Literary Vibes - Edition CLXI (30-Jan-2026) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEW
Title : Hurrying to collect Honey (Water Colour on Handmade paper 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.
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the 161st edition of LiteraryVibes. January is the month of rejoicing in celebration of our Republic. A country with a mind-boggling population of close to one and half billion people, is not easy to manage and we should be grateful that our Republic still stands strong in the midst of festivities, celebrations, cricket, music, drama, cinema, literature on the one hand and chaos, turmoil, crashes, crimes and heartbreaks on the other. In this great caravan of life LiteraryVibes is an humble offering. Let us savor it with the love it deserves.
In this edition we are happy to welcome Shri Jayanta Dutta from Durgapur, and Shri Kanishka Deogharia from Purilia. Both are prolific poets with an outstanding presence in the literary landscape of West Bengal. Let us wish them tremendous success in their literary pursuit.
As winter makes way for spring the spirit soars, trying to touch the azure sky, a strange restlessness seizes the heart. For those of us. who don't have to leave home everyday to a job, wonder how we can make our life a little more relevant for ourselves and others around us; how, if at all, we can make a difference. For me it is almost a daily frustration, knowing that I could have done much more than what I did in life. The mild, intoxicating, spring air makes the ache more pronounced.
While ruminating on such tender thoughts I came across a beautiful piece in the internet which brought a smile to my lips, as it deepened the ache within my heart. I would like to share it with the readers:
SUNDAY MUSE
This came to me from a friend abroad. Equally applicable here.......
My son called the police because he thought I had been kidnapped. He was tracking my phone location, and when he saw the blue dot blinking in the middle of the University District at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, he panicked.
He screamed into the phone, "Dad! Who has you? Are you okay?"
I laughed, taking a sip of cheap domestic beer. "Nobody has me, Robert. I’m just waiting for my turn at the microphone. They’re playing John Denver next."
My name is Frank. I am 74 years old. And three months ago, I committed the most beautiful act of insanity of my entire life.
I sold my four-bedroom suburban house—the one with the manicured lawn and the homeowner’s association fees—and I moved into a run-down, three-bedroom apartment with three college students.
My family thought I had lost my mind. We sat down for a "crisis meeting" at a diner. My daughter-in-law, looking at me with that pitying gaze people reserve for toddlers and the senile, said, "Frank, be reasonable. This is a mid-life crisis, just thirty years too late."
I looked her in the eye and said, "No, Karen. This isn’t a crisis of age. It’s a crisis of silence."
You see, in America, we don’t talk enough about the silence. After my wife, Sarah, passed away two years ago, that big house in the suburbs didn’t feel like an achievement anymore. It felt like a tomb. It was as large as a stadium and as quiet as a library on a Sunday morning. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. It sat on my chest. I would watch the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun and realize the only voice I’d heard in three days was the news anchor on the television.
I was dying. Not from heart disease or diabetes, but from the quiet.
So, I put up the "For Sale" sign. I sold the riding mower, the formal dining set nobody sat at, and the china cabinet full of plates we never used. I packed two suitcases and answered an ad on a community board: “Roommate wanted. Must pay rent on time. No drama.”
When I showed up at the door, the three kids—Jackson, Mia, and Leo—stared at me like I was a health inspector.
Jackson, a tall kid with messy hair and a hoodie, blinked. "Uh, sir? Are you... the landlord?"
"No," I said, handing him a six-pack of craft soda. "I’m Frank. I’m the new roommate. And I promise my check clears faster than yours."
The first week was a culture shock. It was chaos. There was music thumping through the thin walls at midnight. There were shoes everywhere except the shoe rack. The kitchen sink looked like an archaeological dig site of dirty dishes from the Jurassic period.
They were suspicious of me. On the first night, sitting in the living room on a couch that smelled vaguely of corn chips, Leo asked, "So, Frank... you got any... you know, issues? You gonna tell on us if we have people over?"
I leaned back. "Kids, I survived the seventies. I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl. Unless you’re building a bomb or hurting someone, I didn't see a thing. But if you leave a milk carton empty in the fridge, we’re going to have words."
Slowly, the dynamic shifted. I realized I wasn’t just the "old guy." I was the Keeper of the Order and the Master of the Skillet.
These kids... they are so stressed. That’s something older folks don’t get. We think they’re lazy. They aren’t lazy; they are terrified. They are drowning in student loans, working gig jobs, and trying to pass classes. They eat instant noodles not because they love them, but because they cost fifty cents.
I decided to intervene.
One Tuesday, Jackson came home from a double shift, looking like a ghost. I had a pot roast slow-cooking for six hours. The smell hit him the moment he walked in. Real food. Meat, potatoes, carrots, rosemary.
"Sit," I commanded.
He ate three plates in silence. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. "My mom used to make this," he whispered.
That was the breaking point. I became the "House Pop."
I wake them up when they sleep through their alarms for 8:00 AM exams. I taught Mia how to negotiate her car repair bill so the mechanic didn't rip her off. I showed Leo that you can actually iron a shirt instead of buying a new one.
In exchange, they dragged me into the 21st century.
They taught me how to use the "tap to pay" on my phone so I don't hold up the line counting change. They installed a music app for me and made me a playlist called Frank’s Jams. They taught me that "bet" means "yes" and "cap" means "lie."
I used to think the younger generation was glued to their screens because they were antisocial. I was wrong. They are glued to them because they are searching for connection in a world that feels incredibly lonely.
One Friday night, they told me to put on my best shirt.
"We’re going out, Frank. No excuses."
They took me to a dive bar near campus. Sticky floors, neon lights, and a crowd of twenty-somethings. When we walked in, Mia shouted to the bouncer, "He’s with us! He’s the OG!"
"Don't worry," Jackson said, handing me a drink. "It’s karaoke night."
I haven't sung in public since Sarah’s sister’s wedding in 1998. But the energy... it was infectious. The noise wasn't annoying; it was electricity. It was life.
When they called my name, I walked up to the stage. I didn't choose a modern song. I chose John Denver, "Take Me Home, Country Roads."
I started shaky. But then I looked at the crowd. I saw Jackson, Mia, and Leo holding up their phones, grinning like idiots. I belted it out.
“Country roads, take me home...”
The whole bar—two hundred college kids—stopped drinking and started singing with me. They wrapped their arms around each other, swaying. For three minutes, there was no generation gap. There was no "Boomer" or "Zoomer." There was just us, singing about belonging.
Someone filmed it. Apparently, I am now "viral" on the video app. It has 400,000 likes. The top comment says: “I miss my grandpa so much. This guy is the vibe.”
I pay my share of the rent. I do the dishes because I wake up earlier than everyone else. And once a week, I leave a hundred-dollar bill in the jar on the counter. I told them it’s for "Emergency Pizza Funds." They don't know that I know they use it to pay for textbooks.
My son still asks me when I’m going to move into a "sensible" senior living community. He talks about safety, about stairs, about blood pressure monitors.
I tell him no.
"But Dad," he asks, "Don't you miss the house? Don't you miss the memories?"
I look around the apartment. There’s a textbook on the floor. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on the table. Someone is laughing in the other room about a bad date.
"No," I tell him. "The house held my memories, Robert. But memories are looking backward. Here, I have the noise. I have the mess. I have the future."
I am 74 years old. My joints hurt when it rains, and I take three different pills in the morning. But tonight, we are making tacos, and Mia needs advice on her art project, and Jackson needs to learn how to tie a tie for an interview.
I am not busy dying anymore. I am too busy living.
If you are sitting in a big, silent house, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for permission to live... sell it. Find the noise.
We aren't meant to fade away in the quiet. We are meant to sing "Country Roads" until our voices crack, surrounded by people who call us by our name, not our age.
....................
