Literary Vibes - Edition CLXIII (27-Mar-2026) - POEMS
Title : Sunrise (Water Colour by Aleena R. Bright)
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 163rd edition of LiteraryVibes. It comes blessed with offerings of many poets and writers who find fulfilment in creative efforts. The group includes young, enthusiastic poets, writers; and many seniors who have carved out a niche for themselves in the literary world. And some like us, trying to find a meaning in a dreary life. At some stage in life, when we grow old we become lonely. And irrelevant. And unwanted. Gifting a poem or a short story to readers makes us feel a wee bit connected. We yearn for a modicum of response. How I wish the readers of LV spare a few moments to write a small feedback for the dozens of poets and writers who contribute to the magazine. It is a wishful thinking, but the heart doesn't understand logic. It is often ignorant of the cruelties of life.
Talking of stories, here are two wonderful pieces from the internet which moved me a lot. Hope you will feel their beauty also.
(1)
The Lunchbox on the Third Shelf
For years, it stayed exactly where she had left it.
On the third shelf of the kitchen cabinet, behind neatly stacked steel plates, sat a small, slightly dented tiffin box with a faded blue lid. No one touched it. Not even by accident. It was as if the entire house understood that some things were not to be moved.
Neha had placed it there the day after Aarav’s funeral.
And she had not opened it since.
Life, as people often say, had “moved on.” But for Neha, movement did not mean healing—it meant learning how to live around a silence that had settled deep inside her. Aarav had been twelve. Bright, restless, full of questions that never seemed to end. He loved cricket, disliked mathematics, and had a habit of returning home with half-eaten lunches because, as he would say, “Recess is too short to waste on eating.”
That morning had been ordinary.
Neha remembered packing his favorite aloo paratha, cutting it into neat squares, wrapping it carefully, and slipping a small note inside the lunchbox.
“Finish your lunch today. No excuses.”
He had laughed while leaving. “Okay, promise.”
It was the last promise he ever made.
The accident happened on the way back from school. A sudden moment, a loss that no one could prepare for. By evening, everything had changed. The house that once echoed with noise fell into a quiet that felt unnatural.
The lunchbox came back untouched.
The note is still inside.
For weeks, Neha moved through her days without truly feeling them. People came and went. Words were spoken. Consolation was offered. But nothing reached her. Grief does not always arrive loudly—it often settles quietly, making everything else feel distant.
Her husband, Ritesh, returned to work after a month, not because he was ready, but because staying still had become unbearable. Neha remained at home. Aarav’s room stayed exactly as it was—his books on the table, his shoes near the door, his cricket bat leaning against the wall.
And in the kitchen, on the third shelf, the lunchbox waited.
Time passed—not in days, but in adjustments.
Neha began cooking again, at first mechanically, then gradually with more attention. But she always cooked less. There was no one to pack a lunch anymore.
One afternoon, nearly a year later, there was a knock on the door.
Neha opened it to find a thin boy standing hesitantly, his eyes uncertain but hopeful.
“Ma’am… is this where Aarav used to live?” he asked.
Neha felt something tighten in her chest.
“Yes,” she replied softly.
“I’m from his school,” the boy continued. “My name is Sameer. I used to sit next to him.”
Neha stepped aside and let him in.
Sameer entered carefully, looking around as though he had stepped into a place filled with memories. His gaze paused at Aarav’s photograph on the wall.
“He used to share his lunch with me,” Sameer said quietly. “Almost every day.”
Neha blinked in surprise.
“He told me your food was the best,” Sameer added, a small smile forming.
For the first time in months, Neha felt something shift inside her—not pain, but something gentler.
She went into the kitchen without thinking and began preparing aloo parathas. The motions felt familiar, almost comforting.
When she returned, Sameer hesitated. “You don’t have to, ma’am…”
“It’s okay,” she said softly.
He took a bite.
And smiled.
“Same taste,” he said.
That simple sentence lingered long after he left.
The next day, Neha found herself cooking a little extra.
On the third day, she packed a small tiffin.
Then, almost without planning it, she walked to Aarav’s school.
Standing outside the gate, she felt unsure, out of place. But when she saw a group of children sitting under a tree, sharing their lunches, something guided her forward.
She placed the tiffin beside them.
“Share,” she said gently.
The children looked surprised.
Then grateful.
That day, when Neha returned home, she stood in front of the kitchen cabinet for a long time.
Then, slowly, she reached for the lunchbox on the third shelf.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside, the note was still there.
“Finish your lunch today. No excuses.”
Tears fell silently onto the steel surface.
But this time, they felt different.
Not as heavy.
The next morning, Neha washed the lunchbox carefully.
And filled it again.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.
Every afternoon, she prepared extra food and carried it to the school gate. Sometimes Sameer was there. Sometimes other children. Sometimes faces she did not recognize.
Word spread quietly.
“Lunch aunty,” they began calling her.
She didn’t correct them.
Because somewhere, in a quiet, unspoken way, she felt like a mother again.
One evening, as she packed the lunchbox, Ritesh stood at the doorway watching her.
“You’ve changed,” he said softly.
Neha paused for a moment.
Then she replied gently, “No… I’ve just found somewhere to put what I couldn’t carry.”
He understood.
Years later, the lunchbox no longer sat hidden on the third shelf.
It rested openly on the kitchen counter.
Used every day.
Still slightly dented.
Still blue.
Still carrying something far greater than food.
It carried memory.
It carried love.
And most importantly, it carried forward something that had once felt lost forever.
Because sometimes, healing does not come from forgetting.
It comes from giving what remains.
Reflection:
Grief does not disappear with time; it transforms and searches for a place to belong. When loss creates a void that cannot be filled, the only way forward is often to redirect the love that remains rather than suppress it. This story reminds us that healing is not about forgetting those we have lost, but about allowing their presence to continue through our actions. Pain, when held alone, can isolate and overwhelm, but when shared through compassion, it becomes purpose. The act of giving—especially when rooted in memory—can transform sorrow into quiet strength. True healing begins not when we move on, but when we move forward carrying love in a way that touches other lives.
(Author unknown. LV's salute to the splendid writer who created this.)
(2)
Excellent Moral
A little boy came from school on Saturday and told his father, my teacher has given us home-work to hug 10 people and tell them - "Be patient, trust life and I Love you".
The Dad said - "OK, we will go to the Mall tomorrow morning and do it".
The child woke up all spirited in the morning, got ready. Went to his Dad and said - "Let's go!!"
