around eight-thousand years ago during an earthquake, leaving only a small stream, the present Ghaggar rivulet. Sites of the extinct Harappan civilization are found on Ghaggar’s banks and basin, but historians believe that prosperous Harappans gradually migrated south and east in search of greener pastures after the ground breaking earthquake that changed Sarasvati into Ghaggar.)
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
When your suits
and formals in hangers
start to smell stale and musty
due to prolonged non-use
you get them dry-cleaned
for one last time
and mothball them
for posterity.
Then you look for
their replacement with
the informal Tees
which you ignored till now
or being sartorial savvy
you even shunned them.
You decide to use
the morphological analysis
that you depended on
during your
decision-making days
and sit down to
select the most perfect Tee
that would not
erode your class and elegance.
You start with the fabric
and from quite a few choices
ring-spun or combed cotton
polyester or a blend of the two
whether you are looking for
breathability
softness or durability—
plain weave or twill weave
jersey knit or interlock knit?
Then you choose amongst
crew neck
V-neck and scoop neck
along with variations
like polo necks
boat necks and mock necks
plain collars or
with border lines—
short sleeves
half or full sleeves.
Then you decide on size
slim-fit or regular
or over-sized for that
loose and comfort look.
Then pick up the print
technology that you
want for your Tee:
Screen print or DTG
or rubber emboss for raised effect?
… let your Tee speak loud.
After this arduous exercise
you mix and match
attributes
to come up with
your bespoke Tee
and order the one
perfect for you:
one with a smooth and soft
blended fabric
of solid green
long sleeved
featuring in front
the close up of the face
of a roaring tiger
spelling out your persona
and class.
The order arrives as scheduled
and you wear it
your first ever Tee
for your morning walk
your chest swollen
and your moustache
twirled at the ends
and heads turn
in admiration
maybe with
clandestine sniggers
that you don’t notice.
Days pass by
and your wardrobe slowly
fills up with a variety of Tees
but you are possessive
of your first very Tee
and every time
you sport it
your head is held high.
Then one day
it goes missing
and you look for it
everywhere
till you find it attached
to a long stick
dipped into a bucket
holding foamy water
and you rush to rescue it
and find tears streaming
from the eyes of the tiger
the colours have run down
and the roar—
subdued to a whimper
and a feeble meow!
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 nine poetry collections, two short story collections 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
Snehaprava Das
Hold on to this moment forever
It is a virgin letter of love
Intimate and shy,
A drop of pure moonlight
From an autumn sky;
A grain of sand on
The beach by an ancient sea,
A wish nurtured through a lifetime
Unbound and free;
A streak of crimson
From the nascent sun,
An isthmus of hope
In a storm- battered ocean;
An intense togetherness
In a transparent absence,
A tiny flake scraped out from eternity
Floating inexorably in space;
A passing touch of sea breeze
On the tip of the palm leaf,
A ripple in a river
Receeding after a shy leap;
A caesura squeezed in between
The rise and fall of the scale,
A warm flower in yellow and red
Smiling in a frozen vale;
It is the last breath life clutches at
A flutter on a dying wing,
It is an end with a promise
of another beginning;
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
The face of the rain is changing,
as also the mountains and rivers.
Our body odour too reeks of dark fear
as the icebergs melt and seep into
innocent farm lands slowly but surely .
And then those King Penguins enter
sideways under the dark and frozen
Arctic sky in to our dreams and quack.
History engraved in the faces of mountains
will be over written by
the crashing of wild herds of waves.
Wild fires these days descend like
a pillaging, medieval armageddon
on lush forests and the burning
tracts resemble fiery highways to future.
When the earth sees its face
in the mirror of the sky
who will sing the last song?
Let us gather the tiny flowers,
the mild rivulets, the moody mynahs
and stack the syllables of an ancient song
of death .
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
THE WEIGHT OF WORDS & THE SONG WITHIN!
Satish Pashine
Words can wound when ego stays,
Holding tight in stubborn ways.
Like glass that cracks with whispered lies,
It shatters when the self denies.
Don’t take everything to heart,
Not every word is yours to own.
The world moves in its own rhythm,
Let it be, just let it flow.
Yet truth may sting, its touch is real,
A wound that hurts but helps us heal.
Not all pain is meant to bind,
Some just open up the mind.
Look within, know yourself,
Find the song that’s truly yours.
Sing it loud, sing it free,
Let it echo, let it soar.
Not every whisper, not every glance,
Needs a place inside your mind.
Some things are better left behind,
Not all burdens are yours to find.
To see, to learn, to rise anew,
Takes strength to face what once we knew.
For those who seek and dare to grow,
Find wisdom’s light in letting go.
So break away, breathe again,
Not everything deserves your fight.
Sing your song, sing it true,
And step into your own light.