The last lines are quite inspiring, aren't they? Please think about them. We are at different milestones in our life. Some have many promising years left, a few have less, but the fact that we are reading this piece shows there is a spark in us which could translate into a smouldering fire to bring warmth to others. These days not many people "read" anything other than social media outpourings. We read literature, so we are different. We are different, so we can make some difference, even in a small way, to the world we live in.
Hope you will enjoy the offerings in LV161 and share it with your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/625 (Poems and Book Review)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/624 (Short Stories, Anecdotes and Travelogues)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/623 (Young Magic)
There is also a medical related anecfote from the pen of Dr. Gangadhar Sahoo at https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/622
As you know, all the 161 editions of LiteraryVibes are available at https://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Please welcome the beauty and fragrance of spring with LiteraryVibes in hand. Take care, enjoy, till we meet again with LV162 on Friday, the 27th February.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor. LiteraryVibes
Friday, January 30, 2026
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
LOVE: UNFETTERED IN DEATH
02) Dilip Mohapatra
ILLUSIONS
LOOKING UPWARDS
03) Abani Udgata
OLD CITY, LOST TIME
04) Sathya Venkatesh
I FALL IN LOVE WITH THE MOON EVERY NIGHT
05) Satish Pashine
SPACE, SILENCE, AND THE DOUBLE STANDARD
DRY RELATIONSHIPS
06) Madhumathi. H
AUTO
A LOVE LETTER TO YOUR FAVOURITE POET...
07) Braja K Sorkar
COORDINATES
DRAW SCARS
POWERHOUSE
08) Dr. Saroj K. Padhi
SHARING
09) Darsana Kalarickal
CARNIVORES
10) Sujata Dash
AS ALWAYS
11) Kunal Roy
ACCUSED
12) Anindita Ray
SILENCE OF FALLING LEAVES
13) Sushree Gayatri Nayak
THE STOLEN DANCE
PURPLE HOUR
14) Lopamudra Singh
THE GREAT PUDDLE
15) Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
WHISPERS FROM BAHA’I
16) Matralina Pati
THE NEW YEAR
17) Jayanta Dutta
LONELINESS RINGS UP
A WRECK
ROOTS OF WAITING
18) Kanishka Deogharia
REMORSE
19) Bipin Patsani
WHERE ALL ROUTES END
20) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
JOURNEY OF LIFE
21) Sheena Rath
LOTUS
22) Dr. Radharani Nanda
WOUND ON YOUR MIND
23) Arpita Priyadarsini
LIFE AND MORE
24) Bijayalaxmi Rath
I HIT HARD
25) Swatilekha Roy
PATH
26) Dr R. S.Tewari
MALIGNANCY OF WAR
ELIMINATE THE GHOST...
27) Soumen Roy
CANVAS OF REPUBLIC DAY
28) Harisankar Sreedharan
THE 24TH HOUR
29) Hema Ravi
SILENCE THAT HAUNTS
30) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
NATURE TO NURTURE (QUINTET STANZAS)
INSIGHT, INSTINCT (QUINTET STANZAS)
GIGANTIC IN STATURE (QUINTET STANZAS)
NATURE: BEAUTY IN VARIETY (QUINTET STANZAS)
31) Tophan Khilar
A LONELY MAN
32) Sreedharan Parokode
SHALL I CALL YOU NOW?
33) Dr. Niranjan Barik
AT THE TURN OF THE CALENDAR, AFTER THE FIREWORKS !
BOUNDARY
34) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
END OF THE STORY
Table of Contents :: Book Review
01) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
A WALK THROUGH QUIET ROOMS: READING RENDEZVOUS WITH DREAMS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Honey, my apologies.
I couldn’t keep you in bed.
The neighbours took up cudgels,
“She will stink like a dead rat”.
What cheek! What blasphemy!
Saw you placed on a pile of wood,
ghee and sandal oil poured on you;
helplessly, I had to set aflame your pyre.
Thank God, the freezing December night
might have brought you some comfort.
It is dawn, the east has
a fine streak of purplish red.
It resembles your parted lips.
All my poems fade
before its sublime grandeur.
The last smoke is coiling up
from the pile of ash where you huddle;
the cacophony of the mourners
long gone silent, you keep me company
besides the dawn, silence, and chill.
A leafless tree mutely broods
looming low in grief.
The first crow hasn’t spoken.
Cicadas keep tormenting my silence,
their cry rising to a crescendo.
The breeze is blowing the ash;
a sliver of hope: where your feet
were laid, invitingly smile -
“Let us go for a walk, honey.
Give me a hand, it’s never too late.”
Mounds of ash outlining your lovely tits
whisper to me, “Take me to bed.”
I squint down with tentative doubts,
“Are you sure, sweetheart?”
“Yes, if in no mood, just hold me close.”
(End)
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
While constantly struggling
to bridge the gap
between our perceptions
and reality
our senses continue
to be befooled
by the conjurer’s tricks
and we continue to see mirages
and hear the sirens
from the ambulances dopplering
and meander through
the maze of
discriminations and differentiations
and always miss the
common denominators.
When love like light
passes through
the prism of our life’s experiences
and traverses through
our spiritual lens
it too splits into
many colours—
of compassion
of forgiveness
of grace
and in its elusiveness
it illuminates.
We look for the supreme being
in temples
in churches
in mosques
in oceans and skies
in fire and in ice…
even look within
as the scriptures suggest:
seeking His presence
in all absences
and He continues to give
us the slip
yet He endures and endears.
Dilip Mohapatra
In the expanse of the cerulean sky,
my gaze ascends
to the realms of the unknown
sometimes to look
in the eyes of my maker
and offer my gratitude
for all the grace granted to me
sometimes to
let my dreams take wings and soar
and sometimes
to find a fragment of myself
amongst the stars that twinkle
beckoning me forth.
With wonder's eye
I trace the constellations
connecting dots of light
in a perpetual cosmic dance.
Each shimmering sparkle
hides a tale untold—
a universe within
unexplored and
waiting to unfold.
In looking upwards
I find my place
just a speck of dust
amidst the grand design
of an endless canvas—
yet in that smallness
I am as free
and unrestrained as an
eagle riding the thermals
to dream
to hope
to aspire
to reach beyond
the galaxies
to another universe
where I may begin afresh
with a clean slate
free of blemish.
So let me raise my eyes
to heaven's heights
and let my spirit soar
on wings of light
for in the boundless sky
I find my swan song
a wounded symphony
yet its melody endures:
pure
unhurt
immortal.
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
She led by his hand
to that old city
which was on paper.
Old sepia-tinted film roll
crunched under the feet.
Steps waded through
a pile of vignettes, not quite
there today, except the trees
who dropped their old coats
long, long back to stay here.
On her lips danced a furtive smile
slippery as memory in daylight.
Unreal light played on the unkind
faces of roads, houses and riverfront .
The terrible distances swallowed
the moments you held in morning light.
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
I FALL IN LOVE WITH THE MOON EVERY NIGHT
Sathya Venkatesh
My heart takes flight seeing the moon at dusk
A sliver of light in the darkness
In varied shades of white, cream and yellow
Seeing its reflection in the shimmering lake
I stand transfixed
Each night offers a different spectacle
It’s a performance by nature that I don't wish to miss
I watch in awe as the moon decks up the sky
Like a pendant in a necklace of stars so high
A sight so beautiful
Filled with divinity
Lending us a divine touch and a blessing
That seems to convey
"All is well and will always be well".
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.
SPACE, SILENCE, AND THE DOUBLE STANDARD
Satish Pashine
Prologue
This poem is not an accusation. It reflects experiences quietly lived in many homes, where space and responsibility are not always shared equally. It is offered not to confront, but to invite reflection. If these words feel uncomfortable, read them as a mirror—not an attack. Because understanding begins with listening.
— Satish Pashine
--------------------------
“I need space,”
he says.
As if space
is weightless.
