Literary Vibes - Edition CLXV (29-May-2026) - POEMS & BOOK REVIEW
Title : Home At Last (Water colour by Lathaprem Sakhya)
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 165th edition of LiteraryVibes. It comes as a cool wind of refreshing change in the hot summer, laden as it is with beautiful poems and short stories. Add to them the two gems I came across last week in social media, you will know why many readers look forward to the arrival of LiteraryVibes on the last Friday of every month.
Here are the two stories:
1. THE ACT OF HAPPINESS
(Author unknown, our gratitude to him for this beautiful episode).
Since I was not using it for a long time, my old Moped (Pleasure scooty) was becoming obsolete.
I thought why not resell it online? So I put out an advertisement, quoting its price at Rs 30,000/- only.
There were many offers ranging from Rs 15,000 to Rs 28,000. I thought if people are willing to pay Rs 28,000, someone might be ready to pay Rs 30,000 as well.
One person offered Rs. 29,000 but I did not confirm and kept him waiting too.
One morning a person called and said, “Hello Sir, I saw the advertisement for your moped and liked it too. I tried a lot to gather Rs 30,000 but have only been able to collect Rs 24,000 until now.
My son is in his final year of engineering. He has worked very hard. Sometimes he walks to his college, or uses a bicycle, and sometimes travels by bus or takes a lift from someone. I thought that at least in his final year he should have his own vehicle. I request you, Sir, please reserve your scooty for me.
A new one will cost more than twice as much. I would not be able to afford it at any cost. Please give me some time, and I will arrange for the money. Selling my mobile phone will also get me some money. But I pray to you, please do not sell it to anyone else."
I just said a formal "Okay" and hung up.
Then a few thoughts came to mind, and I called him back. I said, “Don’t sell your mobile phone; just bring the Rs 24,000 tomorrow morning, and take the vehicle. I will sell it to you for Rs 24,000 itself.”
So I was going to sell my scooty to an unknown person for Rs 24,000, even though I had an offer for Rs 29,000.
I thought of how much pleasure or joy this must have brought to that family.
Tomorrow, they would have a ‘Pleasure’ scooter at home, and it wasn’t causing much loss to me.
God has been gracious and given me a lot; the biggest wealth probably is the ability to help someone in need. May God keep this family happy.
The next morning he called at least 6-7 times.
Sir, what time should I come?
I hope it will not disturb your schedule
Are you sure I should come now?
Shall I bring my son along, or should I come alone?
But Sir, please don’t give the vehicle to anyone else
He brought with him a collection of Rupee notes in various denominations – 2000, 500, 200, 100, and 50.
His son had also joined him. It seemed he had collected the money from a lot of different sources – maybe withdrawn savings or borrowed from many.
The son was looking at the moped with great eagerness and gratitude. I handed him both the keys and the documents. The son was gently running his hand over the vehicle, and wiping it with his handkerchief.
He asked me to count the money, and I said, "It's okay, you must have counted and brought it."
As they started to leave, I took out Rs 500 and returned it to him saying, "Do take some sweets for your family."
I was wondering whether they would have any money for fuel.
And in any case, they could get both fuel and sweets with this money. With tears of gratitude in his eyes, he bid farewell to us and took away his ‘Pleasure’ (moped).
Bowing down politely, he kept thanking me again and again till he left.
Reflection
It was on that day, while selling my Pleasure that I understood the meaning of pleasure or joy.
We simply say ‘it's my pleasure’
At some occasions in life, one should not see profit or loss.
We should also consider if we are bringing joy to someone through our actions and dealings.
2. THE ONE WHO FIXED YOUR THINGS
(Author unknown, but deserves our thanks and gratitude)
Three months ago, my teenage son totaled our car. It was his fault—texting. Thank God no one was hurt, but the repair estimate was brutal: $4,200. Our insurance deductible alone was $2,500. I was furious and terrified. We didn’t have that kind of money. I work two jobs. My husband is disabled. Some months, we were already choosing between electricity and groceries.
The body shop suggested a place on the south side. “Cheaper,” they said. “Cash only.”
I pulled up to what looked like a junkyard. Rusted cars everywhere. Weeds pushing through cracked concrete. A faded sign barely hanging on. I almost drove away.
Then an elderly man shuffled out. He had to be seventy-five, maybe older. Grease-stained coveralls. Hands trembling slightly. A thick accent I couldn’t quite place.
“You need fix?” he asked.
I explained the situation. He looked at the car, grunted, and disappeared into the garage. A few minutes later, he returned with a clipboard.
“I fix for $800.”