Satish Pashine
They gave up
not just dreams —
they gave up
the right to dream.
The right to want.
To ask.
To rest.
Every desire
folded quietly
beneath
someone else’s future.
They didn’t chase
the world.
They built a bridge
so their children could.
Brick by brick —
with savings,
with silence,
with surrender.
No celebrations
for promotions.
No holidays.
No midlife joys.
Only receipts.
Only loans
paid in full
while they watched
from behind
the curtain
of their own
fading youth.
Then the call came.
“Ma, I got the job…
abroad.”
Their hearts swelled.
Not with gain,
but with release.
Their child
had broken orbit.
And still —
a small, sacred ache
hid in the corners
of their smiles.
They gave blessings
with trembling hands,
as if passing
the last
of their light.
Their only ask —
“Just…
remember us.
Sometimes.”
Years passed.
Grandchildren came.
They returned
to the role
they knew best —
caretakers again.
Of babies.
Of routines.
Of homes
that were never
theirs.
They stayed
long enough
to be helpful.
But never
long enough
to belong.
Then came
the silence.
Empty beds.
Uneaten meals.
Emojis
instead of voices.
Festivals
with no footsteps
at the door.
A life lived
in waiting rooms
of thinning
video calls.
One day —
illness knocked.
Not loudly.
Just the quiet,
final certainty
of age.
They called.
The child replied,
“Can we talk later, Ma?”
And the end
came quietly —
as it always does
for those
who never
asked for much.
Ashes drifted
into the river.
Time moved on.
And somewhere
in a small house,
a mother
kept living.
Not truly.
Just enough.
She spoke
to plants.
To framed smiles.
To silence
that spoke back.
Her soul —
once a storm —
was now
a flickering diya,
waiting
to be remembered.
Not glorified.
Not worshipped.
Just…
remembered.
And her question —
never spoken,
never answered —
echoes still
through homes
where phones ring
but hearts don’t:
Did we raise them
to fly so far
they forgot
who gave them wings?
This story
won’t make news.
No medals.
No martyrdom.
Just love —
so pure
it made itself
invisible.
And what remains
is only this:
a whisper,
a half-prayer,
a breath held —
“If you ever return…
don’t let it be
just for the funeral.”
Dying While Still Alive
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
EVEN THE DARKEST NIGHT WILL END AND THE SUN WILL RISE
Sathya Venkatesh
In the shadowed depths of the Himalayan tunnel
Forty-one lives lay buried
Thanks to the landslide that shattered their dreams
To nature’s fury, they fell victims
Munna Qureshi, a youth, rose to the task
He and his comrades pressed on fast
Through stone and sand, they dogged on with might
To bring back the warmth from the cold of the night
When all the mighty machines and tools gave way
The young team kept working night and day
Clearing the last stretch, using simple, handmade tools
To reach the trapped ones who were tired and mute
“Thank you,” they whispered, as arms wrapped around,
In that moment of joy, sweet relief was found
The trapped workers, on their part, took to yoga and exercise
As a way of keeping themselves positive throughout this strife
They displayed great courage and grit
Showing the world how true heroes lived
The rat miners, the unsung heroes boldly executed
Releasing the workers as the nation saluted
Showing that even the darkest night will end
Allowing the sun to more beautifully ascend!
Hailing from Coimbatore and with a background in Economics, Sathya Venkatesh has always been passionate about English literature and poetry. After fifteen years as a freelance content writer, she transitioned to teaching English to government school students. She finds joy in poetry, travel, painting and Indian Philosophy which she feels deepens an understanding of self and fuels her creativity. She has published haiku poems on reputed journals such as haikuKatha, Haikuniverse and Autumn Moon Journal. She firmly believes in a higher purpose guiding her path.
Swatishree Parija
When the golden ray of crimson sunlight,
Kisses my forehead and hugs me very tight ...
I wake up with a lazy smile ,
And greet the world, for a little while ...
With sleepy eyes, I watch the day begin,
As gentle breezes whisper from within ...
The world outside, a canvas yet to see,
Awaiting strokes of what I'm meant to be ...
Each morning brings a chance to start anew,
To chase the dreams that shimmer, fresh and true ...
So let the colors flow, let moments gleam,
Upon the canvas of my life, a waking dream ...
Swatishree Parija is a second year B.Ed..student from Jajpur, Odisha. She is passionate about literature, painting and photography from her school days. She writes excellent poetry. Her paintings and photographic creations are equally outstanding. She has won many awards in essay writing, painting, and debate at the block, district, and state level.