As if it arrives
without consequence.
He asks.
She rearranges.
Her career pauses.
A job abroad
is gently folded away.
Dreams are told,
“Later.”
Someone once said—
two swords
cannot share a sheath.
So she steps aside.
He rises.
She steadies the ground.
He earns.
She manages.
The child grows.
Her résumé thins—
not by choice,
but by design.
Then money
learns a new language.
Only what is necessary.
“Do you think
I’m an ATM?”
he asks.
Small comforts—
a salon visit,
coffee with a friend—
begin to sound
like extravagance.
--------------------------
Blame
arrives quietly.
Problems acquire
a familiar direction.
Silence, too,
seems to have an owner.
On days that matter,
he is often elsewhere.
Work calls.
Fatigue appears.
Urgencies arise—
always believable.
Yet during odd hours,
he stays in.
Not to rest—
but to observe.
Time becomes
a checkpoint.
Questions arrive
before she does.
She learns
to celebrate softly.
When laughter
finds her without him,
when light returns
to her face—
absence
turns into unease.
Not where was I,
but why was she happy.
--------------------------
Her parents admire him.
They see the courtesy,
not the conditions.
Visits become
occasional,
then inconvenient.
Comments sharpen—
about accents,
about habits,
about interference
disguised as concern.
He prefers distance.
Phones rest
face down,
listening.
What was once called
family
slowly earns
quotation marks.
She notices
what is no longer said
freely.
--------------------------
“You’re drifting,”
he observes.
“The children’s grades—
your domain.”
“Be mindful
of expenses.”
As if drifting
were a gendered fault.
--------------------------
She forgives.
Not dramatically.
Routinely.
She explains.
Mends.
Holds together
what frays daily.
Because she was taught
to preserve.
Not to exit.
--------------------------
A few friends—
from college,
from work.
Nothing hidden.
Yet unease
finds its way in.
Curious,
when his friendliness
is called harmless.
--------------------------
The child listens.
Words repeat—
not as questions,
but as lessons.
Small doubts
are planted gently.
“Ask your mother.”
“Notice your mother.”
“Tell me what she said.”
Loyalty learns
to split.
Innocence
is given
a task.
--------------------------
A message appears.
A colleague.
Married.
“Can I come over?”
“No,”
comes the reply.
“My husband is home.”
“I’d had a drink,”
he says later—
as if alcohol
types intentions.
Then another moment.
A hotel.
An explanation.
Again.
Privacy increases.
Passwords multiply.
Even quiet rooms
learn to lock themselves.
Truth grows smaller—
easier to carry.
--------------------------
Her friendships
raise questions.
His—
require no explanation.
He borrows her network.
Moves ahead.
Calls it progress.
The rules seem written
somewhere
she never signed.
--------------------------
Then the mirror years.
Gyms.
New shirts.
A wardrobe
negotiating with age.
She dresses well too—
presentable,
supportive,
visible when required.
Until attention shifts.
Compliments reach her.
Pride hesitates.
Jealousy arrives.
--------------------------
Let us be precise.
The concern
was never her integrity.
It was the imbalance—
the permissions
granted unevenly.
The freedom
assumed as his
becomes discomfort
when she seeks the same.
--------------------------
There is more
to be said.
About time
used as control.
About children
pulled into adult silences.
About the cost of space.
About silence
as unpaid labor.
About a society
that asks women
to give endlessly—
and then
to explain themselves.
Here, questions
are not the threat.
Who is allowed
to ask them
is.
Satish Pashine
Dry leaves
do not need
to be torn away.
They loosen gently
and fall
when their season is complete.
Some relationships
end like this—
not in conflict,
not in failure,
but in quiet understanding.
When the shared essence
has thinned,
when joy no longer
moves between two hearts,
they release
each other
naturally.
There is nothing
to fix,
nothing to force.
What has given
all it could
steps aside
with grace.
And where something leaves,
space opens.
At first,
that space feels tender—
soft, uncertain—
like trust
learning again
how to breathe.
Branches once bowed
from holding too much
slowly rise.
The wind feels kinder.
Sunlight returns
to places
that waited patiently
in shadow.
The heart learns
with ease:
not every closeness
is nourishment,
not every distance
is loss.
Some relationships
complete their journey
so that we may
come home
to ourselves.
When leaves fall,
the tree does not weaken.
It lightens.
It knows
that spring
arrives best
where there is room.
Time teaches this
gently:
emptiness
is not absence,
but openness.
In that openness,
roots deepen,
silence becomes steady,
and life moves forward—
quietly confident,
at peace.
And when green returns
in fullness,
it is clear:
nothing precious
was taken away.
What fell
made space
for new life.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
Madhumathi. H
If train, is my soulmate
Auto, is my joy
Wind on my face, ruffling my hair
As if the element air in an euphoric mode, is your vehicle
Closed windows, air conditioner suffocate my soul
Rapturous moments, as the vibrant yellow auto
Rides through my city’s Anamika lanes, streets
Unbothered by traffic…
Auto Annas, the best Google maps
Nobody can guide you like them
Precise landmark, for unheard locations…
I know few souls for decades, trustworthy, safe
Traveling in their autos, and assured protection
Recommending them, is a reassurance
While safety has become too much to ask for…
Nostalgia, and auto rides are inseparable
Every ride, kindles memories, emotions…
Every travel, a nameless joy for the child in me.
A LOVE LETTER TO YOUR FAVOURITE POET...
Madhumathi. H
Favourite, not just one
For poets are soul-nourishing healers
Yet,
To my dearest Wordsworth,
Your poems are my kind of love letters
To MY only eternal home, Nature…
In English they say,
“Your words stole my heart”
In poetry let me try,
“Your poems kidnapped my heart
Took care of, dressed my wounds
Restored to me, a healed heart…”
From centuries ago, a soul quilled on Nature, in
Abundant adoration, surrender
Knowing , a wanderer will be waiting in this 21st century
To find a mirror in your words…
When I love a flower
I love all the flowers of the world
When i love a river, i love all the rivers of the world
When I love poetry, I love all the soulful poets
But When i say i love you the most:
It’s my sea of tears that scream
Thank you for:
“Nature never did betray the heart that loved Her”
This one line is my prayer.
This one line is THE truth
That feels like eternity’s hug
I love you.
A bilingual poet-writer(Tamil, English), Madhumathi. H is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry,
Photography, Music.
Her poems are published in Anthologies of The Poetry Society(India), CPC- Chennai Poetry
Circle's EFFLORESCENCE, IPC's(India Poetry Circle) Madras Hues Myriad Views, Confluence, Spring Showers,
Amaravati Poetic Prism, and in e-zines UGC approved Muse India, Storizen, OPA – Our
Poetry Archives, IWJ - International Writers Journal, Positive Vibes, Science Shore.
e-Anthologies Monsoon moods - Muse India, Green Awakenings - On Environment, by
Kavya-Adisakrit.
Madhumathi's poems are part of YPF's(Yercaud Poetry Festival) Ignite Poetry, Breathe Poetry, Dream Poetry, Winterful Whispers, Auburn Ambrosia,
Of Soul Scribers' Soul shores that have 10 of her poems
published, Soul Serenade, Soul songs, Soul Dance, Shades of Love-AIFEST - Special Jury Mention, and
secured 'A Grade’ in the International Poetry Writing Competition(published Anthology)
conducted by All India Forum for English Students, Scholars, and Trainers (AIFEST) in March-
April 2023 in connection with International Women’s Day celebrations, Arising from the
dust, Painting Dreams, Shards of unsung Poesies, are some of the Anthologies her poems,
and write ups are part of.
Besides Poetry, Madhumathi writes on Mental health, takes part in related activities to create awareness, break the stigma, believing in the therapeutic, transformational power of words.
Braja K Sorkar
I know how much space to give you.