I blinked. “But the estimate said—”
“They charge new parts, fancy paint,” he said. “I use good parts. Make it safe. $800.”
“And… when do I pay?”
“You pay $50 now. Rest when you can. No hurry.”
I just stood there. “Why would you trust me?”
He looked at me with eyes that had seen a lifetime. “During war, stranger hid my family in barn. Six months. Never asked for money. Only said, ‘WHEN YOU CAN, HELP SOMEONE ELSE’ I never could hide someone. But I can fix cars.”
I cried right there in that cluttered lot.
He fixed the car in three days. Perfect. Safe. When I came to pick it up, an elderly woman was there, arguing with him in the same language, crying and waving her hands at her battered sedan.
He just nodded, patted her shoulder, and took her keys.
“Another charity case?” I asked quietly.
He shrugged. “Her husband died. Pension not here yet. Car is how she sees granddaughter. I fix.”
Over the next two months, I paid him in $50 and $100 installments. Every time I stopped by, someone else was there—a single dad, a laid-off factory worker, an immigrant family. All driving cars that should have been scrap, all kept alive by this old man who charged what people could afford, or nothing at all.
When I made my final payment, I asked him, “How do you stay in business?”
He smiled, gentle and tired. Some people pay full. They keep lights on. Some pay little. They keep heart on. Balance.”
Last week, I drove past his shop. It was closed. A “For Sale” sign stood out front. I panicked and called the number on his card.
A woman answered—his daughter.
“My father passed away Tuesday,” she said softly. “Heart attack. In the shop.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“We’re going through his records,” she continued. “He had $847 in the bank. But his ledger… seventy-three people still owed him money. Some for years. Over $30,000 total.”
She paused. “His note says, ‘Forgiven. They needed wheels more than I needed money.’”
The funeral was yesterday.
Seventy-three people showed up. Every single name from that ledger.
Strangers bound together by one man’s refusal to let us stay broken. We pooled money, paid off the shop’s debts, and gave the rest to his daughter.
Later, my son asked me, “Mom, why are you crying? You didn’t even know him that well.”
“Because,” I told him, “that man taught me something your generation needs to learn. Every day, you see people—really see them. Their broken cars. Their broken hearts. Their empty wallets. And you decide: am I someone who fixes things, or someone who walks away?”
My son understood. Last month, he started volunteering at a food pantry. He doesn’t talk about it. He just goes.
The shop is still for sale. The sign still says “Cash Only.”
But seventy-three of us know what it truly meant:
Pay what you can. When you can. If you can.
*Because some debts aren’t about money. They’re about remembering that once—WHEN WE WERE BROKEN — SOMEONE FIXED US ANYWAY.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxc
Hope you loved the message of love and kindness in the above two stories - love for mankind in general and kindness for the needy. The beauty of life is, all of us are needy some way or the other and God has provided a noble soul somewhere to brighten our day.
My sincere thanks to the poets and writers who have contributed to LV165 to make it an adorable edition. A warm welcome to the new literary enthusiasts who are appearing on our pages for the first time. Together we will continue to celebrate literature and hold its flags high.
Please share LV165 with all your friends and contacts through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/637 (Poems and a Book Review)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/636 (Short Stories, Anecdotes and a Travelogue)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/635
(Young Magic)
Take care, brave the summer for a few more days. A little voice whispers in my ear that monsoons are round the corner. I promise I will drench myself in the first burst of rains. Will you?
With regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Bhubaneswar, Friday, the 29th May, 2026.
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
02) Dilip Mohapatra
SILENT LAMENT
THE OTHER MOTHERS
03) Abani Udgata
04) Avantika Vijay Singh
05) Madhumathi. H
YESTERLIFE EMBERS...
UPON THE NIGHT`S CROWN...
06) Sushree Gayatri Nayak
CARVED SMILE
RELIGION OF PASSING FEET
07) Sathya Venkatesh
08) Jay Jagdev
WHERE OLIVE BRANCHES ONCE GREW
09) Kunal Roy
10) Lata Krishnan
11) Darsana Kalarickal
12) Arpita Priyadarsini
13) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
14) Soumen Roy
ETHEREAL SONG
CANVAS OF REPUBLIC DAY
15) Baldev Samantaray
A PRAYER FOR MY MARRIED DAUGHTER
16) Shubhra Singh
17) Bipin Patsani
18) Lopamudra Mishra
BETWEEN WALLS, A WINDOW
AT THE END OF THE MONTH
19) Rani Jacob
20) Sudipta Mishra
DRAUPADI AND SITA ARE STILL ALIVE
21) Susan Kurien
22) Anindita Sen
THIRST
RAIN INTOXICATION
TOSSED BY THE STORM
YOU ARE GREAT!
