Literary Vibes - Edition CLIX (28-Nov-2025) - POEMS
Title : A country scene (Water Colour 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 : Regal Radiance (Tribal painting 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,
Welcome to the 159th edition of LiteraryVibes. This month we are lucky to have two new contributors Ms. Alpana Patnaik, a former teacher from Delhi who is committed to the learning of students and their all-round development.
Her article in LV159 is a standing testimony to her faith in the wonderful ability of education to enlighten and enrich. The other brilliant writer is Shri B.B. Mohapatra, a distinguished civil servant with an incredible emapthy for the tribals of Koraput, a southern district of Odisha where he grew up with close proximity to the culture and simple life of the tribals. Let us hope that both these new contributors will continue to inspire us with their insightful writings.
As we grow in age, memory plays tricks with the mind. We remember a few who filled our life with smiles, but forget a lot who came briefly into our lives and faded with grace. But once in a while someone appears with frightening clarity, bringing back happy nuggets from the stream of life. And there are always those we remember with pride, who served the country and the humanity as a whole.
Recently I came across a couple of stories in social media which celebrated this happy feeling. Here they are:
1. Arthur, an 88-year-old Vietnam veteran, sat in his wheelchair in the back of the courtroom. His wife was gone, he had no children, and his small house was falling apart. He'd been cited for code violations he couldn't afford to fix—a broken porch, peeling paint, and a leaking roof.
The judge, a 65-year-old man known for his stern, "by-the-book" rulings, called his case.
Arthur listened, his hands trembling, as the city attorney listed the violations and the thousands in fines. When the attorney formally requested the court's permission to condemn the property if the fines weren't paid, the finality of it hit him. This was it. He was losing his home.
The judge began to speak. "Mr. Harris, the city is asking for... "
He stopped. He just looked at the frail old man, who had now buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking in a silent, heartbreaking sob.
The courtroom went quiet. The judge, his own face tightening with emotion, looked conflicted. "We will take a 15-minute recess," he announced abruptly, banging his gavel.
When he returned, the courtroom was buzzing. The judge looked not at the attorneys, but directly at Arthur.
"Mr. Harris," the judge said, his voice softer now. "I spent my recess on the phone. I have spoken with the director of the local VFW, who is a friend of mine, and is associated with our county's Veterans' fund. All fines are hereby dismissed."
Arthur looked up, his face a mask of stunned disbelief.
"Furthermore," the judge continued, "a local contractor's union has already pledged to do all the repairs, pro bono, starting next week."
This second wave of kindness was too much for Arthur, who had been crying from despair, and now broke down in tears of overwhelming relief.
The judge then did something no one had ever seen. He stepped down from his high bench, walked directly to the wheelchair, and pulled the old soldier into a full, strong hug.
As Arthur wept into the judge's robe, he whispered, his voice trembling, "I... I didn't think anybody cared anymore."
The judge held him tighter and whispered back, his voice thick: "We do. I do. You served us. We don't forget that."
2. My name is Ray Thompson. I am 71 years old. I have been driving the same yellow school bus for twenty five years. Kids grow up. But I remember every face, every kid that went to the school in my bus.
There was one boy who always ran late — shoes untied, backpack half open. I started waiting an extra minute each morning. I never knew how much that small act meant until years later.
It started with waiting. Just sixty extra seconds in the cold. But it grew into something else.
When the pandemic hit, and the schools closed for a while, I missed the sound of the chatter, the gum under the seats, even the squeaky brakes that made my knees ache. When the routes came back, I noticed things had changed — quieter kids, heavier eyes. Some hadn’t grown out of their clothes from the year before.
I saw a girl named Maribel, sixth grader, always clutching a little bag of chips for breakfast. Her mother waved from the porch, face pale and tired. One morning, I asked, “That your breakfast, sweetheart?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes lunch, too.”
That night, I told my wife, Ellen, about it. She was retired from the diner but still made muffins for the church bake sale. The next morning, I packed a little brown bag: muffin, apple, and a note that said ‘Have a good day, kiddo.’ Left it on Maribel’s seat.
Didn’t say it was from me.
After that, I started bringing extras — granola bars, fruit cups, bottles of water. Left them on different seats at random. Sometimes the food disappeared. Sometimes it didn’t. I didn’t keep track. But slowly, I noticed the chatter coming back.
A few months later, a janitor named Hank waved me down in the parking lot. “Ray,” he said, “you the one leaving food on the bus?”
I froze. Thought maybe I was in trouble.
He smiled, slow and kind. “My nephew rides your route. Said there’s this ‘magic lunch fairy.’ Kid’s been eating better than he has in years.”
I laughed so hard I almost teared up.
That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t about muffins. It was about noticing.
I started paying closer attention — to the teachers standing outside with tired smiles, to the parents waiting with thermoses of coffee and worry. I kept a little notebook under my seat, jotting names, notes, small things:
Maribel — likes blueberry muffins.