And also know how you will create
your coordinates.
This is a living map, examine it carefully.
What empty space is there anywhere!
I have held onto a cosmic void;
I know everything is possible in emptiness.
A fire is still burning inside a distant land
of this planet, surrounded by dense rain forest,
with full of biodiversity that has been carrying our
Heritage for thousands of years.
The pure hydrogen particles are burning
And its light is falling on your face.
I am measuring how much space
the light particles are taking up.
You stand there for a moment.
I will place you on this map and
show you your coordinates is being born from
within the void--
these relationships, progress, peace, and prosperity.
Braja K Sorkar
He walks through countless doors and windows,
across the entirety, he has no fatigue, no confusion,
no anxiety, no purpose, just walking, without a destination,
just an inexhaustible stream flowing endlessly...
A vast wilderness stands alone near the window,
like a terrible, solitary man.
A small, dark bird comes to my window
every morning and sits there.
I turn my head to see something,
but its sharp call wakes me up.
The sun moves swiftly, walking away!
The clock that gave me breath, once struck, falls asleep!
And the shadow of the night's fatigue remains in my solitude!
I draw all day on the canvas of time,
Drawing blood, pain, and tears...
Unknowingly, a sad, pitiful face appears,
constantly scarred by time...
Braja K Sorkar
Many colorful flags are flying on the roof
of the high rise building of the international assembly.
In the lavish banquet hall, historically renowned dignitaries
are eating delicious food and drinking expensive wine
in the soft light,
everyone is wishing for the well-being of this world.
In the forests and mountains, in the deep jungles of the Amazon,
the bones of primitive people and skeletons of
the ferocious beasts are getting burnt…
Playing with fire is a game indeed!
The hunger of fire is boundless,
everyone knows this.
The fire that burns in the river,
the fire of hunger that burns in the stomach,
whether in the Himalayas or the Amazon,
in the polar regions or in the arid plains of the Sahara;
Playing with fire is a way of life
I understood.
Those who are alive, suffering from hunger and neglect,
Beware !
Planning is underway at the prestigious summit.
Their flags are getting burnt on the roof
of the powerhouse of this planet.
Braja K Sorkar is a bilingual author, poet, Essayist, and Translator. 10 Titles have beenpublished in his credit and a highly acclaimed poetry collection in English, titled ‘ Syllables of Broken Silence(2021) for which he received ‘The Indology Award’(2021). He has edited a prestigious literary magazine in Bengali ‘Tristoop’ since 2001 and an International English literary journal’ Durgapur Review’ since 2023. He edited an International Anthology of World English Poetry, titled’ Voices Now: World Poetry Today’ (2021). His poems have been translated into many languages. He lives in Durgapur, West Bengal. Contact: email: brajaksorkar369@gmail.com. And brajakumar.sarkar@gmail.com Whats App: 9064231839
Dr. Saroj K. Padhi
I share my meaningful silence
with none other than my pen
who is my truest friend
in pleasure and pain,
jotting down the inexplicable feelings
in a language simple and plain,
giving voice to the inexpressible
helping them have easy drain;
my silence is my weakness
as they hardly can read it
but it’s my greatest strength too
for before being written, the real transit .
Let me stay with my silence
till my last day on earth
and die into a greater, deeper silence
before being pushed into next birth !
Dr. Saroj K. Padhi, an Associate Professor of English in the Govt. of Odisha is at present working at J K B K Govt. College, Cuttack . Born in 1962, he has been writing poems in English and Odia since his school days. He has published several reseach papers, two books of criticism: 1. JAYANTA MAHAPATRA’S RELATIONSHIP : A CRITICAL STUDY 2. ENGLISH ESSAYISTS : A CRITICAL STUDY and got 14 anthologies of poetry in English namely PEARLS OF DEW, SHATTERED I SING , RHYMING RIPPLES, PETALS IN PRAYER, SILENT SIGHT, MOON MOMENTS , A SLICE OF SILENCE , ELUSIVE SPRING, MONSOON MEMORIES and WHERE BUDS REFUSE TO BLOOM, THE ENDLESS FLUTTER ,STARS IN THE COVID SKY, IMPULSE FROM WOODS AND SELECTERD POEMS
He has received several awards including the national ROCK PEBBLES AWARD, 2017.
Darsana Kalarickal
My garden is filled
with carnivorous plants.
I never knew
they were of that kind.
After the mid-summer vacation,
into my parched up garden,
perhaps, the rain returned as a guest
from some distant land may have poured in,
or maybe the migratory birds
that visit from unknown countries
unknowingly deposited the seeds.
Amid my daily rush, unnoticed,
in the overgrown garden,
the gardener who cleared away
the dried coral jasmine
and the hibiscus bushes infested with white mealybugs,
saw them for the first time
thriving beside the fish pond,
beyond the red oleander plants
that smiled at summer
on either side of the stone-paved pathway.
More than the tenderness of their pale green leaves,
And the long central stalk,
it was the red pitchers beneath the leaves
and the beautifully interlacing petals
that fascinated me—
and I became their guardian.
Creatures that slipped and fell
into their pitchers—
insects, spiders, beetles—
slowly disappearing,
gave me immense pleasure.
After all, their nuisance
had been abundant in my garden.
The entire garden soon filled with carnivores plants,
and intoxicated by the sharp scent they exuded,
I usually sit and watch them.
They kept growing—
unnaturally large.
That was then
the accounting of losses began.
The long-tailed birds
that nested in the bougainvillea
blooming near my window,
the spotted cuckoo that visited occasionally,
the tabby cat that kept me company,
the neighbour’s puppy—
(the children kept circling the gate,
searching for him after his missing).
Later, it was my former gardener
who found their remains
inside those deep crimson pitchers.
Unknowingly, when he stroked
the petals of a drosera,
his hand was suddenly pulled tight
into the clasping folds,
and in panic
he slipped and fell
into the large pitchers of nepenthes
and vanished.
That plunged me
into terrible confusion.
I do not know
when I—
enchanted by their sharp scent—
will become prey myself.
So now
I no longer open the doors,
nor the windows,
even though they keep
calling me incessantly.
Perhaps, one day,
what you will find
will be my old, decomposed skeleton.
And in its hollow eye sockets,
fear will still be standing, filled to the brim.
*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.
Sujata Dash
A faint sweetness evaporates
As salty waves crash on the shore
With the crescendo of a thunder
Carrying sand and pebbles along
I savor the rhythm of ebb and flow
It leaves steady notes
Like a grammatically correct composition
Ah! The beauty of the piece
Cools my demeanor
I breathe easy
Inhale saline vapours
Watch the small boat at a distance
Tossing around deep waters
I have time on hand
To sit and stare
Rather, I have carved slots
Out of busy schedule
To be myself and no other
You may contemplate
That 'I am shy of facing the harsh reality of the grind'
To be Frank,
You have guessed it right
My sojourn to the shore
Is fuelled by this very purpose
The sun is ready to set
But not by choice
Clouds hover, restrict it's voyage
Darkness deepens, night sprawls
I get to watch less , listen and feel more
The wet sand intoxicates
The wind carries me away
To the land of calmness
I lay awake to feel
the pulse of waves' hissing terrain
At a distance
I see a man taking a stroll
He seems steady with a purpose
Driven by undiluted focus
Unlike me, must be a composed soul
Let me make a wild guess
As to "How" and " Why"
He is in the picture !
Could be a member of some rescue team
Keeping watch on people around
Preventing them from drowning
Or, Could be a kin of the boatman
Who has risked life for a prized catch
To salvage family from financial obligations
Life poses a threat to many
Life is not easy for me either
As always....
We live under the canopy of perpetual hope
Dispel doubts oaring through
Jarring notes and turbulent waters
The ocean, the sun, the boatman
His kin, or, the coast guard
Me too ..