23) Sheena Rath
24) Matralina Pati
25) Dr. S. Padmapriya
WHEN I DIE (POEM)
THE BRAVE GENERAL ( A POEM)
26) Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
27) Leena Thampi
28) Dr R. S.Tewari
LIFE`S CHIME
COMPOSITE CAMPUS OF SURVIVAL
LIFE IS ANOTHER NAME...
TO UNEARTH PEARLS
29) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
POETIC HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS
MY EMOTIONS AS FALLING FLOWER
30) Dr. Protiva Rani Karmaker
31) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
THE BUILDERS OF THE NATION
LIFELINE
32) Swatilekha Roy
33) Harisankar Sreedharan
34) Dr. Niranjan Barik
BEYOND THE CHAIR
BEYOND THE NATURAL
35) Pankhuri Sinha
36) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents :: Book Review
01) Jaydeep Sarangi
THE VENTRILOQUIST
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Gaunt, silent, you stand,
I sense you in my heartbeats.
A distant sea bangs its head;
howls from pain and loss.
Casuarinas like bereaved widows,
watch you walk away
blistering your bare feet
on hot sand, with soles of ice.
From dignified vastness,
from tumultuous undulations
you have shrunk to ditches, pits.
Yet, a great leader lying in state.
Your lips do not move, your skin
does not shiver, your scarf in the sky
does not fly as puffs of cloud
in complicity with the winking stars.
I walk to meet you among wild irises.
Have you ebbed forever, taking to sleep,
never to rise to seek your shore?
Has your coursing blood sobbed its last sitar?
(A tribute to the Poet Louise Gluck, who authored the iconic work ‘The Wild Iris’ that got special mention in the Nobel Jury’s report before awarding her 2020 Nobel. This poem, The Ventriloquist, was crafted on the day of her death, 13th October, 2023 as a tribute.)
In his youth, he was torn asunder by
his job, giving tuition
to earn butter for his bread,
bringing up children, and poetry.
Leisure was too dear a commodity.
Wife would feel elated if he had
a leisurely word or an hour for her.
The children felt on cloud nine
if he took a day off and took them
on a picnic. Years passed -
The scene changed. Wife was
glued to her new toy, a smartphone.
The Alec Smart, the naughty devil, a flatterer
seducing her with touched-up selfies -
she looked younger, fairer in profile.
Years passed; the scene changed –
he stayed home; his sons went to work.
Sons’ wives stole their time when they
were home. They and their kids remained
glued together on holidays, weekends.
Years passed; the scene 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 word.
Sitting in the rank and file with others
it winked, asking him to cherry-pick,
fix it into his poem as God fixed a star
in the sky’s hair sculpting a constellation.
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 hulking 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.
How can you be
so blind to
the suffering of the flame
writhing in pain
as it seems to
do a solo salsa?
You see so little
and even less beyond—
for you too ignore
the tears of the sun
that burns itself
day in and day out
to sustain you
and the wailings of
your own Mother Earth
fall in your deaf ears.
You are so very
accustomed—
almost nonchalant
to the deaths
around you
and in your blindness
and numbness
you even fail
to decipher the
epitaph that the flame
leaves in its wake
in the faint smoke
curling out of
the withered wick.
————-
Note: An invocation of the secret wounds that burn behind every flicker.
THE OTHER MOTHERS
Dilip Mohapatra
The stepmothers across
the world of literature
have an uncanny resemblance
with one another—
Lady Tremaine who drove
Cinderella to servitude
the Queen mother of Snow White
the fairest maiden of all
the shape-shifting sinister
Coraline’s Other Mother
stealing the kids’ souls—
or the ‘Sabata Ma’ of Suna
from the Odia folklore
with hearts of stone
outpacing even the worst of the
diabolical devils
scheming to demolish
the stepchild
through a variety of devious designs.
Suna’s stepmother
in her attempt to eliminate
the thorn in her foot
sends her to pluck a lotus
from the pond
and makes a deal with a serpent
hiding under water
to shift the lotus in steps
to lure her to the deep end
till she drowns.
‘I’m ankle deep in water
but the lotus is moving away-
tell me mom, what will I do?’
‘I’m now knee deep in water
but the lotus slips further-
tell me mom, what will I do?’
‘I’m now waist deep in water
but the lotus is beyond my reach-
tell me mom, what will I do?’
‘I’m now neck deep in water
but the lotus still recedes -
tell me mom, what will I do?’