Jason — lost his dad last year, rides alone.
Ms. Perkins — teaches first grade, looks worn down.
I couldn’t fix everything. But I could do something.
When the district cut the after-school bus for budget reasons, I used my own gas money to run an extra trip on Fridays. No fanfare, no announcement. Just a quiet ride home for kids whose parents couldn’t leave work early.
Word spread slowly, the way good things do.
Ellen started baking extra. The church ladies pitched in with snacks. The mechanic down at the depot left juice boxes in the glove compartment. Before long, my bus became something more than a ride — it was a moving little refuge.
One December morning, a senior named Marcus climbed aboard. Big kid, quiet, eyes always down. That day he handed me a folded envelope.
Inside was a photo — me in the driver’s seat, taken from the back of the bus. On the back, he’d written:
“Thanks for waiting. Not just for me, but for everyone.”
I still keep that photo on the dash.
Now, when I look in the mirror above the windshield, I don’t just see rows of seats. I see a small town trying its best. I see the tired faces that still smile, the kids who share their muffins now, the quiet ripples of kindness that started from a simple thing — waiting one extra minute.
I’m not a hero. I’m just a man with keys and a timetable.
But sometimes, all the world needs is someone who waits — long enough for another person to catch their breath, tie their shoes, and make it on board.
And I’ll keep waiting.
..........................
These stories filled my heart with warmth. I prayed to God we should have more such people on warth to bring sunshine to our lives.
Hope you will like the stories and the other offerings in LV159. Please share them with all your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/616 (Poems)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/615 (Short Stories and Anecdotes)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/614 (Young Magic)
Hope you are enjoying the cool, soothing touch of winter. I am happy to add to its charm with the humble offering of the poems and stories in LV159. Let us wait for the new year with greater warmth and energy. See you next month on 26th December, the last Friday of the month. Till then take care and be happy.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor LiteraryVibes
Bhubaneswar, Friday, the 28th November, 2025
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
PRIVATE HOURS
HAUNTED
02) Dilip Mohapatra
KILLING THE MESSENGER
03) Abani Udgata
STORY-TELLING ANIMAL
04) Anita Panda
NOVEMBER MOON
05) Darsana Kalarickal
SORROWS OF SIGHT
06) Dr R. S.Tewari
BEYOND WARFARE
UPROOT THE VENOMOUS CREEPERS
07) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
AUTOGRAPH
08) Matralina Pati
AT SHANTINIKETAN
09) Kunal Roy
THE TRUE MOTHER
10) Sudipta Mishra
THE SONGS OF BIRDS
11) Sathya Venkatesh
REVERENCE DISGUISED AS VIOLENCE
12) Baldev Samantaray
WHEEL OF FIRE
13) Bipin Patsani
THE END GAME
14) Bijayalaxmi Rath
ATMOSPHERE SHIFTS
15) Namita Rani Panda
MY PAPER BOAT
16) Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
MURDER
17) Ms Gargi Saha
MONEY
THE JOY OF NOTHINGNESS
NUCLEAR FAMILY
18) G.S. Nair
THE JOURNEY
19) S. J. Sangeetha
COSMIC CHAOS
TIME
20) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
THE MIRACLE OF MIRACLES
21) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
BLOOMING LOTUS
22) Sreedharan Parokode
HEAD ACHE
23) Dr. Niranjan Barik
SHOWERING FROM HEAVEN, BLESSED ON EARTH
24) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
SONGS OF SOLITUDE FROM A CORONATED SOUL
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Who nudges me around?
Is it the July wind
laden with moisture?
Or the twigs of a neighbouring tree
creaking coyly at the wet breeze?
I approach your room, walking on air,
pause before your door,
reluctantly peer in, ‘Are you breathing
in peace, my little love?’ Your toys
are maturing into their adulthood!
My retreating steps, quiet
rain in the airless monsoon night,
the romance of restless dust devils
disappearing, startling my memory
minute by minute, like proverbial ghosts.
My steps fall like a silent metronome
staccato absent, amorphous,
desultory. I collect the July wind
in my pockets to give you
at your closed door, a crack-ajar.
My room overflows with
jostling books authored by
the terrorists of spirit, liberals
of flesh, and mavericks of soul,
all seem sleepwalking like me.
Do I ever have a foothold in my lair?
A solitary corner to retreat into,
a reprieve from the freedom that
would arrest me in crowding thoughts,
a meditative hour for my agile mind?
I search within me for a pure moment –
a midnight with a low-hanging moon,
the quietly breathing wind, a solitary
bird cry, but now the croaking frogs’
mating rattles tear me like knives.
I hesitate before entering.
Wife's soft snores,
private dreams, feel like a lick away
from the transparent beads ready
for my lips on her mahogany neck.