The father said - "There is heavy rainfall, I fear nobody might be there".
The Child still insisted. So the Father drove in the horrible rainy weather to the Mall.
They stood in the mall for 1 hour, and the little boy hugged 9 people. His father then said - "Now let's go, it's raining heavily and we shouldn't get stuck!"
Sad, the son went along with his father. As they were driving past, the child pointed at a random house and said - "Please dad, just 1 person is remaining, I will go to that house and complete my homework!"
The father smiled and pulled the car over.
The child went to the door and began to ring the bell and pound the door strongly with his knuckles. He kept waiting. Finally the door was opened gently.
A lady came out with a very sad look and gently asked:
"What can I do for you, son?"
With radiant eyes and a bright smile the child said:
"Ma'am my teacher has told to hug 10 people and tell them - "Be patient, trust life and I Love you". I have hugged 9 persons so far. May I hug you and pass the message to you."
The Lady embraced him, and started crying profusely.
On seeing that, the Boy's father came out of the car. He went to the lady and asked - "Any problem madam?"
She composed herself, took them inside, gave them a cup of tea and then told his father -
"My husband died a while ago leaving me totally alone in this world. This morning the loneliness took over me. Since morning I have been thinking that this is the end of the road for me.
Then I took a chair and a rope to my bedroom and decided to end my life. As I was seeing the world for one last time, I begged for forgiveness to GOD and then heard this knock. I first thought of ignoring it. But then I thought nobody comes to visit me. Let me see.
When I opened the door, I couldn't believe what my eyes saw in this little child. And when he said , 'Be patient, trust life and I Love you' I knew it was a message from God.
Suddenly I realized I don't want to die anymore, and have decided to make something productive of my life."
REMEMBER - Give positive thoughts to people.Tell them you stand by them and even if nothing, just listen to them.
(The author of this wonderful piece is unknown. LV salutes him/her.)
Hope you liked the above two stories as much as I did. I just adore them for their sensitivity and positive message.
Please share the LV163 with all your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/629 (Young Magic)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/630 (Short Stories and Anecdotes)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/631 (Poems)
Take care. Stay happy. We will meet again on 24th April.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Friday, the 27th March, 2026
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
THE PAIN, A SWEET SWAMP
LEISURE
02) Dilip Mohapatra
FAULTLINES
DROP IN THE OCEAN
03) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
KITCHEN FIRE
04) Abani Udgata
WAR
05) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
WAR
06) Madhumathi. H
INNER RADIANCE...
BEING HER HEALING ...
07) Leena Thampi
FIRE OF TRAUMA
08) Darsana Kalarickal
HOW CAN YOU KILL THEM?
09) Sushree Gayatri Nayak
THE PIZZA THEORY OF LIFE
10) Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
HEARING ONE’S SELF IN THE WOODS OF PANCHGANI
11) Baldev Samantaray
INGLORIOUS PANDEMIC
12) Dr. Saroj K. Padhi
LEAVES’ FALLING SPREE
13) Sujata Dash
CLAIMING TURF
14) Dr. Rekha Mohanty
PALASH ( FLAME OF THE FOREST)
14) Anindita Ray
THE COUCH KNOWS
15) Sathya Venkatesh
TRAIN TRACK LESSONS
16) Kunal Roy
THE CROW
17) Lata Krishnan
EVERYDAY IS WOMEN’S DAY
18) Bipin Patsani
THE SOURCE
POETRY AND POLITICS
THE CHEMISTRY OF BIOLOGICAL PHYSICS
19) Susan Kurien
THE ASIAN OPEN BILLED STORK
20) Almaas Thanzeel
ON SHATTERING A BROKEN VASE
21) Santhoshkumar TK
DOCTOR
22) Matralina Pati
HUNGER
23) Mrs. Sreeja Sree
DEATH
24) Tophan Khilar
CALL ME
25) Sudipta Mishra
THE SEASON OF BOARD EXAMS: A MOTHER`S TALE
A DYING EMBER
26) Dr. Protiva Rani Karmaker
LIFE OF A PAINTER
27) Harisankar Sreedharan
MEASURING JARS
28) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
INEVITABLE MEMORIES
29) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
DREAMS IN STREAMS
FLIGHTS FOR DELIGHTS
30) Dr. Niranjan Barik
WHERE DO THE TEARS GO?
31) Kabyatara Kar
COCOONED BUTTERFLY
32) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE DEAD MINUTE
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
It has been a week since scalpels
tore me open. A thirty-day-long pain
has taken to bed my opium dreams.
Exploding crude bombs, shock waves.
Needles, glass splinters, bee stings.
Tired like a mother through her childbirth,
pushing a live pain out, … push, … push.
I doze off, a nailed Jesus fainting
on the cross. Wish I could feel as holy!
Will scalpels end the years of that drought?
Wife, as always, hovers like a whiff
of autumn, caressingly collecting
every falling leaf from all over me.
One night, my insides - pain, and all,
also, the throb jumps into her lap.
She hesitates but takes me home,
across pain, across my flailing parts
I trudge home, squelching across
the sweet swampy pain;
the time waits patiently for the wave.
We remain afloat like lotuses
in an old pond, smelling sweetly acrid;
feeling heavenly, the moksha
after a year-long wait, a bird finding
its sky, the Christ his Cross.
(A hymn to the major operation of both the knees, and its yearlong preparation.)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
In his youth, he was torn asunder by
his job, giving tuition to some,
to earn butter for his family bread;
and bringing up children, and his poetry.
Leisure was too dear a commodity.
Wife would feel elated if he had time
for a leisurely word or an hour for her.
The children felt on cloud nine
if he took a day off to go on a picnic
with them. But years passed -
Scenes changed. Wife was
glued to her new toy, a smartphone,
the Alec Smart, the naughty devil of a flatterer
seducing her with touched-up selfies
looking younger and fairer in profile.
Years passed; scenes changed –
he stayed home; his sons went to work.
Their wives stole their time when they
returned home. They and their kids remained
glued together on holidays and weekends.
Years passed; scenes changed -
only words stayed for his company,
the ethereal angels of selfless pride,
serving with love, holding a mirror
to his face for self-searching, the truth.
He didn't have to hunt for the right words.
Sitting in the rank and file with others
they winked, asking him to cherry-pick,
fix them like God fixing his stars into the sky,
sculpting constellations called poems.
He went out, meeting others like him
at leisure. The lonely devils admitted
leisure was a bird that sang the sweetest
when in the bush. But in hand, it was a
backbreaking burden, a silent vulture.