The evil impetus that pushes her
into the uncertain depths of
temptation
or maybe ambition
in the guise of a task to be achieved
a duty to be performed
quietly watches her from the shore
in anticipation—
and Suna is not sure if
at the last moment she should
step back
or step forward—
or be rescued by a Prince Charming
or be delivered by divine intervention!
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
NOT THIS, NOT THIS
Abani Udgata
Morning mist on the lake —
I say “not this.”
The heron rises.
I say “not this.”
Until only the rising remains.
Sun slips through sal leaves —
I say “not this.”
The shadow on stone —
I say “not this.”
Until only the seeing remains.
Breath goes quiet —
I say “not this.”
The name I was given —
I say “not this.”
Until only the silence remains,
and the silence is singing.
Thought calls itself me —
I say “not this.”
The one who is listening —
I say “not this.”
Until only the listening remains,
with no one to listen.
In summer the forest burns —
Fire says “not this.”
Only the heat and ashes stay.
A ghostly sadness spreads —
I say “not this.”
Until even the sadness
forgets its name,
and the blackened ground
waits for rain.
The rain that seeds the grains
spells in dusts of water “not this.”
The blackened ground drinks —
I say “not this.”
Until the rivers set out as travellers,
carrying nothing but going.
The river meets the lake
which I said in the beginning —
“Not this, Not this.”
But the rising remains.
The heron has no name for it.
Morning mist again —
I say nothing.
And the saying is gone.
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
NOT EVEN HER ABSENCE
Avantika Vijay Singh
Mummy, I want this and
Mummy, I want that…
fills the air like birds
chorusing loudly at dawn.
Abuzz with activity, the house
sings, filled with her presence, and I
run around to do my daughter’s bidding—
home from London for her vacation.
Time flies quickly and
quickly flies back She…
Not even her absence is silent—
screaming loudly in the stillness.
In that silence, I can even hear
the mahua wafting on the breeze—
gently… gently falling to earth
much like my spirits do…
And there I lie, on the earth…bruised,
fading with the fragrance of her memories.
Empty nesters are we now,
our little bird has flown afar—
chasing dreams across distant skies,
towards her own bright horizon.
Not even her absence echoes softly…
like the hush after the pre-dawn birdsong,
waiting for the light to break
and the raucous sounds to fill the dawn.
And there I wait for her phone call,
my heart filling with raucous delight
hearing her voice once again.
Avantika Vijay Singh is a communications professional, wearing the hats of a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She has authored two solo anthologies, edited three anthologies, and has been published in national and international journals. She received the Nissim International Award Runner Up 2023, WE Gifted Poet 2024, and WE Illumination Award 2024.
YESTERLIFE EMBERS...
Madhumathi. H
The sands of time i step upon
Feels so familiar, yet suddenly strange
Am I on my first journey, or checked in earth, before
Are more stations waiting, and more trains for transport?
A, "sudden entry from the cosmic", feeling
As an atom, of the fathomless
Yet nostalgia penetrates my soul
Completely oblivious of the apparent
Oh dear Deja vu! Of whom, are you?
Reminiscence flashing like an over speeding car
Not even a glimpse of the rear wheel
Not mine, or all mine? clarity jumbled up
Ah! the chocolate showers upon entry
And the threatening whips of steel thorns
Shuttling between karma baggage, and consequences
Craving to shed my everything for that Oneness
Dear omnipotent architect of the universe!
Why can't the cycle begin, and end just here
This carry over mathematics is a huge problem
Never chain us with remainders please
My knowings are less, but my thirst is unquenchable
So are my quests, sometimes dragging me to strife
With my own self, that includes the inseparable you
Wanting to see you rewrite the pages of destiny
Pardon this tiny molecule, dear omniscient!
Am from your factory, wired inside with primordial questions
Every Whys i come up with sighs, tears, and anger
Are my conflicts within my universe, without a referee
Kindly grant me leave for infinite days
As i am suffering from insomnia
Carried over from previous journeys
If i truly had travelled before
The giant bell rings aloud, in the eyes
I hold tight my blanket, dreading the bitter pills
Shut my mind, and shun the strife, for
Am too tired to hear the truths i already knew
Still, I would always believe my mirror that reflects, you!
Whether my debut journey, added coaches, or my last train
And the sands of time i step upon is a mixture
I will sieve the tenses to retain this present
No more roller-coaster rides, questioning the cycle
For i belong neither to my pasts nor
I cling to the oracle of the morrows
All i want to know is, am now, am here, and breathe peace.
UPON THE NIGHT`S CROWN...
Madhumathi. H
Does the night
Hide the moon
At a secret place
While painting the sky
The dense dark blue
Competing with the black
Darkness spreads like a gushing river...