I walk out and amble among
labyrinthine lanes, stunned by
late-night mystique. The maverick
in my blood follows the nomad of my feet
searching for a no-man’s lot to pitch tent.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Deep into the night,
the moon, woken up but sleepy;
a heartbroken Chakor* cries
slitting the sky to pieces,
navigating in inky brittle circles -
I feel guilty.
An emptiness in the lower pit,
a throb in the upper.
I search the auricles,
ventricles and the atrium
for the sins I don't recall
committing - yet, I feel guilty!
I look up, see stern eyes looking down -
questioning eyes of the Great Bear*,
the Dog's* growling eyes,
the red eyes of the Hunter*,
rebuking eyes for the sins
I don't recall committing.
The riddle rips me open
night after night, I bleed tears,
weep blood, eyes congeal, shedding all.
But a forgotten act of guilt hides
behind an unfamiliar awning.
Raising the curtain may bring the balm.
The night sails soundless,
rudderless, an orphan without
schooling, breakfast, lunch, dinner;
or a kind word ever. Am I feeling guilty
of those children, hungry, homeless,
or without a country to call their own?
Footnote – Chakor* is a legendary bird in Hindu mythology that is believed to eat moon beams for survival. The Great Bear* (Ursa Major) and Hunter* (Orion) are constellations, and the Dog* (Sirius), the brightest star in the sky.
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
As his vessel rounded up
the Cape of Good Hope
Da Gama stood steadfast
on the weather deck
watching the stars
doing backstrokes on the
liquid amber splashing
the ship’s gunwales
and the starry eyed explorer
rather more of an exploiter
sniffed like a bloodhound
on the trails of pepper and
cinnamon
as the seagulls circled
around the rigging
and the lookout on the crow’s nest
shouted land ahoy.
It was his third voyage
along the newly found
spice route
and the stench of the charred
bodies of the pilgrims of Mirim
still lingering around
he paced across the deck
with his telescope under his arm—
he was making up his mind
to avenge Cabral
and teach the Zamorin
of Kozhikode a lesson that
he would never forget.
As he unfurled the sails
dropped the hook
and ordered to lower the boats
an unexpected visitor
sought permission
to come on board—
Talappana Nambuthiree
the Zamorin’s envoy
carrying a message
for peace
and soon he was taken
into custody
branded a spy
his lips and ears severed
and a pair of
dog’s ears sewed to his head.
The oars then splashed
in unison
assailing the silence
in rhythmic strokes
and as he saw the coconut
fronds swaying violently
in the horizon
he stepped out
and prodded along
ankle deep in undulating waters
and walked towards
the shore
as the hermit crabs
scrambled to their holes.
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
Abani Udgata
As the night draws to an end
and the absent-minded camels look
eastward to the rising sun, you hang
the climax of your story on a cliff- hangar
and gingerly, leave on tip-toe while
the suspicious husband snores away.
Scheherazade**, we are pale blue dots,
each one, in the space, waiting to be heard.
The stories dangle from the clothesline
to connect through the changing moods
of the weathers from the days of ancient summer.
Deep within, in a land of unknown travellers,
they gather by the fire-side for small gossips.
To run their fingers on the scaffolding of bones,
the latticework of our breathing, to locate
the rays of the sun leaping in to caves in the space.
Years grow like beards on hollow-cheeks, eyes speak
even as they turn opaque, tired veins drip red rivers.
A few burnt logs, dead embers on the river-bank
keep up the chatter with the wind.
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
Anita Panda
All at once in the wee hours of a fresh new dawn,
I saw it hung like a jewel in the sky!
November’s beaver full moon!
A perfect, radiant orb in all its luminous glory.
Illuminating the world still asleep…
Bathing heavens and earth in its effulgent, warm, gold and silver hues,
Making a silent statement!
Bewitching like a sparkling gem!
Like the glorious full moon,
I learn to shine my own light too.
That none can dim or tarnish!
Perfect and secure in my being and space
Ah! Shine like the enchantress moon…
Anita Panda is a Mumbai-based bilingual writer-poet, the self-published author of ‘GENESIS’, (2021), dedicated to her valiant Late brother Colonel Suryakant Panda & the author of her debut book of 47 English poems- ‘SONGS OF MY SOUL’ (2023).
Darsana Kalarickal
When the world flows in its busy rush,
often forgets me.
Somewhere on the shore of forgetfulness,
I too leave myself behind.
Like rivers that spring from mountains,
the nerves spreading through my body.
When they quarrel and break apart,
I know my brain goes frantic.
My nerves no longer obey me.
Sometimes they frighten me too —
especially that fifth one.
Like a lightning bolt,
the pain that splits through my cheek
is the gift it offers me.
My brain must be analyzed - that is what they decide.
Freed from all metallic bindings,
I entered that chamber.