(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
*
War
Spells only
Death and disaster
Perhaps price of peace
Paradoxical.
*
War
just business
Profiteering through fear
Peddling anxiety and uncertainty
Bloodshed.
*
Silence
Strategic restraint
Not really passivity
A form of strength
Prudence.
*
Turbulence
Beneath crust
With tectonic shifts
Safety valve opens up
Eruptions.
*
Borderless
Walls broken
Sovereignty be damned
No man’s land everywhere
Encroachment.
*
Alliances
Come together
Hunting same prey
Birds with same talons
Vultures.
*
Propaganda
Make believe
Webs of lies
Cut and paste evidence
Misdirection.
*
Deterrence
Or-else threats
Serpent spreads hood
Roar of toothless tiger
Soap-bubbles.
*
Ceasefire
Reluctant pause
Smoke clearing away
Embers smouldering under rubble
Stalemate.
Dilip Mohapatra
The galleries were chock-a-block
with a teeming crowd
bursting in the seams
and between his parents
sat a little boy
in the jersey of his favourite team
as the batter faced the last ball
with exactly six runs to win.
The stadium was quiet
as a graveyard at dusk
except for the heartbeats of thousands
echoing in unison—
the silence was palpable
as the batter shuffled his feet
to face the bowler
charging in like an enraged bull.
The ball appeared to come
in a slow
stroboscopic motion
while time stood still
and the batter swung his bat
that appeared to slice through
the frigid block of air
and the impact was deafening
like a midair explosion
while the ball took off
in a backward trajectory
high up in the sky
to land outside the boundary.
The crowd rose up in waves
their roar overpowering
the drum beats
and fire crackers
and the little boy jumped up too
to add to the cacophony
but for him it ended with a whimper
for he was born mute—
but he was just as ecstatic
his face lit up like a million suns
and his silence—
no less than a roar.
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
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
“Don’t call me all the time.”
You keep saying.
“I have too many things to do,” you lie
But a little while later
You coyly call me again.
“There’s nothing in particular to say,
But how am I to remain silent?
“And when I begin to speak of something,
Tasks arise, one after another.
“This morning, when Kunjappan passed this way
Pushing and pulling his cart
I bought tomatoes and okra
He is old now, his four grandchildren
Are all in a government school nearby
“I bought milk from the corner shop, made tea,
Set aside what remained to make curd
“Three hundred rupees for the electricity bill
I must go pay it by noon,
Three miles in the scorching sun.”
Like this, everything that makes up your life
I listen to it all. It is all the same to me
But the belligerent war cries of nations
Drown quietly in your soft chirps
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Abani Udgata
War, an erasure of memories.
not a bend in the flow, but a dam
stopping time's reluctant tide.
streaks of ferocious light tear
the night high above the shelter
little ones in mothers laps
smile in deep sleep.
they have no memories.
memories reduced to rubble,
shards
of what could've been,
unwritten stories, unsung songs
lost in the haze of conflict's ash
memories wilting, cringing,
going to pieces in the acid rain
the river's whisper, silenced now
as we stumble towards a shore
where time unravels, threadbare
and the unknown gnaws, a hollow core
in this delta of forgetting, we search
for rivulets of hope, a trickle
of what's been lost, what's yet to be
in the fractured mirror of our time
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
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
Poems can be written about war.
I, too, have written such poems.
But can a poem truly stop
This war?
Has anyone ever heard
Of Trump reading a poem?
A poet can write
Of the horrors of war
Of the innocent civilians
Lying dead
And through his words
Offer deep condolences.
But that does not lighten
Even a fraction of their suffering.
How helpless these words feel
Before the demonic laughter of the Devil ?
These words cannot halt
Their arrogance
Nor can they provide a shield
To those ravaged by war.
My heart is heavy
My chest is stifled
By the smoke of cannons.
I see before me
The terror-stricken
Bewildered eyes of a child.
I hear
The sob-choked wail
Of a young widow.
How are you feeling ?
Let us begin
A peace march today—
Those of us who still
Put our faith
In words and in poetry.
Let our voice against war
Be sharpened from this moment on.
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.
Madhumathi. H
What is deep inside
Always reflects
Like rows of lights that exude
Lilting luminous notes
Upon a tranquil river...
Whether it is, love
Joy, pain, or fear
Hope, faith
Far or near...
It reflects...
It resonates...
In life's mirror
We find our reflection
In such radiance
When adversity traps us
In the darkest room...
What is deep inside
Breaks open the door
Leading us
To a brand new beginning...
Deep inside
There is always light
Bright enough to light up the universe...
Madhumathi. H
One long soulful hug...
Gently loosen the grip
Only to hold her, and
Look into her eyes
Making sure she doesn't look elsewhere, blushing
Converse with such soothing love
She feels all the void filled just through gazes...
Wrap her with your disarming smile
Tell her some lies, too
To smirk, and laugh
Plant kisses, on her eyes
To help her know
How winter itself feels
To be near a bonfire...
Let hope cuddle her wounds
Take her gently
But remember
To love her...
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.
Leena Thampi
Silent room ,stretchers around
Blue gowns,sterile gloves
Bright lights and sharp tools
Nothing really hurts more than witnessing a few cold blooded faces behind the masks
when you are going under the knives
You believe you're yielding to a higher power
But it's just an illusion; the true culprits remain concealed however
Each heartbeat a fragile drum
There are poems that are never written
And they well up in my eyes and melt down
There's an undeniable emptiness
That can't be filled in
It's like a hole in your heart
Causing a constant din
There's nothing called fate
It's all about people who hate
Be cautious of those who seem too good
For devils in disguise roam the neighborhood
Keep your eyes open, don't be deceived,
Protect yourself from those who are ill-conceived
Stay alert and trust your gut,
Don't fall for their deceptive strut
Listen to your instincts, they'll guide you right,
Steer clear of those who cause a fright
Beware, those who play with dark powers,
For Karma's wrath will soon be theirs.
Born in Jammu and brought up in Delhi ,Leena Thampi is an articulate writer who's lost in her own little epiphanies and she gives them life with her quill. She's an author extraordinaire with four books to her credit -"Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze" , An Allusion To Time' and Embers to Flames.
She has many articles published in India and abroad. She has received many elite accolades from different literary platforms worldwide.She has been awarded by Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips twice for her best contribution towards literature in the year 2021 and 2022.She was also the recipient of Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honours 2022 by Motivational Strips.