Slowly
The luminous moon
Emerges from its hiding place
As the most precious stone
Upon the night's crown...
Blinking
Like a bored child in an empty park
The crescent moon
Looks around, and sighs...
Sa. Re. Ga. Ma. Pa...
Each star appears like swaras
And
The moon smiles brighter
Merrily welcoming Her friends
Dreams, and lullabies
Would follow...
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.
CARVED SMILE
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
Far away, a baby is born
With stones in his mouth,
Carrying the hopes of his father
In his larynx—
That he could neither gulp,
Nor spit out.
He realizes crying is a luxury.
They say—
It’s the beginning of training,
Training for survival amidst chaos.
The path he will walk is never his.
His destiny is
what his father once dreamt of.
Every word is a needle—
Piercing his bones
And carving scrimshaws.
Every glance is a mirror—
Showing a black hole
Swallowing his dreams.
So he practices.
He folds his stomach
Before he learns to breathe.
He jokes about his teeth—
Flattened with obedience,
Incapable of chewing their own anger,
Before they can.
In the dead of night,
He dreams of being the Joker,
Where his smile is just a scar—
His mouth cut and carved by stones
He is carrying since birth.
Because laughter is lighter
When you throw it at yourself.
RELIGION OF PASSING FEET
Sushree Gayatri Nayak
Outside of a temple,
On the edge of the footpath,
A mommy dog lies still—
With red streaks on her back,
The handwriting of cruelty.
Two puppies howl beside her—
As if asking God,
“Was she feeding us her sin?
Then why do you give us this life?”
Their eyes spill questions
No one stops to answer.
People pass—
Feet busy,
Hearts seem elsewhere.
And there, beside them,
God is dying in the gutter.
His body is floating
With a chip wrapper,
A plastic bottle
And humanity.
Still, the crowd moves
Towards the temple
To worship stone.
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.
She’s hot, diva- like my friend did say
Rides her HD bike in a professional way
Racing thrills, her heart’s desire
Short hair, cool style, her spirit on fire
Shorts and tees, a casual flair
She’s got the look beyond compare
Hot and cool, the perfect blend
My friend’s words echoed, ah, what a trend!
My views were in stark contrast to what she said
The ones in saris and bindis red
Jasmine strings on shiny heads
Long hair flowing, confidence high
Boardroom speeches they take to the sky
Family love, a treasured core
Breastfeeding babies, with love evermore
Are true divas, I firmly said!
These women shine with inner glow
A beauty that’s timeless as they grow.
Others may sparkle with fleeting flair
But these women glow beyond compare
Like diyas spreading light, pure and true
Their effervescence and elegance forever, touches hearts anew.
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.
WHERE OLIVE BRANCHES ONCE GREW
Jay Jagdev
We buy peace with loaded chambers
and name it a truce.
After levelling the muzzles at the place
where olive branches once grew.
When each treaty is signed
with the blood of the loser.
The wound beneath him keeps breathing,
biding his time against the victor.
A family of a fallen soldier lingers,
clinging to unused shoes and a uniform.
The town keeps their echoes,
in an abandoned school, a burnt doll in the playpen.
When the hot barrel speaks,
the quiet of the dead answers.
Will peace ever come to a place
stitched with old wounds?
Searching for peace,
unsure how it looks.
Pausing after a battle,
with the mind eying the next?
We speak of peace
only when victory wears our name.
Never listening to the quiet within us,
gagged and bound to a chain.
Jay Jagdev is an entrepreneur, academic and author. He is a popular blogger and an essayist. His foray into poetry is new. His essays are regularly published in Odishabytes and his poems on life and relationships have been featured in KabitaLive.
He is known for his work on sustainable development and policy implementation. As the President of the Udaygiri Foundation, he works to preserve and develop native language, literature, and heritage by improving its usage and consumption. More can be known about him on www.jpjagdev.com
Time fleets away,
the temperature soars
like an eagle in the east sky!
The waves inflate,
the glaciers melt
promise to fetch in
the days of doom!
Shattered forests,
shameless human habitat,
Incorrigible existence!
Realisation -
a distant story,
selfishness zoomed,
selfishness a blatant truth!
The tests of time,
immortal and invaluable!
The Lord smiles,
loves to shower the grace!
Yet He is the Creator.
Preservation is inevitable.
But He punishes too,
avenges!
Manifestation of Nature,
DIVINE RETRIBUTION !!
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.
Light and dark are two sides of life
Changing with times as joy and strife
Light, we can see, because dark hides
As one they live on opposite sides
Every pain and struggle may dull our eyes
Mind will fight to learn lessons at a price
But this low was needed to seek the high
To feel the joy, one should know to cry
Without seeing the dark,
how can you value light?