They wrapped my ears with cotton layers ,
piercing through those coverings,
music surged to its peak.
In sharp intervals, it kept repeating,
As if some primal tribe
were welcoming me with its fierce rhythms.
And now I am
on the eastern bank of the "Choorney river",
through the steep mountain forests,
walk slowly.
Do you know?
What fills my veins now is green, the green of the forest.
Still in my ears resounds
the sound of streams cascading from mountain peaks.
No!
it is the cries of thousands of children around me!
It is their blood that wets my body.
I will not open my eyes,
Let them remain closed.
Oh letters ! slipping and falling in this world of pain,
you are now orphans —
like 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.
Dr R. S.Tewari
The sublime stature of a person lies in the deeds done,
Not in his/her place, position or so called shining Sun.
History unfolds, Dukes and dukedoms crumbled,
For their unethical strides in long span stumbled .
Oily art of speaking fraught with lip- sympathy ,
Lasts not long, and soon is seen the latent apathy .
Truly,both veracity and valiance have radiant glow,
Not in mere roaring words with pomp and show.
The virtues and measured steps taken for beauty and welfare
Make the pages of history golden ,beyond all kinds of warfare.
Sublime regions lie in pious thoughts and creeds,
And not in so called double standard daring deeds .
No religion teaches violence ,blood bath and hatred
In the name of sect, satiety and even faith adhered .
It is the whim and fancy,poisoned humanity and fanaticism
In disguise, play the vicious role in igniting the ultra-sadism .
Sublimity is constituted of simplicity, honesty and unbiased behaviour,
Upright character above all the lusty ventures,truth, beauty and vigour.
Let the world know and conceive the elixir of succouring sublimity
So as to flourish on the earth, the blossomed garden of multiplicity.
Dr R. S.Tewari
What the world most craves for today is- stability,
Taming terror and dominance or both for humanity.
Since time immemorial ,fight for power and arrogance
Has been making the weak weaker just for pseudo-significance.
How are then the
parameters of civilisation and evolution made ?
What about freedom of humble mankind or only hoarding and trade ?
Are so called slogans of survival of shrivelled humanity
Mere lip-sympathy or the game of serpent of sleeve,a hard reality ?
Let the supreme commanders and claimant saviours of human civilisation
Be up to uproot the venomous creepers with no ifs and buts and accusation .
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.
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
A trembling hand
Scrawls few words
On a blank page
Smooth and white.
It etched a memory
For years to come
And blink in dark
Till the words fade.
A promise made
Hard to erase
Days pass
But never forgotten.
A simple signature
A dash a line
Makes a history
A tangible proof
That keeps glowing
Through memory lane.
Each autograph
Is a story to tell
It’s the beginning
Not the end itself
Pradeep Biswal is a distinguished bilingual poet, translator and editor. He has nine poetry collections in Odia and three in English. His poems have been translated into Hindi, Telugu, Punjabi, Assamese and Malay languages and got published in separate volumes. He’s the curator of Toshali Literature Festival and editor of monthly web magazine kabitalive.com. A retired IAS officer, he’s staying with his family in Bhubaneswar.
Matralina Pati
Those despondent feet
Swiveled too long
Between departures and returns
To come back, caged
To square one:
A sinister maze
Of bricks.
You have ever been
The untiring host.
I have seen
Your infinite well
Succour the parched,
The unhomed.
And this day,
I leave these weary feet
At your doorsteps,
In bliss:
Matralina Pati, is a PhD research scholar working on marginal Indian bhasha literature (UGC Junior Research Fellow), a bilingual poet and a translator from Bankura, West Bengal. Her critical and creative writings have been published on national and international platforms. She has authored a book of translations titled Monsoon Seems Promising This Year (selected poems of postmodern poet Rudra Pati translated from Bengali into English).
Kunal Roy
You were born from the third eye of Adi Shakti,
A purpose You served from heart,
Killed Chanda Munda,
Came to be known as Chamunda!
Raktabij appeared in the battle field,
You elongated Your rosy tongue,
Swallowed each drop of blood,
Killed him with Your divine scimitar!
Matured the lust for blood,
Went crazy-
The throat dried up,
Driven for blood and blood!
The creation was about to dissolute,
Gods approached Mahadeva,
He approached the battlefield,
Lay down in the mid,
You place Your feet on Him unknowingly,
Darted out Your tongue
The pearl white teeth
touched Your tongue
in shame and embarrassment!
Threw away the severed head of Raktabij
and Your blood drenched scimitar,
Cried and Cried,
Tears rolled down Your cheeks,
You assumed the form of Parvati
Returned to Kailasha!
Year after Year You are worshipped,
Amid lights and illumination,
Offerings are made -
Animal sacrifices too !
A glimpse of Your idol,
Kills the dejection,
Fills the heart with contentment,
Fulfils the wishes.