Her work mixes luminous writing, magical realism, myths, and the hard truths of everyday life.
Besides her flair for writing and deep-rooted love for music, she is an Entrepreneur,Relationship and life coach,specialised in child psychology.She is also a dancer and actor. She is currently working on her fifth book which is a collection of short stories.
Leena Thampi is a celebrated author and entrepreneur known for her captivating writing style that transcends the ordinary. With five published books and numerous internationally featured articles, her work has garnered widespread recognition and accolades. Recent accolades include four awards from" The Book Channel" for her four books across different categories, She's also the winner of the 'Women Face of the Year 2024' award by Fox Story India, and the City Excellence Awards by Bharat Times.
Her literary prowess has been recognized with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honors and Gujarat Sahitya Academy honors. Leena's unique narrative voice blends luminous prose, magical realism, myths, and raw life realities, inviting readers into a world of wonder and introspection.
A multifaceted talent, Leena is a certified child psychologist, relationship coach, and TEFL trainer. She is the Co-founder and COO of HAVL Hi-Tech Pvt Ltd.
Her published works include "Rhythms of a Heart", "Autumn Blaze", "An Allusion To Time", "Embers to Flames", and "Celestial Melodies".
With over a hundred accolades from literary platforms worldwide, Leena continues to inspire with her writing. She is currently working on her sixth book, a collection of short stories. Her articles, poems, anthologies, interviews, and features have been published in national and international magazines and newspapers.
Darsana Kalarickal
Are you searching for
The little girl, who lost
Fragments of stars
from the shining eyes—
You need not travel
all the way to Kabul
She is here.
From beyond the shattered pieces
of fallen stars,
a great river
breaks through the mountain pass
and comes rushing down,
If your heart
cannot receive that flood,
who else
will hold it?
When a childhood
that trembles in every moment
is forced to hide
within the womb,
and when a mother decides
never to bring another child
into this world,
the cries
of the children already born
break against
the walls of the heart,
rising within the head
like helpless wandering souls—
yet you never seem
to hear them.
And now I wonder:
How can you kill
the wolves
that roam wildly
searching tender flesh—
when they have already
made their den
inside you?
*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.
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
I wonder,
The universe is a pizza shop—
Delivering rounds of chaos
In a square box of rules,
With no reason written on it.
Our bodies are made of
Water and wheat flour,
With pinches of
Salt, sugar, and yeast.
Baked for nine months
To prepare the base.
Some are thick,
Some are thin,
Some a little cracked,
Some slightly burned.
That’s called fate,
I guess.
Then He spreads
Tomato sauce on it—
Childhood and memories,
Sometimes tangy,
Sometimes sweet.
And the interesting part is
Mozzarella cheese—
Family, love—
Holding us together,
Not letting us scatter.
Capsicum, mushrooms, berries, corn—
Friends and people,
Different flavors, different colours,
Some stay till the last bite,
Some get eaten early.
Rivals, criticism, hardships—
Behave as chilli flakes.
They burn the tongue a little,
But make the taste more intense.
And oregano—
Wisdom.
Small lessons sprinkled here and there
By teachers, elders, and experiences.
Then it goes through
Time, the oven,
For decades of slow baking.
It shapes us, cooks us,
Sometimes overbakes.
But that’s how flavors deepen.
That’s why every pizza tastes different.
And in the end,
Life isn’t meant to be
Eaten alone.
But shared with others—
Like slices of pizza.
Yet the last cold slice
Stays untouched,
Holding traumas,
Memories that haunt.
But it’s okay.
Sometimes the last slice
Should remain in the box—
Just to remember
The taste of hot pizza
On the tongue.
Or maybe,
To write poetry.
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.
HEARING ONE’S SELF IN THE WOODS OF PANCHGANI
Dr Nanda Kishore Biswal
Once in the woodland of Panchgani
one is not lonely, and never abandoned.
Away from noise
you hear your self again,
setting at rest the restless waves of mind,
as mind shifts towards stillness
you are drawn into the ineluctable pull of silence.
Wearing a diaphanous scarf
that flutters like mist, as the breeze blows
rustling the leaves in the trees –
is the nature here.
Elysian peace and bliss permeate
the afternoons.
The sky gets drenched
in shades of orange at sunset.
Drifting between thought and thoughtlessness.
I got up into wakefulness one day
as I heard a naughty sunset’s
whispering call of your name
causing goosebumps in me.
The woods at dusk turn caliginous
as if stepping in slow pace
into a dream,
and in the deepening darkness
a soft serenade of the breeze
is heard;
unmistakably rhythmic
being the words
that form its lyric.
Chaotic thoughts cluttering the mind
begin to be on the run
turning mind into a clean slate,
and ideas sublime pour in
paving the way for understanding
the deep shades of life.
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.
Baldev Samantaray
Anonymous numbers
stealthily slip into faces
that march in a montage
of stained black and white images.
Faces become familiar
and the invisible air around
is condensed into droplets on the cheek
that fingers can touch and wipe.
Whispers turn into wail
and fear gives way to prayer.
There is no trace of war.
There is no hero.
There would be no story.
There would be no regalia.
There would only be losers
without a victor at sight.
Baldev Samantaray is a retired banker who lives in Bhubaneswar. He did his post graduation in English literature from Ravenshaw College (76-78).He started writing from his Ravenshaw days. Many of his poems appear in various journals and anthologies.
Dr. Saroj K. Padhi
Nature has its ways
of settling things complex
and putting them in place
bringing them
into a simple frame,
now and then,
to relieve Earth’s pain;
the trees hit by arrows of mist
from a rough and tough cold
shed leaves that lie long
in disarray to rut
or be swept off by air
into empty vaults here and there.
Brown baby leaves spring from twigs
soon to turn lush green
fruits on trees ripen at ease
for birds to peck and preen !
A breeze slow blows across
river, sea and vale
carrying mango buds’ smale
puffing each human cell
with dream, promise and purpose
ringing the inner bell.
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.
Sujata Dash
Sipping her cuppa Nice and slow
Reminiscing quiet triumphs of yore
Her calm strength complements exultation
As night serenades a mystic note
A faint smile flits across her withered lips
As she moves fingers through her locks
Triumphs for her is not winning a race
But keeping calm and staying sane
Hours of her life have crawled like infants
Days have lost their lustre
Nights are filled with peachy dew
Sighs belch out smokes of
thwarted emotions
Looking at her old wrinkled hands
She chuckles and whispers...