Without the dark sky
How can stars shine bright?
Seek the light, but know the dark side
Bad should be understood
For the good to thrive
When we dwell on the light
The shadow recedes
When we choose to be right
Nagging doubts cease
As the earth rotates
So does our day and night
Let’s be aware of both
Then life can be a delight.
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.
THE SUN THAT NEVER SETS
Darsana Kalarickal
On a sleepless night,
when I hold the tip of my father’s finger,
death comes, pushing away
that warm touch like snow.
As father lies without opening his eyes,
rain gathers in the corners of my eyes.
The drops that break their bounds and fall
turn into a burning ache within my chest.
mother may be the first
one who showed the moon and feed me,
but it was father who first showed me
the burning sun and taught me life.
In the scorching summer heat, my father,
like a great tree, stretched out branches.
In that shade, beside mother,
we never knew what this heat meant.
When that blazing sun at dusk
hurried to come to rest,
father’s rhythm of breath also stopped—
the sun of life had set.
Even today, when I reach that doorstep,
my eyes still keep searching, always—
beyond that half-closed door,
might father be there on the bed?
No—while gently wiping away
the little tears that blur my sight
with the tips of my fingers,
beyond the glass frame on the wall,
father is still smiling softly.
Father is the sun.
Father is hopeful expectation.
Father is the warm touch
that joins my fingertips.
When the depths of words are gathered together
with just a single glance—
How can he set?
On his memories,
every dawn becomes
so beautiful;
life itself rises
with fierce brightness.
*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.
You barely find people
Who read now a days
And I laugh
I laugh at their inability
Inability to see the world
The way I see it
You don't find people who read
You either become one
Or leave
There's a certainty
That follows
Follows with the days
Days that are being left mumbled
And a sun that shines through
A night where the stars howl
And the moon howls back too
There's a life
That's being led
By us or by the one who has put
Their faith in us
Either ways
It moves
And I look at them
Passing by
And giving looks
As if I'm doing something unnatural
And I look back at them
As if they're being alien like
We're not for each other
We don't carry each other's world
We either collide
Or run parallely
There's no in between
And when I say you can't understand
They sigh
And then I sigh too
Cause they actually won't
And I actually can't make them either
So the constant dilemma stays
And I move forward
I've found my world
More or less
It resides inside me
I've found my sky too
And I fly as I want
I'd not let your colours intrude
I've painted it with all shades of grey
And you ask me why
Why should I tell you?
Why should it always has to be about you
Why can't for a moment
All of us mend
To form one eternity
Than two different oblivions
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.
FATHER AT EIGHTY-EIGHT
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
The letters
have turned invisible
long ago
under the influence of cataracts.
Yet, he writes his diary
every day.
Today is the twenty-fifth of April
but he remains paused
at the sixth of April.
Beside his unhearing ear,
I asked—
"How is your health, Father?"
"I am well"—
his brief reply.
The nails on his veined hands
have grown long and wild,
he pays them no mind.
When asked, he says—
"If the barber comes tomorrow, he will cut them."
Now, the years, months, dates, and days
are forgotten to him.
He no longer knows
who is Trump, who is Modi,
or who is Mohan Majhi.
The whole house
is draped in cobwebs,
like the rheum
in the corners of his eyes.
Time has stood still
beside him now.
Living is but a detached longing
for another world.
Through eyes clouded by cataracts,
he gazes into the void,
the Great Void—
as if someone is destined to arrive,
if not today,
then some other day.
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.
I fight with the time
that lied so many times
Whispering another lie each time
Though it appeared so real like a mirage
But my camel refused to give up
My youth never demanded a flawless skin
A skin destined within its flawlessness
There gleamed my eternal spring
And there sang the migratory birds together
The gates of past were closed forever
Welcome to vibrance of every season
They sang the most sonorous notes
Lifting my reborn spirit
Its never too late,give it a try
Tomorrow it will definitely be a sunrise
©Soumen Roy All Rights Reserved
CANVAS OF REPUBLIC DAY
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.
A PRAYER FOR MY MARRIED DAUGHTER
Baldev Samantaray
She creates her own stars
Holds them in her palm
She sprinkles them around
Bathes in them
For her small pleasures
She is alone
With myriad hands
Moving in unison
Without touching her
How long can she weave the pattern
And slip into that
Just to live another day
How long can she collect the stars
I wish I could add a few
To her daily dreams
Dreams that she can touch
And a few she can talk with
I wish I can touch her
Outstretched baby palms
That float over the hem
Of her swirling skirt
With twisted fingers
That point nowhere
I wish her to be
one of my characters
I could have tampered with
I could have brushed her
with gold dust
I want the stars
To give her the lustre of life
Let her walk
On the fault lines of my palm
I want the wrinkles
To hold her firm
And steady
I wish to live ever for her
Her cries her anguish
She hides under the hem
Fearing the moist eyes
And falling droplets
Will wash the wrinkles
To wither and fall off.