Sujata Dash
Some dreams remain stillborn
Do not mark off beyond apparition
Some hinge on the borders of mirage
We fail to hold on to them
Some dreams toy with genuine feelings
Choose not to depict the deep cut of hurt
Nor kick off to portray the vacuum inside
Some warn us to be cautious
Admonish to let go of hurtful emotions
Some bring back niceties of yore
Exhort our core
To relive nuggets of yesteryears
Some scare us like a ghost
Stomp over honest endeavors
Amplify arcane ways of tangled thoughts
In the process impede authentic growth
Some release our fear lodged inside
Prod greater sense to foil
Stunts of imaginary enemy
Exhort to bounce back like a phoenix
To overcome phobia and act wise
As it is, dreams are incorrigible in life
Sometimes they overwhelm
Sometimes titillate with gentle mischief
As time ambles in ceaseless motion
Dreams help make life promenade
In perpetual hope and ecstasy.
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.
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
In the sands
On the riverside
The kite in my hands
A painted eye
Across the blue
A paper heart floats
Against the sky.
It tugs and dances
Wild and free
A single thread
The string unwinds
Connecting the earth
To the Sun.
A gentle pull
A sudden swerve
A test of patience
And strength always.
It dips and soars
On unseen wings
A silent joy to enjoy
As the sun begins to fade
A rising star in the sky
Tells me just how high
We moved against the wind.
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
Come monsoon
The small paper boat
Floats in the memory
It sails on a puddle
A little universe to me.
A tiny mast
Raising its head
Against the world
Where the big ships sway.
It dances on ripples
A momentary king
Reflecting the sky
A fragile fleeting object.
It carries no cargo
No treasure no gold
Just small silent wishes
A dream to be cherished.
The rain-washed street
Is an endless sea
Where bubbles swell
It wobbles and turns
And then finds its way
Until the water fades
At the end of the day.
The small paper boat
A simple folded paper
Sails to a distant harbor
In an unseen destination.
Though it will surely sink
Minutes away
It holds all those
A small child can imagine.
Mr. Pradeep Biswal is a bilingual poet writing both in Odia and English. His poems are widely anthologized. He is also an editor and translator of repute. A retired IAS Officer, Mr. Biswal presently holds the position of Member, Odisha Real Estate Regulatory Authority and stays with his family at Bhubaneswar. Views are Personal
Soumen Roy
The wonderful glow
so energetic with an never ending flow
The city in dark glows like a diamond ring
with its unique character.
The city in dark seems to be a queen decored with glittering gems,diamonds and pearl
The city in dark seems enjoying with of
spark as an un pair girl.
The toilsome day says goodbye with glorious lights in versatile manner
The light is diversified but never does disappear
The city in dark is blazing like fire.
The city in dark appears to be a decored art in the canvas so thrilling
The city in dark decors herself alike a
bride,
smiling and celebrating.
The city in dark enjoys the cocktail of
love and fantasy every evening
The city in dark seems to be intoxicated,
in a state of singing,dancing and lots of charm very entertaining.
The city in dark though appear very pleasing
The city in dark has kept many truths hidden within
The lights of ecstasy fails to hide the truth,lamenting
The city in dark has kept so many plaintives
between the dazzling lights,still prevailing
The city in dark sketches the positive and negative dealing.
The city in dark is like the coin with heads and tails
The city in dark narrates the stories of grace and hate.
The city in dark always remains busy
The city in dark might be lovely but not very easy.
The women feel insecured of the vagabonds roaming
The cops are busy in night patrolling
The girls with some cause are dancing in bars entertaining
The antisocial elements are busy in their crime and illegal dealing
The person ceases to death under loads of traffic,writhing and bleeding
The city in dark faces the crime of human
trafficking.
The partial groups of youths are suffering the curse of drugs and smoking
The few persons makes fool in the name of religion every evening
The city of dark even bears the evidence of call girls bargaining
The city in dark shows the blue and grey
in between.
The city in dark enjoys refreshment in
food plaza and somewhere celebrating
The city in dark allows the leisure to nourish the culture in reading and singing
The city in dark finds satisfaction in group discussion and debating
The city in dark nourishes its cultural heritage cultivating knowledge in
gathering
The city in dark gets satisfaction between
prayers and resting.
The city in dark sometimes mocks and allure
The city in dark faces the success and failure
The city in dark knocks the chamber of human conscience
The city in dark allows the choices of upgrades and degrades.
Soumen Roy is a professional writer, best selling author and a tri-lingual poet. He has been vasty anthologized. His novel and poetry books have been part of International Kolkata Book Fair as well as Newtown book fair. He is the receiptent of Laureate Award 2022 along with many others. His poetry has been a part of international poetry festival 2017 and Panaroma international Literature festival 2023. He has published in different newspapers, magazines and web portals. He has been part of a web series named Showstopperzz, a cinema for a cause. He loves photography, painting and music.
Darsana Kalarickal
Yesterday,
you awakened me with a kiss on my left gills.