"Ah time has taken its toll
But has not tarnished my fervent faith and hope
Bumping over life's potholes
I have claimed my turf."
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker.She has four published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm and Humming Serenades -all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit.She is a singer,avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
Dr. Rekha Mohanty
They never got appreciated like other beautiful flowers,
Never been a part of bouquet
for its own pleasure,
But been privileged
to announce its proud arrival
on earth every spring
with a thumping signature …1
Red beauties adore
bare branches,
A positive valence,
So what if no fragrance ?
Spreads absolute joy
when onlookers keep on
staring and admiring
being in a trance…2
Sweet smell allures the senses touching inner world,
Without a smell
Flame Of Forest, a God gift beauty is presented aesthetically
to the outer world…3
Petals wither and fall with advancing harsh summer,
Play Holi with nature,
Remind the very fleeting
universal character,
Mimicking our existence
as we age with work and laughter,
Leaving life’s valuable
footstep memoir …4
Palash does not care
if it is not held in our hands
for appreciation from
a close quarter,
It continues to spread joy
with hues red and orange
from trees far and near,
The irresistible sight
one just can’t ignore …5
Col( Dr) Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College, Cuttack, Odisha and she has spent most of her professional life in military hospitals in peace and field locations and on high altitude areas.She has participated in Operation Vijay (Kargil war)in 1999 and was selected for UN missions in Africa for her sincere involvement in crisis management of natural calamities in side the country and abroad where India is asked to do so in capacity of head QRT in Delhi for emergency medical supplies.She had also participated in military desert operation ’ Op Parakram’ in Rajasthan border area.After relinquishing Army Medical Corps in 2009,she worked in Ex Servicemen Polyclinic in Delhi NCR and presently is working in a private multi-speciality hospital there to keep herself engaged.
Her hobby is writing poetry in English and Odia.She was writing for college journals and local magazines as a student in school.
Being a frequent traveler around the world,she writes travelogues.The writing habit was influenced by her father who was a Police Officer and used to write daily diary in English language he had mastered from school days in old time.Her mother was writing crisp devotional poems in Odia language and was an avid reader of Odia and Bengali books.Later her children and husband also encouraged.
Dr Rekha keeps herself occupied in free times for activities like painting, baking and playing card games the contract bridge.
She is a genuine pet lover and offers her services to animal welfare organisations and involves in rescue of injured stray dogs.Being always with pets at home since early childhood ,she gives treatment to other dogs in society when asked for in absence of a vet.She delivers talks on child and women health issues to educate the ladies in army and civil.
After sad demise of her husband Dr( Brig)B B Mohanty in February 2023,she devoted more time to writing and published her first poetry book’Resilient Leaf’in August 2023.Since then there is no stopping and she is going to publish her second book of poetry soon.
She enjoys reading E magazine LV , newspaper current affairs ,writing poetry and watching selected movies whenever she gets time.She keeps travelling places of interest in between for a change which is a passion as a girl since days roaming with parents and siblings .Her motto is to be happy by giving the best to self and to the society.She is lucky to have a supportive family.
Anindita Ray
Our comfort zone—the couch that grew old with us.
We sink into it, and hours quietly disappear.
Visitors admired it, sat awhile, laughed, lingered.
Plush and soft like a giant teddy bear—
you nestle into it, and it nestles you back.
Age is catching up; the couch knows it too.
Leather worn, springs squealing, recliners opening slowly,
their creaks almost affirming time.
Handcrafted leather— brown, tan, chocolate-hued—
shaped into a couch that became the centre of our living room,
and ruled our hearts for long.
It has witnessed arrivals and departures,
our highs and our lows.
Yet it never failed to offer warmth and comfort.
Head aching, muscles sore—
we simply snuggle in.
Meals eaten, movies watched, once settled,
relaxation overwhelms.
Our own zone, where we unwind in calm.
It has seen birthdays, New Years, travelled with us—
countries changed, continents crossed.
Our daily life unfolded here.
The couch became synonymous with sentiment and emotion,
with the feeling that life is good—
because a few old things teach us what home truly is.
Home is where the heart rests.
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.
Sathya Venkatesh
Train tracks and travel always keep me enthralled
The common location for welcomes and goodbyes
For happy hearts and long sighs!
Some tracks wind really high
Allowing trains to almost touch the sky
Some disappear quite so suddenly
Passing through tunnels, out of sight, abruptly
Running through wild, unknown forests
Some train journeys are pure fantasy
Letting us make new friends
Or just enjoy picturesque scenery
Trains pass through different junctions
Enabling people to board and un-board in designated stations
Reminding us that this journey of life is also transient
And we as co-travellers shouldn’t dwell on its permanence
Letting go, it teaches us to have a blast
Until we bid our final goodbyes and embark on our journey last!
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.
Kunal Roy
The black bird you are,
caws at the wee hours of morn,
sleep waves goodbye,
wakes up the city -
rejoices anew!
Yet you are the harbinger of death,
your arrival -
an ominous signature
to the poor mortals,
dismal tidings sprout
in the brain,
delight disappears,
sorrow appears,
unseen though ,
unheard though!
The Goddess weaves
a tale of difference,
you find a place
on the throne of Dhumavati!
The divine mother
acknowledges you,
realises the worth!
Little do we know,
little do we fathom,
ignorance shrouds,
darkness engulfs,
a ray suffices
to break the silence,
to efface the opacity,
to embrace the enlightenment!!
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.
Lata Krishnan
Every day is women’s day
Without her, life is barren
Love would leave,
beauty lose its eyes,
Colour, lose its myriad lights
joy will fail in its meaning
She is the soul of every house
her smile sets us into believing.
she plays many roles with patience and power
That makes our life worth living
Even God gifted her a creator’s place
That she dons with pure splendour
Her healing touch and gentle hugs
Are medicine for a yearning lover’s hunger
When it comes to relationships
Even psychologists come to refer
The old lady of the family has
Deep insights beyond measure.
Her beauty riles many dirty eyes
Who try to crush her spirit
Chain her to dogmatic lies
And think her weak and little
Women, when they join hands
Are firmer than a mountain,
Once she decides, she can win all
Nothing can stop or contain.
She can make or mar an empire
What of those freaks with dirty stare
If she wills, she can hunt them down
So that they can never hide anywhere.
Women have now spanned the space
Stands defending land, water and air
Many top tables she can grace
Run the show wise and fair.