Grace pours incessantly
on this auspicious hour of New moon!
You are dark,
Four handed,
But -
Conspicuous presence
draws the lights from far and wide!
Darkness is wiped out,
Evil forces are ward off,
An odyssey -
Darkness to Light!
You are our Mother,
The Queen of the Universe,
Hemmed in by the stars and planets!
You are Sagaguna,
You are Nirguna,
You are Parashakti,
You are the Parabrahma,
You have no name,
You are in every speck of the cosmos,
Every name is Your name,
You are always there in thick and thin!
Beyond the Gods,
Beyond the Humans,
Beyond the Finite!!
Kunal Roy has always been an ardent lover of literature. He has received various awards for his literary contributions. He is a poet and a critic of poetry. His works have been published both here and abroad. Currently working as an Assistant Professor of English Language and Communication in George Group of Colleges, Kolkata.
Sudipta Mishra
From the distant branches
of the woods
I can hear the murmur
that woos my troubled soul.
A small birdie sings every day-
A carefree song of a bird
That cajoles my heart
from the branches high.
With the break of dawn,
Soft sounds of the singing bird
hum through my ears.
From the daybreak to the dusk
I long to hear the echoes of an eternal tune.
Away from the busy high-rise erection,
A calm, balm- like potion soothes my spirit.
I dream even in daytime;
I wish to release the years of anguish.
Let the pain deeply buried in my heart
Fade away while connecting to the bewitching bird's voice...
Sudipta Mishra is a multi-faceted artist and dancer excelling in various fields of art and culture. She has co-authored more than a hundred books. Her book, 'The Essence of Life', is credited with Amazon's bestseller. Her next creation, 'The Songs of My Heart' is scaling newer heights of glory. Her poems are a beautiful amalgamation of imagery and metaphors. She has garnered numerous accolades from international organizations like the famous Rabindranath Tagore Memorial, Mahadevi Verma Sahitya Siromani Award, an Honorary Doctorate, and so on. She regularly pens articles in newspapers as a strong female voice against gender discrimination, global warming, domestic violence against women, pandemics, and the ongoing war. She is pursuing a Ph.D. degree in English. Her fourth book, Everything I Never Told You is a collection of a hundred soulful poems. Currently, she is residing in Puri.
REVERENCE DISGUISED AS VIOLENCE
Sathya Venkatesh
Goddesses by name, yet reality stark
Respect invoked, but truth in the dark
Daily tales of pain and shame
Contrasting reverence, an empty claim
Divine names, a façade so fine
Respect and safety, a distant line
Hearts weighed down, minds in disarray
Crimes against women, rising day by day
Toddlers to elders, no one is spared
The pain is real, the trauma shared
Family’s supposed love turns to deceit
Betrayal cuts deep, a wound so unique
Let’s stop the names and see them through
Care and safety, let’s make it true
Let our sons learn to listen and respect,
Change begins from home, let’s inspect
A new kind of woman, unmasked and free
Will captivate hearts forever, endlessly
Their presence will stop you in your tracks
Leaving you longing for their gentle facts
Let’s nurture kindness and sow the seed
So that love and respect remain for all to receive!
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.
Baldev Samantaray
I don’t want moksha
I don’t want to wander
in to the cobwebs of ideas
I don’t want to be waylaid
unto eternal bliss.
I love the rotten sting
of sweating armpits
I love the first drop of rain
on the waiting earth
I want to devour
the freshness of the morning Sun.
I remember my uncle and his grip
when I climbed the merry go round
at the village fair
and the animals whirring around me
the smell of the dried potato wafers
colourful skirt of the robust trapeze girl
the alien world of circus tents
and the old banyan tree
where ghosts sit on the branches
stretching their falarial legs
hanging and swinging
and often touching the ground
All moving in circles
I look upto the God
I ask God
Why do you want
to deprive me of such beauty
Why do you want
to bless me
Let me wheel in free air
again and again
to rejoice in the celebration of life.
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.
Bipin Patsani
New failures follow our success
As we make our way
And find at fronts
Something missing somewhere.
Thus goes on the game.
Slowly we move toward the target
Happy at the moment,
The celebration,
And at hard times having to hit hard
Cautious though to avert a follow on.
The day done, the effect we examine
And smile in Autumn
And wait, we wait for the reaper
To come in Winter to reap the corn,
Or to stun
The way a super-cyclonic storm
Does, and gradually dissipates
After the devastation, hopes hidden
Under the debris of fury and foam
To rebuild the game in a vacuum.
THAT UNDYING DREAM
The hope that we sustain
Amidst suffering and pain,
Is the only achievement if any,
Under the unending burden
Of the society and civilization
And the failure they thrust upon.
My poem is my freedom
That lives through
All that my people have done to me,
My human follies and disillusion,
My anguish and agony
And the slow ongoing flow
Of the silent strain of time.