It suddenly converted as a thousand schools of fish
born from invisible pain,
swam into my brain—
and I sank into an endless ocean.
The fishes that drifted idly,
awaiting some soul to enter,
looked at me with wonder.
Puzzled at what made me different,
I followed them as they guided me
towards the coral reefs.
Amidst the ruins of an ancient wreck, trapped within ,in a shard of mirror,
I found myself.
From my left gills
a tree had begun to sprout.
I was certain it would grow
into a great tree,
for its roots were powerful,
deep,
spreading through every nerve of mine.
Its leaves unfurled
like the sacred peepal tree.
Yes—
I was transforming
as a peepal tree.
No longer do I need to swim.
When will you transform
as the Buddha?
I must be here
to welcome you.
Extending roots into the sea’s abyss,
absorbing the green radiance
that descends from above,
I begin to fill .
Minutes, hours, days...
How much longer must I wait
for the path of liberation
to open itself to me?
*Darsana K.R., residing in Venginissery, Thrissur district, is an employee at Venginissery Service Cooperative Bank and a passionate poet. Her published works include the poetry collections *Kavithaye Pranayichaval, Pranayathil Akappettathinte Ezhaam Naal, and Kuldharaayil Oru Pakal; the short story collection Thekkedathamma V/S Ramakavi (co-authored with Dr. Ajay Narayanan); the memoir Kunnirangunna Kothiyormakal; and the poetry study Kavithayude Veraazhangal. Her poems and articles have been featured in various periodicals and online platforms. phone : 9645748219, email darsanakr1973@gmail.com.
Baldev Samantaray
The warmth of the rising sun
on a winter morning.
The sulking dew drop
floating on the fluttering leaf
holding on to dear leaf
with all her floating might.
Is she enjoying the ballet
Is she anxious of the fall
Is this her swan song
to make her immortal
before the burning sun consumes her.
Little does she know
that dreams die
when the first rays kiss the night sky
and wait for the night
to be born again.
Little does she know this
She dances as if it’s the end of her world.
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.
IT`S TIME TO PAINT YOUR OWN CANVAS
Leena Thampi
MIRROR
Can you imagine how many versions of you exist in people's minds?
Hundreds or thousands?
They create angel and demon out of you sometimes
Then demolish you according to their whims and fancies
But the real you live in your own skin
Nobody can assassinate your character
Unless you give an applause to their delusions of you
Other people's thoughts about you are a reflection of them
One day reality will hit them like a ton of bricks
ME
So i focus on writing my own story
This is wholly copyrighted
I have not given anyone the right to rewrite their version of me
I need not be a martyr to prove my innocence and love to those who don't deserve me
You can paint me in any shade you choose
I lost the desire to be understood
As I grow old I prioritize peace
Flowers bloom differently
Rocks, dirty water, a mountaintop,
A flower can be found in the most unlikely places and grow to live a long and healthy life,
Learn to thrive and grow despite negative energies
For certain lessons,there's no teacher
I must write my own book
©?Leena Thampi
Bio
*Leena Thampi*
Leena Thampi is a celebrated author and entrepreneur renowned for her captivating writing style that transcends the ordinary. With five published books and numerous internationally featured articles, her work has garnered widespread recognition and accolades. Recent accolades include Author Literary Awards from The Book Channel for her four books across different categories, the 'Women Face of the Year 2024' award by Fox Story India, and the City Excellence Awards by Bharat Times. Her literary prowess has also been recognized with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honors and Gujarat Sahitya Academy honors.
Leena's unique narrative voice blends luminous prose, magical realism, myths, and raw life realities, inviting readers into a world of wonder and introspection. A multifaceted talent, she is a certified child psychologist, relationship coach, and TEFL trainer, and serves as Co-founder and COO of HAVL Hi-Tech Pvt Ltd.
*Published Works:*
- "Rhythms of a Heart"
- "Autumn Blaze"
- "An Allusion To Time"
- "Embers to Flames"
- "Celestial Melodies"
With over a hundred accolades from literary platforms worldwide, Leena continues to inspire with her writing. She is currently working on her sixth book, a collection of short stories. Her articles, poems, anthologies, interviews, and features have been published in national and international magazines and newspapers.
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.
Leena Thampi is a celebrated author and entrepreneur known for her captivating writing style that transcends the ordinary. With five published books and numerous internationally featured articles, her work has garnered widespread recognition and accolades. Recent accolades include four awards from" The Book Channel" for her four books across different categories, She's also the winner of the 'Women Face of the Year 2024' award by Fox Story India, and the City Excellence Awards by Bharat Times.
Her literary prowess has been recognized with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honors and Gujarat Sahitya Academy honors. Leena's unique narrative voice blends luminous prose, magical realism, myths, and raw life realities, inviting readers into a world of wonder and introspection.