A dawn of our choice
We all look forward to.
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.
Kunal Roy
I could smell the pains you suffered,
You were tied to a post,
Multitude with red shot eyes,
grinding teeth,
clenching first,
shouted -
threw stones at your!
Pelting stones hurt you,
You bled, cried-
An wounded soul
never goes into oblivion!
The sky was scratched,
the dazzling nails of the sky,
Rains alighted -
through the thin veneer
of your mind,
You tasted the vapid drops -
that drenched to your feet too!
Oppression stamped the existence,
Men shouted,
Women screamed,
Children giggled-
derived a heavenly pleasure
in the open desert of cactus
and nothing more!
You were a siren,
a witch colloquially!
I contemplated,
never thought of -
till the moon rose,
dispersed the tiny tender drops
of romance around.
Wedded you,
brought to my home,
basked in the soft glow of stars,
ecstasy spread across,
ignited the moment of intimacy,
I was shaken aback,
A sense of banality
gripped me,
bundled into nerves,
disabled my earthly purpose!
I fathomed, I was caught
like a prey in the dun cobwebs
dangling incorrigibly from the height!
The sacred acqua was sprinkled,
Mantras chanted -
to drive out the ill omen!
A world of shattered bliss,
Dejection overwhelmed,
Left in the lurch-
as the Nature gleamed with smile,
Sparkling Smoky eyes of Lady Luck,
I was not shoved to death!!
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.
Anindita Ray
The trees stand; silent watchers,
Witnessing their own gentle release.
Leaves drift slowly, a heavenly fall,
Circling lightly before resting
On coppered, bronze-soaked soil.
Each carries a longing, no lessened,
As seasons exchange quiet vows
On encrypted grounds, to leave,
And to return again.
Handmade paper leaves, nature’s fallen gems,
Crush and crackle beneath memory’s feet.
Chilly winds carry a mystic, brittle melody
Dry songs weaving a kaleidoscope
Of hand-painted amber, ochre, rust.
Nature reveals her rarest truths:
The more one looks, the deeper the spell,
Until the soul feels tenderly entrapped,
As autumn bids farewell to coarse browns.
Mahogany and maroon whisper through the air
With every leaf that loosens it’s hold,
Letting go of dear life
A soft, final calling;
Each descent is an offering,
A quiet surrender to time.
Autumn in nature is a spellbound transformation
A sacred art of release,
Where endings are embraced without fear.
We are like leaves that fear the wind’s embrace,
Clinging to branches though uncertain fate.
We dread the fall, yet ache for open skies
A heart that holds, a soul that yearns to rise.
So we must learn to drift, not only stay,
And trust the ground that waits beyond today.
Yet we, as humans, struggle to unfasten our grip,
Resisting change, fearing the fall.
Still, we must learn the language of seasons,
Accept the turning, the thinning, the pause,
And work toward redefining life again
Not as it was, but as it longs to become.
Life, after all, is courage; to accept
The weight of truth and the ache of waiting.
Time turns its seasons without pause,
And like new leaves sprung fresh from earth,
We rise toward light with tender will,
Carrying forward the promise of becoming.
Anindita Ray is an India-based poet, short story writer, artist, and human resource professional. She graduated in Sociology and Psychology and later completed her Master’s in Social Work from the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, which continues to influence her ideologies and creative expression. She has hosted a solo art exhibition and primarily works with charcoal, oil, and acrylics. Writing poetry, short stories, and socially relevant articles allows her to articulate perceptions of life, emotions, nature, and women’s voices. Her work has been published in Indian and international platforms since 2017.
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
From the city’s neon light
I cupped the colour of love.
When the light flickered,
I put it upon a candle’s top.
I stole you, Sweetheart,
From the nameless crowd,
And ran into a quite room—
Where love cloaked us
In its crimson shroud.
You held me close,
I drowned in your eyes.
You, the brightest star,
Ohh, in your touch
I melted like butter.
The room breathed roses,
And the gramophone hummed
Our favourite song.
Your hand found mine,
Perfectly fitting,
As if the missing piece
Finally returned home.
Your warm breath
Brushed my forehead
Your eyes whispered—
Stay, play, sway..
And in your arms
I trembled like a tender leaf
Caught in the breeze.
The city didn’t pause
Nor the hands of clock
But my heart remained with you
And your scent lingered—
For forever on my skin.
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
Though everything moves—
The sea roars,
The city rushes,
The sand shifts underfoot.
Chased by time,
Or afraid of stillness—
But not us.
For amid this noise and chaos,
We choose the courage
To slow down.
In the distant place,
Where the Sun nestled
In the Sea’s embrace,
And a shiver runs through her
As waves sigh on the shore,
In purple, the sky blushes.
A thousand night-sunflowers,
Glowing with borrowed light,
Stand witness to the city exhaling—
Leaning closer
To listen to the language of love.
A crowded evening,
Yet you by my side,
I found my peace
In your palm.
In your presence,
The world softened its edges,
And I stepped into love with you.
LOVE—
A small word
That beholds the universe,
Language of the heart—
That the mind can’t explain,
Soft and serene—
Like snow,
And fierce like flame.
It survives ages,
Outlives sages,
And returns—
To ask the same ancient question
To the daydreamers
And the wise seers.
But for me,
Love appears as YOU—
My heart, my home,
Muse of my lyrical pieces,
And the deity of love,
Now walking hand in hand with me.
Your moon-soft face—
Kissed by golden rays—
Painting stars in your eyes,
And I melted like a candle
In your warmth,
Leaving a waxen trail
Of our forever vows—
Set in silence,
For all the tomorrows.
Sushree Gayatri Nayak is a budding muse and poet from Odisha, India. Currently pursuing her studies in English literature at Utkal University, she channels her passion for love, nature, and current social issues into heartfelt poetry. Her verses weave emotional depth with thought-provoking reflections, capturing both personal experiences and broader societal concerns.
Lopamudra Singh
Mesmerized I stand,
At the edge of a glossy world—
Full of life and ripples random;
Abounding with water still and films thin,
Having hues
Of greens and blues.
Inside this territory unknown—
Large-legged small frogs
Jump hither and thither;
As two olive-skinned streaks
Slither—
With their wide mouths open,
Among those algal blooms.
I spot the little grebe couple—
Waddling through the silvers;
And the unfamiliar heron—
Gawking,
And cherry-picking
Rewards of fleshy snails—
Scattered
On the bluish-green mushy carpet.
The big silver carps—
Hovering among barbs and murrels,
Emerge to the slimy surface—
With the fall of every dry leaf,
Resting themselves on the great puddle.
Coconut trees, old and new,
Surround the stagnant pool;
Shedding
Buttons, all dried—
Onto the small floating marshes,
Full of duckweed and watermeal.
With a plop they fall;
Creating
Waves, big and small—
Resembling
A frail, faux Van Gogh’s painting
Inside a small, quaint room.
Lopamudra Singh is a literary enthusiast who actively engages with books through reading and reviewing. Professionally, she blends her analytical background as an Electrical Engineering graduate with her experience as an officer in the Commercial Tax and GST wing, Department of Finance, Government of Odisha. Her aspiration is to leverage her expertise in renewable energy to contribute meaningfully to the field of economics and sustainable development.
Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
Going Panchgani once more will
feel lively
even in the surrounding quiet
when you are not there
to add joy and light to my journey.
Nature has helped shape who I am now,
you were by my side though.
I cherish the blessings of nature,
Counting on her parental vigilance
once and always.
You left for good though,
I couldn’t leave you behind,
Nor have I been alone in your absence.
Your Sillage has remained my mate,
as unknowingly you’ve left this valuable legacy of relationship.
I will take care of it
like one taking care of their siblings
with full throttle love without drifting
when the parents have already gone.