A lost bird
With an olive leaf on the horizon
That Ulysses from the arch
Might have seen
In his lust for living,
My poem, in fact, is me,
The ripples of an undying dream.
(From the forthcoming collection,
THIS LIFE: THIS DEATH,
Poems: 1994 - 2000)
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.
Bijayalaxmi Rath
Atmosphere shifts.
Promises turn words.
Soul knows.
But heart sometimes
wants to shine in sunshine.
Drench in drizzle and whirl
in soothing breeze.
Confusion confuses life.
Silence brings clarity.
Knowingly being unknown
aligns life to own.
Resilient brings stability to
sum up joy and contentment.
No need to rewrite.
Only honouring own journey
turns solution.
Knowingly being unknown
aligns life to own.
Sacred heart roars in hush.
Bijayalaxmi Rath done masters in English from Utkal University Odisha. Works as PGT English St Xavier International school Bhubaneswar.
Multilingual poetess writes in English Hindi and Odia. Published in different anthologies like Durga, Rainbow of Eastern Sky',Toshali etc. Bagged Gujarat Sahitya Academy award, Rabindra Nath Tagore award etc .
Namita Rani Panda
With tender fingers
I used to fold pieces of paper
With much care
To make paper boats
That I used to float
In puddles or streams born of rain
Indifferent to loss or gain,
Also stains or pain
A tiny dream, a spark of hope
A bundle of boundless pleasure
Heart's priceless treasure
That trembled in slightest wind
But never disheartened
And crossed forevermore
In its journey to reach the shore
Now I row the boat of life
Loaded with tons of concern and strife
Facing tempests fierce in ocean deep
With countless vows I swore to keep
The oars of trust
The strength of the paper boat
Somewhere I unknowingly lost
Without which now I lose my thrust
The paper boat, so small and fragile
Was undaunted and agile
Stronger than stormy storms
Braving all obstacles and norms
If I meet another wave ever
Wider, stronger and larger
I will discard my despair and doubt
As once did my paper boat
And sail upstream along
Singing life's soulful song.
Namita Rani Panda is a multilingual poet, story writer, editor and translator from Sambalpur, Odisha. She has five anthologies of poems to her credit: Blue Butterflies, Rippling Feelings, A Slice of Sky and A Song for Myself and Colours of Love. She is co-translator of Rivulets of Reflections, a book of translated stories from Odia to English. She has co-authored Radical Rhythm Volume I to IV with the credit of editorship of Radical Rhythm II. She is co-editor of two anthologies of poems Resplendent Rainbow and Durga the Invincible. She is a retired Principal of NVS. She can be contacted at namitaranipanda506@gmail.com
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
She viewed a murder.
The old hag had buried
Three husbands, two kids,
One grandchild, two cows,
Few goats, mice,
A Shepherd dog along with her lover,
A gold ring, few papers,
Many lies and lots of sins
In her ninety years.
Now a murder awaits her burial
As she shooed away
A murder of crows.
The hull of the wooden boat
Moved over the orange path
Created by the setting sun.
Lashed me with her eyelash
Stashed me with her eye brows
Hushed me with her eye
I went lacerated
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
Ms Gargi Saha
Money gives man his worth
His true identity
His esteem, power, prestige
His accountabilities, distinction, reverence
Let him stand barefooted, empty handed, hungry, dishevelled
Will any want to peek at him?
He doesn't earn a penny
Let him eat mud and die
What does he owe us anyway?
Money moulds man
Maintains man
Materializes man.
Ms Gargi Saha
Just the joy of living happily
With peace of mind
Love, understanding,co operation, friendship
A pal of the bee, books and the monarch
Wee bit knowledge, freedom, money ,trust
Helps to make the world like the Heaven above
Possession begets depression,misery, ennui
A pauper of tranquility
Everything without and empty within.
Ms Gargi Saha
Happy am I
At the end of the day
When I am done for the day
And night falls
Pin drop silence envelops in the universe
Time to bid good night
And sleeping with family
In bliss and contentment
Millions stay poles apart
No touch, no feeling, no sensation
Just the knowledge of existence
But living with grand parents, parents, uncle's, aunts, cousins, siblings
And building healthy rapports
Makes bonding stronger, better all for a brighter future.
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
G.S. Nair
“Clothes and manners maketh the man”
So goes the saying among the men
The traveller’s attire was speckless, neat
But soaked in a flood of sweat!
Treacherous roads, haunted edifices-
Remnants of an urban debris!
Water-logged potholes, smooth as mirrors-
Held the blue sky in fragments.
It was a long and arduous trail,
Gone are the scenes of urban sprawl.
The journey, all along, was a strain,
Through the undulating, barren terrain.
As days, weeks and months exit,
He became more and more decrepit,
And the blackness of the cold night-
Gives away to a glimmer of light.