A multifaceted talent, Leena is a certified child psychologist, relationship coach, and TEFL trainer. She is the Co-founder and COO of HAVL Hi-Tech Pvt Ltd.
Her published works include "Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze", "An Allusion To Time", "Embers to Flames", and "Celestial Melodies".
With over a hundred accolades from literary platforms worldwide, Leena continues to inspire with her writing. She is currently working on her sixth book, a collection of short stories. Her articles, poems, anthologies, interviews, and features have been published in national and international magazines and newspapers.
Matralina Pati
A long trail of
failed promises
I have lacquered
Onto my frail frame.
A fleeting paradise
I aspired through
The forbidden gates
And
The rubble overhead
Restores
A karmic sense
Love laughs at
These unstable feet.
Slowly I sink into
The bed of thorns
All because
My faith rested in
The wrong place.
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).
Shreeya Sampada
Oh, mother-
I can't imagine
You are the one
Who brought me into this void
Who endured all the pain and agony
That no one would ever know
You guided me
How to survive with these dirty ones
Who circle you and me
You taught me to remain silent
In good times and in bad.
Oh, mother-
I silently watch you
You sit at a corner-
Sobbing, wailing, weeping
Every night
Screaming -
Sorry! Sorry!
But no one listens to you
Your dreadful screams are hard to bear
While you rush towards your bedroom
Sudden bang of the door
Makes me feel unsafe
even in my own home.
Oh, mother-
At the veil of a new dawn
How nicely you hide
bruises on your hand and neck
For no one can notice your pain- so deep and so scary
Splashes of blood on your body
push me to ask-
Is the life of every mother made to remain in silence?
Why are the tears of every mother not treated equally?
A sudden burst of tears overflows like the vast sea
That tight hug of yours,
taught me
at such a tender age,
how strongly one can love
having a deep injury!
Shreeya Sampada is a multifaceted artist from Puri, Odisha, who has had a keen interest in classical music and dance since her infancy. She has received numerous accolades for winning state-level competitions in music. A girl of fifteen, she delves deep into the intricacies of nature and life to add colour to her canvas. With a noble ambition of being a doctor in future, she spends her time serving the people surrounding her.
Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
Atop the hill
Down-south Baha’i
Just a little, far stand a cluster of trees
as if engaged in never-ending talk.
Nearing them flows
a sparkling stream, long as art,
running nature’s errand
insouciant, singing endless songs
all with aplomb.
It’s part of Panchgani’s pristine hill
with its untouched wilderness
where beauty of every sunset
leaves all in a state of ineffable awe,
that forms the backcloth.
To a corner, as if cloistered, stands a tree
with its leafy canopy
like someone wellborn
among the gentry.
An aura of serenity prevailing,
giving off laid back vibes
where silence is echoed.
Home to many insects and birds
is the tree
in whom squirrels scurry across
some others move with bustling haste
some winged guests make it
their short stay homes
while chit-chatting and shooting the breeze.
Simple moments bring
great happiness for it
as tiny birds frolic;
their jubilant laughter
fill the air
like the joy of children in a garden
while chasing butterflies in vary-many hues.
A hatchling’s coming to earth
breaking barrier of the mother’s womb
brought joy unbound for the tree
exceeding the joys of the mother crow.
With love immense and attention undivided
he bloomed beautifully
revealing signs of bright promise.
The mother’s lullaby
mixing song and advice
bringing joy for the baby
also thrilled the tree:
Belie not a mother’s hope;
Treachery of a child
burns a mother alive in a world
colder than hell –
Hope of a ray of love from the child
keeps a mother greatly alive,
but the fear of “not to be loved
puts the mother in the heat
of an eternal fire.”
Ebullient was the child
laughing and jumping
from branch to branch
like any ecstatic child
on the last day of their school.
Before realisation of the fledgling’s desire
to explore the dark sky,
the mother leaving the world
made his world fall off.
The innocuous tree
stood rock solid like a grandmother
by his side.
(To be Concluded..)
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.
THERE IS ALWAYS AN OTHER THING
Bipin Patsani
To have light all around
Is not to be in the light.
Between you and me
It is all the same.
Even though we lay together,
We’re detached by a great gap
Of lack of understanding.
There are many things
Which we don’t like in common.
If I don’t like the way you walk,
You don’t like my nose
And the way I look.
There is always some other thing
We are conscious of.
There is nothing in which we can lose
Our whole identity.
We are neither happy,
Nor do we remain sad for long;
For there is always some other thing
That haunts you and me.
Bipin Patsani
“A picture is an adventure each time.
When I tackle the white canvas
I never know how it will come out.”
- George Braque
Words float like boats in the void,
Coming out of the womb of imagination.
Charles Strickland and I sat talking
While time went on slipping.