Every day is women’s day
She is our life’s integral part
Let’s empower her as she rises high
And see her brighten up as an art.
Lata Krishnan is a writer presently based in Coimbatore, India. Having spent her growing up years in Kolkata, she became enamoured with poetries and litrature and started penning a few lines now and then. After finishing her education in Kolkata where she spent almost 32 years, she shifted to Chennai and many others cities due to demands of her office work as a Bank Manager. After her retirement from the banking industry, she decided to indulge in her love for writing. Her experiences with life reflects in her work. She explores themes of nature, life, love, and self- reflection. She is the author of the poetry collection "Strewn Petals of the Heart" which she published in 2023.
Bipin Patsani
Nice things come up
In nice forms
Only when we are nice
And good at heart,
Good as human beings,
Honest, sincere
And compassionate,
True to our feelings
And the root.
Then blooms a poem,
Song or symphony;
Words, sound and sense
Building up the lyric beauty
Of something concrete.
Bipin Patsani
The wealth of poetry
unlike politics
is its beauty
of thought and feeling
that doesn't need
to prove anything.
THE CHEMISTRY OF BIOLOGICAL PHYSICS
Bipin Patsani
It is not always the centre; the central urge
To live and to live a better life
Brings us closer to work together.
So a centre is formed.
A low pressure builds up the shape
Of a whirlwind that goes up.
In the warm anxious vaginal gap
A god is reckoned.
The airy nothingness takes the shape
Of a solid born out of necessity
And then cells, wheels and cords
Close up and move around the moving rod.
The centre and the sub-centres
Bound to one another in the wheel
Work in the cosmic network that sets
The triangular trend for all arts in the world,
Celebrating existence, celebrating sense,
Sensibility and human essence.
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.
Susan Kurien
There they come in shades of grey
As dusk settles on the Vellayani sky-
A flock of Asian open-billed storks.
Quite large and heavy, they settle and wade
Through hyacinth green and flowers of purple sheen.
Do I see a dinner snail, firmly held in the curve of your bill?
How content you seem as you lift your wings!
A glorious display of heavenly white,
Ringed with feathers in a row of glossy black.
Of lake and sky, now you are Queen.
(Vellayani-A tranquil freshwater lake near Trivandrum city that is a bird lover’s Paradise.)
Susan Kurien is former Deputy General Manager of Reserve Bank of India. She holds Post-Graduate degrees in English Language and Literature and Economics, along with an MBA in Banking. She has co-authored two educational books, ‘English for Everyday Life’ and ‘English made easy for Competitive Exams’. She recently brought out an anthology of stories from around the world titled “FABULA”. She is currently working on a sequel to this, on stories from the Indian sub-continent. Some of her poems have been published in the anthology of poems ‘What Else is Rain’. She paints and doodles during her free time.
Almaas Thanzeel
A fractured vase of green and blue
Gathering dust in lieu of flowers.
I hold you with care,
But to move closer, I wouldn't dare.
I can't let you go, for you might collapse.
But I can't hold onto you forever, knowing my tired grip could shatter you.
I am no potter to fill your cracks with gold,
to mend your scars, to heal your soul.
Nor can I protect you from your impending catastrophe
solely with my concern and love.
I am as marred as you are.
My arms are wearing out.
My resolve growing thin.
My hands mirror the cracks on your body,
And the roughness of your skin.
What if I let you shatter,
Would that be a sin?
Will I drown in the endlessness of guilt,
Or would I celebrate my freedom?
But will my happiness be guaranteed if my broken vase is no longer with me?
Should I hold on to you at risk of my demise,
At the risk of my crumbling,
Just so you'd stay a bit longer with me?
I feel weakened,
body and soul,
I've held on for too long,
And I need to let go.
I am at my wit's end,
My hands have a mind of their own.
I let go of your broken figure,
Casting away your soul.
The absence of your weight is disquieting.
I watch you shatter into many pieces,
The sound bursting in my ears.
My own cracks deepen,
As your shards pierce my skin.
Salvation, I assume—
Yet I crumble too.
My broken vase, you were mine, after all.
I fold in shame,
I fold in regret.
Staggering,
I shatter, too.
Almaas Thanzeel is an undergraduate pursuing a BA in English at Shrimathi Devkunvar Nanalal Bhatt Vaishnav College for Women, Chennai. She is passionate about writing personal essays, short stories, and poems during her free time. Her poem explores the psychology of letting go of someone and the cost of its violence—the exhaustion of holding on, the guilt of relief, and the collapse that follows on both sides.
Santhoshkumar TK
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
You are in Gaza
Suturing fragmented bodies,
Setting twisted bones back into order,
holding a writhing life in place,
refusing to let it slip away.
You are my friend
and I carry a quiet pride in that
for wherever people collapse,
wherever they fail and fall,
you are already there.
Floods, landslides, wars, earthquakes
wherever the earth opens its mouth
to swallow the living,
you stand inside that ruin.
No faith obstructs your path,
no border claims your allegiance
one religion, one caste,
On life you meditate
Skilled in mending bones,
yet in the violence of war
your hands learn to repair
whatever is broken.
The woman in labour
voice breaking, body tearing itself apart,
her child on the edge of arrival or loss
your hands held them both
from crossing that line.
Countless intuitions,
Massive knowledge,
deeply embedded instincts
all gathered to restore
the failing rhythm of life.
I remember what you said
The last time we met:
“This madness of war
will erase the earth.”
Skill and knowledge
can earn a name,
can gather wealth,
can build the illusion of abundance
But when I see those like you,
scattered across a darkened world,
Empathetically holding strangers
as if they were your own,
I begin to wonder
Can’t there be a world without walls?
a world not yet split open by borders?
Or are we only forever
Suturing and fixing
this wounded, fractured earth,
knowing it will tear again?
This poem was written after seeing images on Facebook of the medical work carried out in Gaza by Dr. Santhosh Kumar S.S., a member of Doctors Without Borders—an organisation that provides medical aid in disaster zones across the world. He had taken leave from the Orthopaedics Department of Thiruvananthapuram Medical College to take part in this work.
Professor Santhosh Kumar T K is a prominent figure among the literary community in Kerala. He has authored numerous critical essays on cinema and narrative, and an English translation of his writings is forthcoming. In addition to his non-fiction work, he writes poetry that engages with a wide range of themes. He serves as an Associate Professor in the Department of Malayalam at the University of Kerala and resides in Thiruvananthapuram.
Matralina Pati
Within her frail frame
Hunger ever were
A bowl of air.