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.
Half drunk coffee
forgotten and cold
tried to keep you awake
projects and charts
boss's reminder.
a scratched laptop
you are burried in
figures and e-mails
blink like stars
salsa fingers on keypad.
files and assignments
numerous calls
ocean of voices
backpains and eyestrains
deadlines and targets .
fall asleep after midnight
messy couch shrinks
fourteen unanswered calls
i switch off
another day ends.
caravan of sealed thoughts
casting mahogony nights
over my silly walls
are the stars fading or
my eyes fogged with brine ?
i worshipped castrated love gods
ruptured veins cold blooded
fire twisting souls kissed the moon
now wandering in the graveyard of
wounded shadows .
Do the chainsmoker lovers in winter
smell like snow
when their faces are half-buried in white grass
under the damp sunless trees
in the bleak mid-winter
waiting for the windows to glow ?
scarf-wrapped female cheeks burn in cold
steal firewood and warm snow
men veins
whose lips and words are broken and blue
do the chainsmoker lovers live upto spring to smell like buds when their fingers are tucked with flowers not smoky shafts that drop bloodstains ?
Shubhra Singh was born at Agartala in 1979 and has a PGD in mass communication and journalism. Currently a homemaker she spends her free time in reading , writing , painting and teaching students at home . A few of her poems/articles have been appeared on local newspapers and little magazines , North east Colors , Dainik Sambad , Antakaran (Bengali) , North East INTERFACE and a poetry collection book ( with other poets ) from Niharika Publishers called Kirat .
Pleasure and pain are time bound
And thus short lived.
Joy being infinite
Is timeless,
The unheard melody.
Set in Karma
And enthralled
Not conscious of time
You simply receive and pass
What blooms in you like flowers
in a thousand minds.
From the dark depth of death-in-life
Comes up an inquiring being
As faithful and compassionate as the Holy Ape
To search for the abducted meaning.
BADATOTA, MY PRETTY LITTLE WORLD
(For my grandfather Sri Chaitan Patsani)
Badatota is my pretty little world
From where I began.
Badatota is my village
Where I was born years back
And pissed on my grandpa’s face
When I was a baby.
Humorous and fun-loving,
He would talk of the affair
With pride and pleasure.
Kind, compassionate and loving
With passion for riding and adventure,
Grandpa died a year after,
Probably of heart attack,
While the fish he brought
Was waiting half burnt.
That made the difference
To me and papa as well
And marked the beginning.
I would sit watching from the verandah
Paper boats and bubbles
In the muddy flow of rain water.
I would sing of unknown heights
Transported to the glorious past
And that divine steady movement,
Baliyatra and boita bandan,
The obstinacy of the paikas not to give in,
And equally ecstatic
I would enjoy swimming in the village pond
Floating like a boat on the surface
And pulling in to the centre.
I would pray the five-faced Mahavir
After bath and drink the tulsi-water
Kept in a stone bowl for devotees.
Chandan Yatra, Dola or Jhulan,
All would make me festive
And drunken to be Blakean,
And I would be sad to see it end.
The southern wind blowing across
The woods on the Barunai Hill,
Pleasures and pastimes
In my heavy heart would fill.
The school, the tools
And elder grandpa’s palm-leaf poetry,
The village versifier-cum-mason
Chintamani’s half-baked dream,
Odishi kirtan
And after all my people’s toil
To rise above the ordinary
Half sunk in petty quarrels
And mediocre means,
Their innocent mischief and failures,
Frail yet fascinating,
Their pleasure in being alive
And their humble desire to be acting,
What might be the measure;
All built in me a sense of being,
A keen sense of pride and positivism
That I nursed secretly,
The inorganic glory
Embedded in the organic,
Epitomized in its quietness.
Badatota is my starting point from where
I began moving in and around, spinning.
More than a mere place, a place of accident,
Badatota is that which made me learn what I am.
Badatota is my distant moon, my destiny
And destination under those banyan trees,
Its hanging roots longing for ground, reflecting
All possible dimensions of living and the purpose.
Firm and vital, moving in stillness,
Badatota, in fact, is my grave and womb,
My still centre and extension
Where I am to meet my end soon.
(From the poetry collection
VOICE OF THE VALLEY, 1993
Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India)
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.