Someone said, “Sail on the boat you like
To go out of the boat.
Go out sailing to the unknown
Kaleidoscopic island of your dream
In the heaving boundary of a body
That tries to possess, but in vain.”
Strickland and I came to an understanding.
And we agreed – The body is a green corridor,
A bridge to go beyond.
So it came,
One day I saw the nudes in “The Bathers”
Of Renoir and “La Source” of Ingress
And found that they were all poetry.
II
The picture is yet to start
And the blank outlines of the canvas
Widen to spread all over the Universe.
What shall I paint, O speak! What shall I paint?
Let me be a zero and clamp on to the canvas.
Make me a handful of dust
And throw me into the stream of creatrix,
That I may come out fresh.
III
Must the artist be isolated for his creative reticence?
What is it that pulls me down?
See how I get entangled in the wiry web of imbalance
Slipping, sliding down deep into Cocytus,
The ghost in me frightening my whole being.
People come and go casting headless looks
To the softness within
Beneath the hard outer surface of the skin
And underneath I die unseen searching for me,
Searching for my identity in my entity.
But where is the real me?
O route infinite to my indefinite voyage!
I am married to you suffering,
I embrace you with the warmth and ecstasy
Of the wedding night.
Come, let me see what is that you hide.
In you I see all the beautiful maidens
Sunk in the lake of my eyes.
In you I see all those I did not see
And those who escaped my vision;
The blooming smile of the virgin withering
From her lilac lips, the smile of the timid bride,
And dead and doubtful,
The smile of children learning to beg.
In you I see love, sex, war, birth, death and horror.
Flood, famine and hunger I see, I see in you terror.
Faces and figures lose their identity
In the vastness of space,
And molecules clinging together into forms
Melt again in a usual process.
What there is on the canvas I don’t know.
What is there? Is it a warm silken net
Capturing beauty in its lively frame
That tries to escape but never does?
Is it the Word eternal, transcendental,
Floating on the blue blank ocean
Of the canvas where nothing is visible,
Nothing except the invisible that flames
All words, all voices and images around it?
Of whom shall I paint? The grass is a great god
As well as the ant and the mountain.
The spring and the volcano flow
In their own ways to unite the poles.
So let me leave the canvas as it is;
Let me leave dots and circles, circles and dots behind me.
Let me write zero a million times and die looking at them.
(From my poetry collection, ANOTHER VOYAGE,
published in 2010.)
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.
Ms Gargi Saha
To lead the aeroplane
Or be a wagon driver
Or an ambulance
Who drives, whose destiny?
Which driver be?
Ms Gargi Saha
From the waters of Washington
Once stepping into States
The flag hoisted on the ship changes
As the waters change
No mark, no fence,no boundary
Yet unconscious external walling by humans
And walling ever prevails
Between rich and poor
High and low
Fair and dark
Men and women
Caste and creed
Language and culture
Nationality and status
Everything has its distinct color,shape,taste,norm
And never one homogeneous whole...
Ms Gargi Saha
Life is one
Roads many
Different roads await
At different stages
Which one to choose?
Which would be most apposite?
The trodden or untrodden ones?
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.Akshara Rai
A GENTLE SOUL, A LOVING HEART,
You left us far too soon, and we are torn apart.
Your laughter, wisdom and love so true,
Will forever be remembered and cherished a new.
With kindness and care, you touched all lives,
A guiding light, constant strives.
Yours legacy lives on, a memory so bright,
In our hearts, your love will shine with all its might.
Though you are gone, your memory stays,
A better sweet remainder of joyous days.
We shall hold on to the laughter, the tears and the past,
And celebrate your love that will forever last.
Rest In Peace, DEAR BADAMAMA, MAY YOU FIND YOUR WAY,
TO ETERNAL PEACE and a brighter a day.
YOUR LOVE AND LEGACY WILL FOREVER REMAIN,
A CHERISHED MEMORY, A LOVE THAT WILL SUSTAIN.
Dr.Akshara Rai ,have graduated in MBBS FROM IMS AND SUM HOSPITAL, BHUBANESWAR. And now serving as a Resident Doctor in SUM 2 ,phulnakhra. Won multiple awards in poems, stories and elocution , passionate about drawing, painting, Sketching, writing poems, short stories ,reading books, acting and oration.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya
Half a millimetre thin—
Yes, just a little game of melanin.
Gods enslaved, demons enslaved,
and humans—mere shadows in between.
Less of it, you’re divine; more of it, a fiend.
Less in the West, more in the East—
What a strange, strange play of hues,
The game of melanin polymer reigns.
Colour breeds politics,
Colour rules economies,
Nations rise and fall on colour,
Sabers unsheathed in its name,
the soil drenched in blood.
Behold the absurdity of it all—
Fight over a chemical’s call!!