Then the earth
Thinned into dust.
Motherhood had broken
Bread into an apology.
In the entrails of famine
Bones are appraised
Unnamed, unsheltered.
She would learn to
Rest without breath someday
Hunger is impalpable
And this lie
Alone
Feeds the world!!
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).
Mrs. Sreeja Sree
(Translated from Malayalam by Sreekumar Ezhuththaani)
The truth that you are no longer here
weighs heavier than your motionless photograph
hanging on the wall.
When I touch your cold, stilled forehead,
That chill seeps into my very soul.
The air you once breathed now burns with a harsh heat.
in the rooms where your laughter once echoed,
silence settles thick and unmoving.
When you left for that sleep
from which you will never wake,
You carried away half of my world with you.
When I remember, there is no one left to wait for,
even the threshold of this house
feels unbearably lonely.
Your scent still clings to your clothes—
memories that refuse to die,
suffocating me with their persistence.
Words remain knotted in my throat,
to call you once more,
to hold your hands just one last time.
But your new language
is a silence that never answers.
As you dissolve into this earth,
it is not merely a body that vanishes,
but a fistful of dreams.
Be it the ash of the pyre
or the soil of the grave,
every moment without you
is a death to me.
They say time heals wounds,
but the scars your absence leaves behind
will ache beside me all my life.
Death may be an end for you—
but for me,
it is a smouldering beginning.
Mrs. Sreeja Sree from Kattuppara, a village in Malappuram, Kerala, India, is a multi-talented mother. She writes, composes, sings, illustrates, and makes her living as a dance teacher at her own dance school, after teaching herself classical dance forms like Bharatanatyam which is almost impossible to learn on one's own.
Tophan Khilar
Call me
when you are all alone,
plop yourself down on a quiet quilt,
let the evening listen you,
and share your whereabouts,
the little routines of your day.
Don’t forget to tell me
your likes and your dislikes,
the songs you hum,
the colours you choose,
the poems you write
the novels you read
I stumble at academics,
I fear I may fail
yet you remain
the question I long to answer.
Tell me,
do you still wear the saree
like you did on that welcome day,
sophisticated as a modern lady
Do you still wander
between the silent library shelves?
So many changes
have come these days
tell me truly,
have you changed too,
or are you still the same,
still
my love?
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.
THE SEASON OF BOARD EXAMS: A MOTHER`S TALE
Sudipta Mishra
Exams come every year
With their fierce arrival
A child's heart fills with fear
Deep within her soul;
A mother senses the same silent rush.
Holding a mug of chocolate milk
She stands at the threshold of the hall
Peeping into the study room
Pretending not to reveal the anxiety she carries,
so tense,so restless.
Her fragile yet courageous smile
Knows the art
of not looking so meek
Striding ahead to hide
the storm within.
Outside the exam hall,
She waits with a restless gaze,
Like a confined bird inside a cage.
Amid the crowd
She stands,
lifting the same familiar hope,
Browsing through books with her casual look,
Whispering silent prayers,
Chanting a few lines from scriptures,
Emotions only a mother can feel.
As the exam nears its end,
She holds another deep breath.
The worried face of her child,
Makes her tremble.
Yet, bravely she gathers herself for the next paper.
Next day, with a heart
so brave,
She again faces the challenges.
She knows the truth:
Exams test patience.
Marks may be a destination for many,
But for a child and a parent,
Exam is a silent war
between hardwork,
untold sacrifices,
And sleepless nights lived in persistence...
Sudipta Mishra
Alone I sit in the corner
of my shattered shelter.
Deep within my heart
I often ponder;
Who am I now?
I let my heart scream
into the silence of strangers.
Faint murmurs rise
from the distant hills.
Like a dying ember
beneath the ash
the buried flame dares to devour all.
Rising like a smoky sky
where wilderness burns in wildfire ready
to engulf the entire city.
The suffering continues
in the pale faces of people,
like rain -drenched woods in a tropical land.
And quietly it spreads from
the wounded earth to the silent sky.
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.
Dr. Protiva Rani Karmaker
Artwork: Pranjal Karmaker
He passed many sleepless nights,
In preparing canvases and lights.
He travelled places of different sites,
Through his imaginary wings of flights.
He mixed colors both dull and bright,
To paint hills or mountains at heights.
He touched brushes to paint a knight,
But with a sudden feeling of fright,
He depicts a face simple and bright.
Like a tireless ship his life goes on & on,
From sleepless night to shinning dawn.
He takes us to the world of delight,
Though in return for his labour and passion,
What the world gives back to him is very slight.
His artwork will remain as shining as stars,
To keep him alive in our hearts.
Dr. Protiva Rani Karmaker is an accomplished writer and columnist for national dailies, renowned for her contributions to education, youth development, and literature. As a professor and first director at the Institute of Modern Languages, Jagannath University, her expertise spans literature, education and research. She has authored twelve books by Bangladeshi renewed publishers, 01 book by Indian publisher, 22 journal articles and 200 columns. In recognition of her exceptional work, she received the International ERUDITE SCHOLAR 2022 award from the Council for Teacher Education Foundation (CTEF), India, and the International Award of Academic Excellence and Leadership 2024 by the Council for Educational Administration and Management (CEAM) India.
Harisankar Sreedharan
Looking skyward with open mouth,
Two measuring jars sat side by side.
The one on the left—smaller than the other—
Was only meant to measure out giveaways.
The bigger of the two measured up
With an insatiable thirst;
It was always in use, without any respite,
Remaining in the right hand
That stayed extended with an unfolded palm
?Unlike the other, which was almost never picked up—
For the spring of Gift had long dried out—
The bigger jar bore the brunt and wore itself out,
Serving its sentence in full.
The smaller one corroded from the salinity
Of constant emptiness, with no fill ever to give.
?"Worthless! Junk it, who cares?
Find a jar that needs to replace it—
Bigger than the lost one!"
?But big jars have vanished from all the nooks
And corners where angels had set their feet;
Not a single one to retrieve,
Even from the junkyards for scrap.
Big is not the trend; it is the small
That’s ruling the floor.
?"Ignorance, sheer ignorance..."
?All the smaller ones, put together,
Will never be enough for the copious doses
In this "Seek, thee shall find" world—
That miserably outdid the hypotenuse
Of the Pythagoras of marketing,
Who shrank himself to a juvenile.
?Search the grey market;
It’s wartime, after all!
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.