A vague relief from grief comes on-
A scene of ever eluding anticipation…
The dawn comes with streaks of red-
Across the sky like streams of blood.
The sky shouted a warning, so stupid
And was it end of a journey, so morbid?
Or a dawn of ephemeral glory,
Oblivion to impending catastrophe?
A Retired Central Govt. Officer(Food Corporation of India).A born artist. Core areas of expertise include creative writing and painting. He is a voracious reader too.
S. J. Sangeetha
In the vastness where stars collide
The universe’s heartbeat cannot hide
Galaxies whirl in frantic dance,
Caught in gravity’s endless trance.
Nebulas stretch, in colours untamed,
Forming chaos, never the same.
Supernovae burst in fiery glee,
Exploding through infinity.
Planets stumble, asteroid’s race,
Time and space both lost their place
Black holes whisper, shadows sway,
As all the cosmos twists astray.
A universe alive, wild and free,
Where chaos reigns in perfect spree.
In every spark, in every star,
The dance of chaos, near and far.
S. J. Sangeetha
To whom else than the clouds can I speak
Left alone in a barren land
Am I subliming or dissolving?
Who cares someone left alone
Lots of words float in air as armaments
With a chiseled edge aiming my neck
Made a hop to catch one word
It was nothing else but ‘Trust’
It jerked away from me as I leaped
Why on earth that happened, still unknown
I succumbed to earth with a sigh
Suddenly a spring rise from the wrinkled land
I drank the pristine water as if nectar of life
Relieved for a moment, I gazed at the sky
I saw a word approaching me as fast as it can
It was ‘Forgive’, a blunt one
I took that word in my hand, caressed with love
It shined as gold, I knew it was the call of the infinite
Then I turned into a heap of ash! , a temporal truth.
The Intersection of Life and Literature -S.J. Sangeetha, a Civil Engineer living a life dedicated to literature in her regional language Malayalam and in English. Has secured accolades including National level, State level and Regional-level awards and prizes. She is a flourishing author. Her key areas of writing include Poetry and Short story
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
By chance I witnessed a spectacle:
The drinking of milk by the idols of deities,
It was a miracle, the miracle of miracles
And a wonder of great wonders,
It was the most memorable day,
A day of rare eye-feast; clouds set apart.
It appeared broad and bright
A rapturous day of wondrous moonlight.
The gates of heaven wide open
To let milk flow to the idols
Of Lord Ganesha and Lord Shiva.
It was uniquely spectacular
From homes, devotees in rank and file,
Thronged temples, clicking their tongues
At the sight of the idols of divines
Uttered, “They have been fasting long
Since the advent of evils to this world
Now to quench their hunger and thirst
And put an end to their long, long fast.”
A young woman voices her concern,
“The milk offered to Lord Ganesha
To my surprise disappeared in no time”
A student of computer science said,
“The idol of Ganesha sucked the milk
And it was astonishing and astounding.”
An old woman sang to a tune:
“God Shiva satisfied His hunger and thirst,
At a stretch, gulping my milk first;”
The tender young lad lisped,
“I am amazed--at the flowing of milk--
Into –the mouths of – hungry idols;”
A man, in saffron attire, chanted:
“The sinners will be free from sins
When they offer holy milk to the idols”
The feeding of milk to idols was brimful
Milk exhausted in all chilling centers,
The rate of milk was soaring, sans limits.
Busy were the milk vendors milking
Cows and buffaloes on a war footing,
The vendors thronged everywhere
Not the thresholds of temples
But the water taps or the wells
Added cups of milk to buckets of water
Both the vendors and the devotees
Busied themselves in their routines
The former in full business glamour
And the latter in full religious fervor
In fact, it’s a fest of exultant exhibition.
A skeptic, who witnessed all these
Scoffed at the event in blank surprise,
“It was hysteria on the part of devotees
The milk to be fed to calves and babies
Flowed in streams on floors and corridors
From holy shrines to dusty streets”
The innocent devotees of this ritual,
Found something divine and mystic
God is manifest in the flow of milk,
For them, it looked the Milky Way.
It’s Reason or Rising Spirit that knows
How superstitious the people are
And how innocent the devotees are!
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
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
Beneath the turbulent tides
The fragile stem stands with fear
Sometimes, it holds the soothing stream
And often floats with a flow
The calm waters clear the road
Where it dances with joy
Whistling wind warns the soil
Flowing river fears the tiny weed
But the drenching land loves life
And the greenish stem hugs the root
The mighty roots embrace the plant
That gracefully grows in the muddy waters
The spreading sunrays kiss the bud
The bud breathes with ease
Like free wings, the whitish petals spread
Like pearls, the dew drops are safely shielded
The dipped roots in the mud
The minerals in the browinish soil,
And the delicate stem that survives,
Say the significance of the soul
The muddling mind pains the heart,
But the serene soul smiles at blooming lotus.