The soul weeps for Krishna, Rama
“Black! Black!” they jeer,
And the same lips worship
Shivaa, Shyama, the dark divine.
But when it comes to my bride,
She must be fair—
A dusky damsel, who dares to desire !
Such is the bizarre game of deluded
The endless sport of melanin shade.
Beauty is but this wafer-thin shell,
So easily withered, so frail.
But a heart that is kind,
A soul that is bright—
that is where life finds its light.
Know this to be the truth:
Shun the quarrel, all the toil,
Just for this half millimetre foil.
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
Dr. Radharani Nanda
I stepped out
From my mother's womb
to this world unknown to me
You were the one accompanying me from the beginning
Slithered to my inner recess
You mingled into my whole being.
I as a neonate, as an infant ,as a toddler
In bosom of innocence and
simplicity serene and pure
Found you in my smile,
In my giggle
In my pranks and in
my dreams
You were so intimate
Never to leave me for a moment
You were my happiness, my khusi, my friend.
You were the cause of my laughter,
In my play ground in recreation,
In the pool catching fish out of fun,
In the curry I cooked in a coconut shell ,
In my beaming face
clad in my grandma's red dotted saree as a veil.
O my happiness, my khusi
You became my best friend.
Time rolled on.
I was lost amid
heaps of books,series of exams and my aspirations.
Entrapped in an illusion
To kiss the sky
My wings stretched to fly.
My simplicity and purity chemouflaged
To strive in the complexities
of rat race.
You were scared and drifted away
Never to walk with me on my way.
Your distance hardly mattered.
You scarcely glimpsed at me
In my dream,
in golden dawning light,
and mesmerising twilight
to disappear in no time.
I ran and ran in maddening speed
To meet my endless greed
That could never besatiated.
I am
Restless and fatigued
sandwiched between my hope and despair
All Mortal belongings I gained have lost the glare.
The cacophony of known voices faded
I am lone and shrivelled.
I search you everywhere ,i
In my withered garden,
in meadows,scented spring, and drizzling rain
All my efforts in vain
I humbly admit
Sans you I could never laugh to my hearts out.
Where are you my friend?
O my happiness, my khusi
Will you please comeback again?
I swear
We will be back to our beginning
Roam around greens
Plunge into the sparkling stream
Listen to the whisper of rustling wind
In my little cottage
in tranquil
We will respire and giggle.
O my happiness, my khusi, my best friend please come back ,come back.
Dr. Radharani Nanda completed MBBS from SCB Medical college, Cuttack and post graduation in Ophthalmology from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur. She joined in service under state govt and worked as Eye specialist in different DHQ hospitals and SDH. She retired as Director from Health and Family Welfare Department Govt of Odisha. During her service career she has conducted many eye camps and operated cataract surgery on lakhs of blind people in remote districts as well as costal districts of Odisha. She is the life member of AIOS and SOS. She writes short stories and poems in English and Odia. At present she works as Specialist in govt hospitals under NUHM.
Dr. Rekha Mohanty
I love dark clouds
hovering above while
raindrops dripping down
on car screen and
my panes of windows,
Rains have vowed
to reign the land today,
Bringing cheerful memories
moist with tinge of sadness
never to fade…
The sight of waving Dahlia
and roses in our familiar
socialising hub allures me often,
Flowers in garden may be missing today but flashes of colours
from past playing
hide and seek with my vision,
The young foliage is really
eye soothing in monsoon…
The sound of crockery and cutlery creating a jingle
in spacious dining hall,
The aroma of hot snacks
and food filling the air
transport my senses
to a time gone which
still I could inhale…
Now at dusk I can see
few people slowly
arriving attired neatly
murmuring and
beaming with smile,
Laughter is getting louder
in coffee room and bar
to be subdued after a while…
I can’t see faces those
were once familiar
at our young age,
I could distinctly recollect
amidst the dancing crowd
your effervescent
charming image,
Under garden umbrella
we used to sit enjoying the
cool drizzle splashed
while your eyes eagerly
scanning the menu page…
Col( Dr) Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College, Cuttack, Odisha and she has spent most of her professional life in military hospitals in peace and field locations and on high altitude areas.She has participated in Operation Vijay (Kargil war)in 1999 and was selected for UN missions in Africa for her sincere involvement in crisis management of natural calamities in side the country and abroad where India is asked to do so in capacity of head QRT in Delhi for emergency medical supplies.She had also participated in military desert operation ’ Op Parakram’ in Rajasthan border area.After relinquishing Army Medical Corps in 2009,she worked in Ex Servicemen Polyclinic in Delhi NCR and presently is working in a private multi-speciality hospital there to keep herself engaged.
Her hobby is writing poetry in English and Odia.She was writing for college journals and local magazines as a student in school.