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
Like a falling leaf from a mighty branch
As an ending day that is memorable,
As a significant moment that made a mark
Amid unforgettable experiences and periods,
You lose a person on a particular day!
What's remaining in your hand forever?
Like a lavish lifestyle you always have
As an expensive souvenir you utilize
And destructive things like edibles,
You miss a person on a particular day!
Love is felt in music, art and culture
Affection for people and places is felt
Bonding and belongingness are a dream
Can anyone love you unconditionally?
Undiscovered, unavoidable and unseen!
How many pink promises have you made?
Living for centuries like a perennial river
Sharing the space with a partner like a friend
And avoiding harmful war during a period,
Inevitable, unexpected and unhealthy!
Those days that you merrily spent
The times you expressed your feelings
And the snapshots you eventually had
All those challenging situations you tackled
Bring everlasting memories throughout!
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
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Buds are the beauties of glow
hidden now, not to show
like the raindrop to hide heaven
at its heart, the rainbow’s spectacular seven.
Buds love to dream ever,
recalling the past, the sweet memoirs,
once as seeds that sprouted in grace,
grown to bloom pretty flowers in their future.
Their dreams are far lovelier and sweeter
like those of musings and lightnings,
wishing themselves glitter, never to shatter.
as flowers prettier, not to fade earlier
but to blossom bright as late as possible,
readily facing storms and gales.
They cherish their dreams flourishing
par excelling and far reaching,
sweetening and gladdening,
speaking volumes despite wilting and withering.
For sure, their lives are ephemeral.
In fact, their goal is eternal
for seeds with sprouts in their hearts to grow,
majestic and fantastic
in the creative renewal of life magic
for selfless service in sacrifice
like the foetus of mother to deliver,
like the raindrop of cloud to shower.
from wombs, the fountains of eternity,
Beauty in variety, Beauty for gaiety,
rises the ultimate Truth of their dreams,
the pearls at the bottom of memoir-streams.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
I wish I were a companion
of butterflies, born for freedom,
unchecked and unbridled,
I feel their company most delightful.
I feel elated for I have lovely wings,
decked with heterogeneous hues,
adorned with dazzling designs,
as the most wonderful creature.
I fly in utmost joy with butterflies
to glimpse the blossoms of variety
to excel beauty on dear green earth
bloomed at heights and slopes.
I glimpse all splendid flowers
that smile in various pretty colours,
the cynosure of all glances,
the spectacular sight, the eye-feast.
I flutter in my fancied flight,
amidst all colours with their tunes,
to gladden my sensuous heart
with their tones and tenors.
My dear flowers spread fragrance,
welcoming me to their treasure
I perch on their soft petals
I feel they are for my pleasure.
They feast me with their honey,
the sweetest substance in nature,
excelling amrita for all divines,
I feel all heavenly for my rapture.
My flights are for my delights
all days I am most welcome guest,
for flowers enlighten me with truth
To reflect beauty for my gaiety.
Dr. Rajamouly Katta, M.A., M. Phil., Ph. D., Professor of English by profession and poet, short story writer, novelist, writer, critic and translator by predilection, has to his credit 64 books of all genres and 344 poems, short stories, articles and translations published in journals and anthologies of high repute. He has so far written 3456 poems collected in 18 anthologies, 200 short stories in 9 anthologies, nine novels 18 skits. Creative Craft of Dr. Rajamouly Katta: Sensibilities and Realities is a collection of articles on his works. As a poet, he has won THIRD Place FIVE times in Poetry Contest in India conducted by Metverse Muse rajamoulykatta@gmail.com
Dr. Niranjan Barik
On the long road to Camino
footsteps carry more than dust,
they carry names,
whispered into wind and sky.
By the banks of the River Ganga, at Prayagraj
ashes dissolve into ancient waters,
and hands folded in prayer
tremble with memories that do not burn away.
There a daughter meets another daughter,
a stranger holds a stranger’s grief,
and in that silent journey,
they become kin.
Not by blood,
but by loss.
Far away, in the trembling streets of Tehran,
the sky has forgotten how to be blue.
It rains fire instead.
In Beirut,
walls remember laughter
that missiles erased.
In Tel Aviv,
sirens slice through sleep,
and dreams fall before they are born.
In Pahalgam,
where joy breathed with the hills,
gunfire ended all
love left behind,
holding what could not return.
Some one hundred and sixty girls
at one go, names unspoken,
braids undone by flame
who will carry their stories now?
But grief is fragile
where war and terror walk freely.
Even tears are not safe
from drones that do not see,
from missiles that do not ask
who is loved,
who is waiting ?
So where do the tears go?
Perhaps they travel,
from Camino’s dusty roads
to Ganga’s endless flow,
from broken cities
to unbroken hearts,
gathering in some unseen place
where all sorrow meets,
and becomes a quiet strength!
A strength that says:
You are not alone.
The shadows and spirits
walk with you,
even when you walk alone,
Even here,
Even now.
------ oooo --------
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.
Kabyatara Kar
I was destined to display my painted wings that day
Full of confidence and independence.
Applaud was heard around my cocooned body, of my success and achievement
Was aiming to struggle out of my cocoon
Rising high in the radiant sky
With vibrant colours of different shades of life
Awaiting to spread my wings
External forces around me didn't set me free
And I remained cocooned.
I struggled and struggled even more harder.
My body gripped in pain and desires seem fading.
The moments of ecstasy shrinked.
Droplets of hope bursted
Love to live was evaded by thorns of failure.
The cocooned Butterfly lost its instinct to swirl out through the cocoon..
Never to fly again
(Nobela)
Dr.Kabyatara Kar
(Nobela) holds degrees in
MBA, PGDND, and Ph. D in Education. She is knowm for Social Service towards Cancer kids. She has received award for her literary contribution by Kalavikas Kendra, Cuttack.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
As of today,
part of the afternoon
died at quarter past two,
The minute died so suddenly,
not giving a chance
even to say a goodbye.
From tomorrow
time will give it a pass,
the train will not stop
at this dreadful minute,
the bird will not meditate
at this branch of time,
The unknown visitor will not wait
for the bell to ring.
The glass of wine at a sedate lunch
will remain frozen at the lips,
twisting the smile of the hostess
into a long drawn sigh.
Clouds will come to a dead stop
the sky giving them a quizzical look.
Trees will stop swaying in the garden,
still air hanging sadly like barren leaves.
And a lonely traveller
will trudge wearily
on a painfully meandering path
looking for the lost minute
that made all the difference
in his eventless life.
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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