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
Sreedharan Parokode
When the instalment date of the
Vehicle is approaching he
feels an head ache.
When the date of school fee is
nearing he feels bad head ache.
When he got electricity bill for
payment he feels a handsome headache.
When entered the hall for children's
progress report he feels discomfort and dismay.
When persons opens the gate for
contribution he feels uneasiness
and shows the sign of a headache.
When dogs bark at the gate
in the night he loses sleep and
call free taxi driver for help.
When he thinks about his
child hood days, with abundant plays
he becomes the slave of it and wipes tears without a severe head ache.
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.
SHOWERING FROM HEAVEN, BLESSED ON EARTH
Dr. Niranjan Barik
Two hearts that choose to walk as one,
Through shifting winds and rising sun.
A quiet vow, a steady flame
Through every change, they stay the same.
In simple days and moments rare,
They build a life from love and care.
A promise kept, a journey shared,
A home within the hearts that dared.
And with them walk, unseen yet near,
Friends’ warm hopes and heavens clear.
Blessings whispered from earth and sky
Love uplifted, ever high.
With every step, their futures weave,
In hopes they hold, in dreams they breathe.
Hand in hand, they rise above
A life made whole through endless love.
(To my son Nitish and his wife Pragatika)
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.
SONGS OF SOLITUDE FROM A CORONATED SOUL
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
(A Flashback to the Corona Days)
WHAT YOUR SON WILL TELL HIS GRANDCHILD
I see you sitting before me
listening in rapt attention
to true tales from my life,
I wish they were a little less forlorn.
The long hours
we sat at home
counting bubbles in air,
the clock ticking by,
waiting for the footsteps
of loved ones
that never came.
As night descended
and our small world
got lit by moonlight
the trees swayed
and the wind talked
to us in ghastly whispers,
a distant siren wailed,
another sick man being
carried to the hospital.
Men quarantined pined
for a touch of love
as shadows passed by
pretending not to know them.
Our empty homes,
bereft of their soul,
cried in anguish,
raising their frail hands to the sky,
only silence echoed from above.
I know you want
to hear a different story,
tales of love, and togetherness
of parks and playgrounds
echoing with laughter,
of shops and bazaars
drowned in noise,
of magic lanterns
lighting up the smiling sky.
You ask me,
did it really happen Grandpa?
How do I tell you,
we had laughter and love,
sound and light,
and one day it all changed.
Our lives did really descend
into such unsplendid isloation
and turned us into unglamorous
caricatures of meaningless inanity.
And wonder of wonders,
we rose from the ashes of despair
to build a new world of hope and sanity.
THE MIGRANTS
At this ungodly hour
in makeshift tents
the migrants beg for pills
that will put them to sleep,
and make them dream of ambulances
to take them home
in the guise of patients.
It makes no difference,
as everyone thinks
everyone else is a patient,
Keep your distance neighbour,
they say, we don't know
what virus you carry.
They all returned
in the exalted status of migrants,
it sounds so glamorous!
Except that they returned
not from America or Canada
but from the ghettos
of Surat and Mumbai
from the tea gardens of Cochin
and unfinished flyovers of Chennai.
They wanted to be near home
if Corona snuffs out
their little anonymous life.
They wish they had not returned
to wait in quarantine camps,
To be reminded
they are but passing shadows,
the itinerant travellers
moving from place to place
in search of a handful of rice.
They all wish,
and wish with their heart and soul,
their own little village
had enough to keep them tied
to their tiny piece of earth,
to dip their hand
in the small backyard pond
and raise it to touch
the patch of sky
through the trees overhead.
Sleep never comes,
not even stealthily
like a chastened cat,
heat from the sky stifles
and kills the dream
they brought with them
only to bury it
in saddened soils
of nameless patches.
THE EVENING THAT TORMENTS ME
The evening sits,
so lonely,
so melancholic,
with a brooding face
and drooping eyes
before my cell
I call home.
The evening whispers
in sunken undertone,
sorry, my friend
I have brought
no light for you,
not even a flicker
for your morbid soul.
The evening knows
the day was long,
the night will be longer
The hours stretch like
long ropes of despair
rising from abandoned boats
in deserted shores.
The evening curls
around my tight neck,
I look at it
with a desperate appeal
to leave me alone,
it sighs and moans,
whines and groans,
in a primordial sign
that brooks no appeal.
The evening laments,
I am helpless my friend,
I have to visit you
and all your friends,
it's a pledge I made to eternity,
I have to keep it.
The evening beckons,
look back to your wall,
you will see my shadow
sitting prettily on the marks
you have made
for the days you are in lockdown,
I have been here everyday,
to remind you of the long days
and the longer nights.
I am but a sad hyphen
between vanishing hopes
and niggling pain.
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.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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