Being a frequent traveler around the world,she writes travelogues.The writing habit was influenced by her father who was a Police Officer and used to write daily diary in English language he had mastered from school days in old time.Her mother was writing crisp devotional poems in Odia language and was an avid reader of Odia and Bengali books.Later her children and husband also encouraged.
Dr Rekha keeps herself occupied in free times for activities like painting, baking and playing card games the contract bridge.
She is a genuine pet lover and offers her services to animal welfare organisations and involves in rescue of injured stray dogs.Being always with pets at home since early childhood ,she gives treatment to other dogs in society when asked for in absence of a vet.She delivers talks on child and women health issues to educate the ladies in army and civil.
After sad demise of her husband Dr( Brig)B B Mohanty in February 2023,she devoted more time to writing and published her first poetry book’Resilient Leaf’in August 2023.Since then there is no stopping and she is going to publish her second book of poetry soon.
She enjoys reading E magazine LV , newspaper current affairs ,writing poetry and watching selected movies whenever she gets time.She keeps travelling places of interest in between for a change which is a passion as a girl since days roaming with parents and siblings .Her motto is to be happy by giving the best to self and to the society.She is lucky to have a supportive family.
Sharanya Bee
The station is a
Fish’s iridescent scale
Of umbrellas
Zig-zagging past curled dogs licking
their wet coats
And coolies rushing in sludge-coated chappals
It’s one big climb into this air conditioned pod –
Where a new world tunnels
Launching on the deep blue berth – all the rest is
Blurred scenery through glass — of
Name boards watered away
Scurrying feet drumming on pools of light
And the soft rattle of metal
Despite lost signals, delayed flights and
Blown-off rooftops
And every soul yearning to curl to the warmth of
Their undercoats
A city still sings the music of aftermath
The memory of a torrent
Gracefully drowns in
Chai, samosas, biscuits…
Ticket please
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
Dr. Niranjan Barik
X has gone on his way—
Y, the smiling rose? No word from her today.
They were N, once a constellation of laughter,
Now the bee-line has vanished, long after
Tears were traded for blessings,
And gifts for silence.
Their photo graced the paper beside the revered guide,
Who taught them to clap, to dance, to stride—
From playground joy to gym’s resolve,
To Pujas of the Elephant God,
And the Violin-bearing Giver of Knowledge.
That was the way.
Did you mark him on your dateline,
The man who made you write Omm on the musd-slate?
Where are they now?
You search for them in memory’s lane,
In ICU rooms where recognition flickered—
Or failed.
No, you had not been there.
But the old Senior asked about you.
And in that moment,
You felt the weight of being remembered—
A quiet celebrity in the heart of one
Who long ago taught
That Zero holds value,
That a bend in the road
Is not the end of the journey.
The Seven Stars still gleam in the dark,
Silent guides with the wisdom of Rishis,
Far from your reach,
Yet near in meaning.
Perhaps, when X and Y
Look up and count the stars,
They will recall you—
Not as a name,
But as a light
That once danced beside theirs.
Professor Niranjan Barik ,formerly Professor and Head, Department of Political Science at Ravenshaw University also served as a Professor of Pol.Sc and Principal , Khallikote Autonomous College, Berhampur, Odisha. A Fulbright Scholar-in-Residence at Miles College, Birmingham, AL, USA in 2007-08 , Prof Barik evinces interest in reading and writing short stories and poems in Odia and English. His poetry book , “Freedom from Bondage: An Ode to Nature” published by Black Eagle was released in Bhubaneswar in December 2023.
Sreedharan Parokode
In a sense,
we are all singers, selecting
songs for the stage performance.
Though the stage is not
perfectly alright,
some singers want to
appear inorder to record
their presence.
Some may fall during their
performance,
some firmly formulated plans.
Family and relatives keep aloof
and watch the singing.
Not good
Not appreciable
May come up as comments
Yes,
I can propose
Suggestion can be made
It may also go on like that.
It is sure that the singer's
attitude makes the song
Beautiful and enjoyable.
Even if the lines have no time appropriate.
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.
WHEN WATER SEEPED INTO MY MIND
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Like my Grandpa
I felt water had seeped into my mind,
Everything turned so wobbly,
Foggy and dense.
I wondered why everyone was lying,
Why lying was considered so smart,
Why being smart meant how deftly
You can cheat your neighbour,
Why being a neighbour
Was not the same as being a friend
Why a friend never appeared at my door
Why doors were shut upon me one by one,
Why one was reduced to a zero
And zeros rose to great heights
And heights looked down upon heaps of dirt,
And the dirt stuck to the soul
The soul dripped blood
And the blood turned to water
Seeping into my mind, making me wonder
Why my Grandpa no longer knows who I am.
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.
Viewers Comments