Crossing path, touching Baha’i,
outside where only green silence rules
that makes mind still, and thoughts quiet
one’s falling- apart world
only falls into place.
Little away from it
hills stand unmoved with colours changing
as varied hues of sunlight
stream through the dense trees.
Powerful words come from here
occasionally and, in fits and starts,
for words come from stillness and silence
and never from noise.
A world we inhabit, where malicious gossips
spread thick and fast,
and making of insidious plans
never slow down to sabotage others’ life,
and invidious words are never taken
kindly,
Baha’i, standing tall there
whispers a simple truth
not without gratitude to mother Nature though:
Life is beautiful. Beauty lives
in attention. The greatest words
are written where life is lived
most quietly. Silence reveals
what noise hides and lets one
know the self.
The Sillage of Bahaullah’s noble words
Lingers now, will linger still till eternity,
and never to fade.
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.
Matralina Pati
Quietly
The year has turned its page.
With us
Hunger lingers through
The night.
Still, lingers my breath.
For
A small light carried
Into a new dawn.
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).
Jayanta Dutta
There comes and enters the loneliness
in my domestic drops
of rain.
Leaving myself there
within
I walk afar and
reach to a place forlorn
infinite.
There was once
a lot of din and bustle,
but seen afterwards a scene
where the farmers are swinging high
like the leaves of tree ,banyan.
Those are my sorrows
and my pangs
hovering high
like the twigs and leaves
on the tree,the banyan vast.
Jayanta Dutta
So long a day
love has sunk
by being dashed
with pride absolute.
Hazily floats the mast now
on the water indistinct.
Till to day it peeps and peeps.
Did there any Lighthouse stand
amidst our senses?
Perturbed ripples are
unperturbed still
and for times to come...
Jayanta Dutta
You were to come.
And for this only
my legs stands static
for years long,say thirty,
waiting for you.
My waiting spreads it's roots
and my woes have lengthened afar
Covering the long horizon
Like the growth
of wild grasses.
It was so hopes
that this waiting dismal
would end and never reign
for a period longer.
Yet there leaves
the sadful days ---
All have this burnt into fire
like the forest fire
that eats into greenery
into ashes everywhere
at tha last.
Jayanta Dutta is a widely acclaimed poet and artist. He also writes short stories, and other articles. His first poem was published in 1993 in the magazine 'Samay Asamay'. He is editor of 'Swapnera Corridore'. His writings have been published in many periodicals and magazines like Desh, Nandan, Kabi Sammelan, Kabita Pakhhik, Shuktara etc and in a few foreign periodicals. Sixteen of his books have already come out of his prolific pen. He is an employee of SAIL at Durgapur.
Kanishka Deogharia
It's raining heavily
The rainy season, a time for poetry
Father has to go out to work
I'm writing poetry with the door of the house closed
Cigarette smoke is swirling all over the room
And I
Can see before my eyes
Inside the swirling smoke – through the rain – through the sunlight, Father is running
With the remorse of family responsibilities on his shoulders.
Our Story
Kanishka Deogharia
Our house is silent from the outside
Inside, people talk
We have been living like this for many years
May our house be covered in snow one day
May moss grow on it
And
May my memory fade away
I am submerged in the pain of forgetting.
Holiday
Kanishka Deogharia
When Mother dies, we get a holiday
Eating and drinking stops
Bathing stops
When Mother dies, the water won't reach the roof from the pump
When Mother dies, we won't go to the hostel
Because Mother tells us everything and makes us do everything
We are very dependent on our mother
Very trusting
Actually, when Mother dies,
Mother gets a holiday too.
The poet, from Purulia, West Bengal, regularly writes poems for various literary magazines, including Desh and Parichay, Kabisammelon, Dour, Lekhajoka. He has several books of poetry to his credit. His latest book is titled 'Eso Ghar Payra Pushbo'. His other poetry books are : 'Kathader Gaye kono khotochinho nei', 'Jevabe sabai hante', 'Amra katha rakhi '. He holds a Bachelor's and Master's degree in English from Rabindra Bharati University, Kolkata.
Bipin Patsani
Where all the routes end,
The route to you begins
And I feel there
The divine silence,
Which is nothing but you.
This silence pervades everywhere,
This thought, this thrill,
This flow and the feel
Of your unheard melody
Breaks clear in my ear.
And then in a state of trance
When I open my eager eyes,
I see you merging in the way
Which I take in joy,
And in every walk, in every work,
In stones, thorns and leaves
Or in the midst of grief
I enjoy the bliss of being with you
Which becomes an enchanting experience.
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.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
Like the first rain of the season
Like the soft petals of rose,
And as melodious as a koel
You speak out your mind,
And it soothes my soul...
Your gentle touch with warmth
Your patience in listening
To my silly stories and serious issues
When your sudden tears touch my heart,
That's the essence of my life....
You counted hours, weeks and days
You turned the time into time
You uttered: 'you're a stone'
Am I? Yes, I was!
Thoughts changed thoughts
Roads altered routes
Journey began, it's going on
Still goes on!
Layer by layer, part by part
The heart gently opened up,
Like a blooming bud at moonlit night
Words flew, thoughts expressed
Poems woven, stories started
Isn't it a magic of love?
It's merely magic, mental magic!
It's mental magic....
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
Sheena Rath
Fuchsia pink pearls
Glittering
Standing tall
On long stalks
Full of confidence
In murky muddy waters
Sacred in eastern cultures
Associated with Goddess Saraswati ,Lakshmi ,Vishnu and Buddha
Reflecting blue skies
Symbolizing
Purity,transformation and compassion
Round,waxy leaves
Giving full support silently
Despite difficult challenges
She blooms pristine
With all her beauty
Seeds of Joy
Day bloomers
Open to the sunlight
And rest in the evening
A cycle called....."nyctinasty"
Petals unfurl with the warm sunshine
As darkness nestles,turns into a bud
Despite being surrounded by filth
She stands tall with pride
And remains flawless
Symbol of grace and strength.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
Dr. Radharani Nanda
Wound on a body heals over the time to leave a scar
that is strong enough to hold the tissue within.
Once mind gets wounded deeply
chance of healing becomes remote .
Time bridges the gap with a fragile scar.
Memories of bitter past echoe in dark silence.
The turbulence breaks the
fragile scar to bleed .
a blend of tears,dismay and agony smothering the perturbed soul and tormented mind.
Incessant fights
to emerge out from this whirlpool somehow succeed.
A lucid interval prevails.
Sublime thoughts to erase,forgive and forget excel to enable the life boat
smoothly sail.
But all the endeavours to resurrect and revive go in vain.
Echoes of shattered dreams reign.
The wounded mind is destined to harbour the pain,anguish and despair within it and silently cry behind a forced smile for infinity.
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.
Arpita Priyadarsini
What scares me the most
Is not the fact
That someday I'll become non-existent
But the fact
That I'd have not written enough
Enough to make them visible
Through my poems and more
I'd watch them suffer
Yet could do nothing
But sigh
To be someone's muse
Amidst the uncertainty of being
Where the piousness of self
And the sacredness of life
Entwined together
To form a grip
When a poet falls for you
Know that you'll remain there
Even after you're long gone
Even after your remnants
are nowhere to be found
Even after everything submerges
Into one large part of the ocean
You'd still float
On the boat of their memories
Vices and verses
With sublimity and ceremonies
Will always ring upon your ears
Your eyes would always be filled
With tears of sanity and shore
To be loved by such
Agony and hues
To be held in the embrace of
Miracles and muse
The uncertainty of oasis
The facade of myth
And the sudden demise
Of an eternity in rise
Arpita Priyadarsini, I`m currently working under Home department, Government of Odisha, has keen interest in literature. She loves reading fiction and poetry. She started writing poems few years back and has been published by an international publication house twice. Her Instagram handle is @elly__.writes, which is solely dedicated to her love for poetry.
Bijayalaxmi Rath
I hit hard
When l hit me with myself.
Essence of warmth l wrap
while there is nip in the air.
Never can define
How fins turn wings
and l squeeze all my fair share
of love from the overwhelming
darkness of night.
Loosing the world behind
I gain myself.
Sharing me with the cold moon
I get answer to all my unresponsive
Unanswered questionnaire.
Poetry overflows in a rhythmic tap
from my pure artistic heart.
With my simple happy portions of life
I feel the richest of the world.
I explore and pamper all my
Inverted , orphan emotions
and withered dreams.
Life to be lived again and again
Never to be slained for the
chaotic crowd so complicated.
Dark, gifts me bright ray of hope
Expanding my limited soul
Connection.
Vibration of true satisfaction.
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 .
Swatilekha Roy
The path I take to reach my destination daily
Has two places of prayer on either side
My vehicle's driver raises his hands in prayer
I, on the opposite side, whisper my heart's desire
Then, I wonder to myself
Isn't the prayer the same? The path is the same
Only the direction differs
Who, in truth, controls everything?
The passenger or the driver?
Swatilekha Roy , She is a bilingual poet,Lecturer ,F.A degree College ,Cachar Assam.She is creative and passionate nature photographer too
Dr R. S.Tewari
Malignancy of war must be realised ,
Else the globe won't remain civilized.
Although wars had done wonders, unfolds the history of past ,
To stand by the weak, yet had to face the brunt and blast.
Time has changed and the scenario doesn't allow to afford a war
Between or among lands, being it an ever alarming indelible scar.
It not only hampers the human evolution but also poisons generations,
Leading to be psycho- somatic and vindictive for revengeful justifications.
Arrogance hoarding the gun-powder and playing the vicious game of nuclear weapons ,
Is turning to be blood thirsty like voracious wild animals, worse than demons .
Let so called arbitrators and super risk holders ponder over for the sake of humanity ,
And try to curb the tiring terror with mass massacre, being beyond the callous cruelty.
-Dr. R. S. Tewari 'Shikhresh' ,02. 01.2026
Dr R. S.Tewari
Let us never forget, done is done and gone is gone,
Can't be undone ,yet can be filtered what is the paragon .
Welcome the New Year with the fragrance of unity
Between man and man in composite echo of diversity.
Let us have resolution of piety and positivity in every sphere ,
Being united, face all the turbulences here, there and everywhere.
Life is another name of learning new things each day and night ,
Making them beautiful and goal-oriented meaningful without any fright.
Let us be true to ourselves and judicious to all ,
No matter ,the rich or the poor , the big or the small.
Let our commitments be true ,far from selfish intents ,
Be kind,considerate, and give no room for resentments.
May humanity remain in the orbit of all the mundane revolution ,
Demons and devils be overpowered for the ethereal evolution !
May there be peace and prosperity all around the earth ,
None should sleep hungry nor be there hoarding or dearth.
Let us greet the New Year with a hope to tame the terror and wars
Between or among nations and eliminate the ghost of atomic scars.
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.
Soumen Roy
A bright new morning
An expression of art!
Smiled a fresh new canvas with vivid sovereign colors.
Colors of hope with strength and courage,
There smiles my mother in her tricolour leniage .
Where falls apart the darkness of every wee hour!
And the chains were gone forever.
Who can bind her spirit,carefree, in nature?
Gleamed the canvas with a galore of colors;
There dances my joy, raising its feathers,
And the dove finds her eternal solace,
In the heart of loving green.
Tranquility sails within oneness to the peaceful serene.
There ripples a rainbow never seen before,
A unified saga of love,peace and courage , a sublime decor
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.
Harisankar Sreedharan
Hung side by side
We adorn a wall ...
One, a columnist of time
The other, a dialler!
Each whittling down
The infinite to fragments,
Fitting within the realms of
Imagination, deciphering
Eternity to come to terms
With itself!
We're the forms
In which, the Seekers
Find and experience time,
Stay awestruck at its infiniteness
Trying to tread an imaginary
Linear path through the eternity
And getting lost for,
Time is in a circular motion
Beginningless to begin with
And endless in the end
Lifespan is the measuring unit
So familiar and comprehensible!
Spread straight, tangential
To the path, ejecting
The search out of the orbit..
A new one to replace,
To mark another beginning
Rebegun is redone!
The fall lasts only six leaves,
Then it turns back, falls
Another six leaves and
Recedes to a year bygone!
The day crumbles down
Sixty at a time, then another sixty
The recount begins and
Rewinds twenty four times
Till a new dawn is born.
Look at the dial
Only this fleeting moment
Is a reality, the rest, rests
In the folds of memory
But together we herald
The arrival of the time unborn
Sometimes we call it New Year
Harisankar Sreedharan is a banker by profession. Retired from service in 2020. Still active in the profession. Pursuing interests in literature - poetry and drama. Associated with the theatre movement. Own creations are in Malayalam. Occasionally write English poems too.
A Traveller... fascinated by the time unframed in places - seemingly enjoying the whiff of smoke from cooking pots and tea kettles, smothered by the conversion among the local people .... to stand, watch and let the world pass by ..
Passionate driver, bike rider and trainer.
Hema Ravi
As I rise to the mundane morning sounds
My hands reach out to the buzzing alerts --
alarms, notifications, shorts, emojis, and messages…
To gather the updates, I grab my spectacles.
During my younger days, I woke up at daybreak
When incessant chirps arose from the lake.
Prayers first, and then the daily chores
Elders in the family regaled us with lore(s).
Now, my mornings are spent watching shorts on screen
The screen hums, a thousand faces on the blurring scene
changes in seconds; no friendly interactions over the frothy
cups... when inmates are disturbed, they turn bossy.
Vibrant black and gold, this glittery midget
Sights unfolded when I began to fidget.
Everything, everyone is moving at a frantic pace
They’ll get here soon… I fear this silence they too will face.
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), independent researcher and resource person for language development courses... Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR), Setu Bilingual, INNSAEI journal and Science Shore Magazine. Her write ups and poems have won prizes in competitions.
She is the recipient of the Distinguished Writer International Award for excellence in Literature for securing the ninth place in the 7th Bharat Award, conducted by www.poesisonline.com. In addition, she has been awarded a ‘Certificate of Appreciation’ for her literary contributions by the Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips on the occasion of the 74th Independence Day (2020) and again. conferred with the ‘Order of Shakespeare Medal’ for her writing merit conforming to global standards.(2021). She is the recipient of cash prizes from the Pratilipi group, having secured the fourth place in the Radio Romeo Contest (2021), the sixth place in the Retelling of Fairy Tales (2021), the first prize in the Word Cloud competition (2020) and in the Children’s Day Special Contest (2020). She scripted, edited, and presented radio lessons on the Kalpakkam Community Radio titled 'Everyday English with Hema,' (2020) a series of lessons for learners to hone their language skills. Science Shore Magazine has been featuring her visual audios titled ‘English Errors of Indian Students.’
A brief stint in the Central Government, then as a teacher of English and Hindi for over two decades, Hema Ravi is currently freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English. With students ranging from 4 to 70, Hema is at ease with any age group, pursues her career and passion with great ease and comfort. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, Chennai, she empowers the young and the not so young to unleash their creative potential efficiently
NATURE TO NURTURE (QUINTET STANZAS)
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
O! Nature, like mother,
You nurture creatures,
We, all siblings together,
Your wealth for raptures:
Life and breath, so preserving you is our bother.
You bestow on us birth,
All crops as treasures,
Green in sheen, offers for mirth,
Boons in full measures,
We’re to shun war arms for life-- small and big on earth.
INSIGHT, INSTINCT (QUINTET STANZAS)
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
All in-born in nature,
Instincts are untaught,
Unlike man of high stature,
For insight, that’s sought,
May go wrong whereas birds never have this picture.
Birds have variety skills,
In building cozy nests,
In feeding birdies by bills,
All sights for eye-fests.
Instincts prove better than insights for extra frills.
GIGANTIC IN STATURE (QUINTET STANZAS)
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
From minute to gigantic,
Grows the tree, and glows,
In the service majestic,
Still, bearing all blows:
Storm, hail, heat, and chill for its stature fantastic.
The sapling needs gardening,
Life independent,
For model and selfless serving,
For all’re dependent,
On air, fragrance, fruit, and cool shade for their living.
NATURE: BEAUTY IN VARIETY (QUINTET STANZAS)
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Nature shines with variety,
Pleasing and soothing,
Green in sheen to wear beauty,
Multi bud blooming,
Treasures knowing no measures for our gaiety.
Double-edged is nature,
With charms, and fury,
We welcome charms for rapture,
Not furies to spoil glory:
Quakes, floods and so on, disrupting nature’s stature.
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
Tophan Khilar
He came
I respected him
Giving a chair to sit.
He sat down
And had great conversation with me.
He asked
"What did you get
Being surrounded be everywhere?"
I answered
"I got family
I got friendship
I got love
I got everything
But now I feel alone.
Why?"
He said
"You are now very close to me,
Come and enjoy me,
You look at yourself in me,
Life is not hard,
You made it so"
Saying this he was about to go,
I asked him"What is your name "
He said"I am loneliness "
Tophan khilar, a Post Graduate student in Department of English in Utkal University, has keen interest in writing poems. He loves reading fiction and poetry. He started writing poetry when he was doing his graduation, taking inspiration from his teacher, Ajay Kumar Pattanaik. With over 60 poems written, he aims to evoke emotions and provoke thought through his writing. He is a young poet with a passion for exploring themes of nature, identity, love, etc.
Sreedharan Parokode
As it is the time to meet and chat,
would you mind spending some time precious?
It is not the time for separation of sentence but unity of hearts that talk.
It is becoming dark and there will be no persons at all.
When the stars are preparing themselves for disappearing,
can I remind you of the naughtiness we had?
I still consider the water you take for Pooja as holy and no one is allowed to enter the room.
Let us think of the good old days
about which the rocks and pebbles talk with their thousand tongues.
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.
AT THE TURN OF THE CALENDAR, AFTER THE FIREWORKS !
Dr. Niranjan Barik
We ring the year with lights and echoes,
Like bells tied to an empty wind,
While many count their days like coins,
Thin as frost on a broken tin.
New or old, the calendar turns
Like a tired wheel in the same deep rut;
Hunger wakes at the same cold dawn,
And hope wears the same worn coat.
Streets do not change their language at midnight,
Nor do roofs grow warmer with cheers;
The same thin shadow lingers,
Nailed to the heels of the new calendar.
Time moves on like a river repeating itself,
Same stones, same thirsting banks;
We float past dates as leaves drift past names,
Counting days, not meanings.
Yet meaning is not born of numbers,
Nor of fireworks clawing the sky;
It is born when thought awakens,
Like dawn opening an unseeing eye.
A new year starts where something stirs within,
Where kindness breaks its shell;
Like rain that falls on cracked earth,
Changing dust into the smell of hope.
If minds can turn, if hands can reach,
If hearts grow brave enough to care,
Then even the oldest, hardest road
May learn a gentler way to bear us.
So let the year be truly New,
Not by name, nor by claim, nor by cheer,
But by a light within us born,
That kindly leads us farther together;
Only then does the New Year’s dawn appear!
Dr. Niranjan Barik
Boundaries, when crossed, create joy,
stadiums erupt, hands clap,
cheerleaders dance
as the ball takes its aerial route
kissing the Sky
beyond the line.
A six.
Thunder strikes the stands,
the thunder of joy !
Yet a boundary may be a Lakshman Rekha,
never meant to be crossed.
It can save a marching army,
men, monkeys, and birds,
war with treacherous beings
having not one but ten heads.
Boundaries are drawn
to mark the sovereign space,
a nation,
a home,
a kitchen,
a kitchen garden.
Each boundary bears meaning,
where your kingship must not surrender
to another’s rule,
nor to the entreaties
of suitors or solicitors.
Boundaries cannot be erased.
The world should never
be boundaryless !
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 in 2023 was released in Bhubaneswar in December 2023.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
As I crawl through the remnants
of what were once my dreams
I wonder where I left those footsteps
of someone who never came,
but for whom I spent a lifetime waiting.
As I look at the mountain peak
that I vainly tried to conquer,
I see the thousand steps
I could have climbed to arrive at
what was within my reach.
As I chased the elusive happiness
always wishing to be someone else,
trying to be somewhere I knew didn't exist,
my shadows mocked at me,
they always did, but I never noticed.
As I lie here tired and crumpled,
shedding endless tears at the end of my story
I think of all those who walked with me
trying to cheer me up, whispering little songs,
while I kept waiting for someone who never came
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
A WALK THROUGH QUIET ROOMS: READING RENDEZVOUS WITH DREAMS
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
While reading Rendezvous with Dreams one feels less like moving through a book and more like walking through a series of quiet rooms, each lit by a different mood. In some rooms, rain taps softly on the windows; in others, memories sit heavily on old furniture; elsewhere, anger, grief, or desire waits without apology. The poet does not rush the reader. He invites you to slow down, to look, and above all, to feel.
Admittedly this is not a collection that dazzles with verbal acrobatics. Its power lies in restraint. These poems speak in a voice that is calm, reflective, and often conversational, yet beneath that calm runs a deep current of emotional intensity. Dreams here are definitely not escapist fantasies; they are unfinished conversations with the self—desires postponed, losses endured, hopes reconfigured rather than abandoned.
One would mark that what distinguishes this collection is its emotional range. A poem about rain can seamlessly coexist with one about rape, communal violence, or death without feeling jarring. That is because the poet treats all experiences—beauty and brutality alike—as part of the same human continuum. A garden, a cremation ground, a lover’s body, and a disaster site are all placed on the same moral plane, demanding equal attention and empathy.
One noticeable thing is that the poet’s gaze is both inward and outward. Many poems feel autobiographical in tone, dealing with ageing, memory, solitude, and longing, yet they never collapse into self-indulgence. The “I” in these poems often becomes a stand-in for the collective—an observer standing at the threshold between personal sorrow and shared human suffering. When the poet writes of mothers, victims, the dead, or the forgotten, the voice is quiet but firm, refusing to sensationalise pain.
Another striking feature of Rendezvous with Dreams is its sense of time. Time in these poems does not move linearly; it drifts, circles back, pauses, and sometimes dissolves altogether. Memories interrupt the present, history intrudes upon everyday life, and dreams blur the boundary between what was, what is, and what might have been. This temporal fluidity gives the collection a dreamlike cohesion, even when the subject matter is harshly real.
The poet’s engagement with place—Bhubaneswar, rivers, temples, cities, and landscapes—anchors the poems in lived geography, yet the emotions they carry are universal. The poems are deeply Indian in context but global in concern, speaking of pandemics, violence, displacement, and moral fatigue in ways that transcend borders.
Finally , Rendezvous with Dreams is a collection of poems that does not seek to impress; it seeks to accompany. It sits beside the reader in moments of reflection, grief, and fleeting joy. The poems linger not because they shout, but because they whisper truths we often avoid confronting. Many of the poems look poignant and profound.
It’s expected that this collection will resonate most with readers who value silence as much as sound, meaning over spectacle, and poetry as an act of quiet witnessing. Rendezvous with Dreams reminds us that even in fractured times, reflection itself can be a form of resistance—and dreaming, an ethical necessity.
# Sarita Prusty
* She is a former lecturer in English and now a freelance writer.
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.
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