BETWEEN WALLS, A WINDOW
Lopamudra Mishra
These walls do not hold me—
they only pause my feet.
The world still moves within me,
in rhythms slow, incomplete.
My steps are quiet echoes,
my days stretched thin and long,
yet somewhere in this stillness
is the making of a song.
I ache for open distances,
for roads I used to claim,
but time is softly teaching
that I am not the same.
Not weaker—just unfolding,
not trapped—just learning rest,
like dawn before it rises,
like breath within the chest.
And when these doors swing open,
as surely they will do,
I’ll walk not just with freedom—
but with a deeper view.
Lopamudra Mishra,
Bhubaneswar.
AT THE END OF THE MONTH
Lopamudra Mishra
At the end of the month,
it is not merely a salary that arrives—
it is a quiet reassurance
folded into numbers.
It carries the weight of sleepless nights,
the ache of unfinished battles,
the courage to rise again
after every setback life delivers.
Within that salary live
a thousand silent dreams—
a mother’s comfort,
a father’s pride,
a child’s future,
and the small joys
we promise ourselves to keep alive.
It is more than money resting in our hands;
it is identity earned with patience,
self-worth shaped through struggle,
a reflection of how fiercely
we kept moving forward.
When happiness visits,
the salary becomes celebration.
When sorrow arrives,
it becomes survival.
Behind every paycheck
are daily quarrels,
daily expenses,
unfinished plans,
careful investments,
and hopes quietly waiting
for their turn to bloom.
At the end of it all,
the salary matters—
not because currency defines life,
but because emotions do.
For hidden inside that monthly earning
are aspirations, responsibilities,
love, sacrifice,
and the dream of becoming
someone we once promised ourselves to be.
Lopamudra Mishra, a contemporary poet, author, translator, editor, social activist, motivational speaker, orator and personality development coach, hails from Bhubaneswar, Odisha.
Her writings are intended to touch the inner chord softly by emphasizing on "Sense and
Sensibility" of attachment and bonding. She has six books till date on her name- “Rhyme of Rain”,
“First Rain”,” Tingling Parables”, “Rivulet of Emotions”, “Red Tulips” and “Hurricane Heart under the Honeyed Sky”. Her poems have been published in various magazines and anthologies. She has been Editor of Radical Rhythm-4 & Co-editor of Radical Rhythm Series and Durga.
She is a proud alumnus of Sailabala Women’s college and Ravenshaw University.
When the heart drums wild
and the mind grows sore with mess,
Like a silver eel in water
slip free from the grasp of hours
and surface into stillness,
where time loosens its hold,
where the air is cool and clean,
and the mountains wear a shawl of mist.
Where the fragrance of coffee
feels richer than memory,
And a gentle breeze drifts
through lemon groves
reluctant to un-surround.
While the slanting, sun-licked lake
laps softly at our feet,
And the horizon stretches
farther than infinity..
Our gaze, bound between us,
refuses to loosen,
The cafe bench beneath
fluffs into clouds of snow,
bearing us lightly
between breath and dream.
Daybreak and dusk
fold into one another
in the calm, untamed ocean
of your eyes..
And we begin to melt,
like a lone polar iceberg,
at the tender arrival
of a rare sun
Lie down, staring at the
copper coloured
tender mango leaves above,
all in a blur..
As our eyes rest half-closed
between waking and dream
with just our fingers touching
each other,
surrendered to the
pulse of the nature..
In the sweetness
of doing nothing..
In the sweetness
of doing nothing..
Haris Yoonus
Dubai
Rani Jacob is a Neonatal Nurse from UK. She is interested in arts and literatures. She has published in Poetry book called Ormakal Sukshikkanullathalla ( memories not to keep ) in Malayalam last year .
DRAUPADI AND SITA ARE STILL ALIVE
Sudipta Mishra
Draupadi and Sita are still alive!
They breathe
within deep dark silence
of centuries,
buried beneath charred memories.
Can't you acknowledge them?
With scars stiched into their smiles,
they laugh in pretence!
With purple-blue reddish bruises
They stand before us,
quietly mocking
our hypocrisies.
Can't you notice them?
They are the muted ones we buried alive
behind the imperial walls of falsehood.
Yet, they return
again and again
through every shattered night of quietness.
Still, they survive.
In the predatory eyes of molesters,
they struggled to breathe;
their voices, smothered for ages,
Still rise like fire beneath the ash.
They ask
not for pity,
only for kindness.
Can you measure
the weight of their years of trauma?
Still, they are looted of peace pushed,
dragged through hell...
stripped of honour,
Yet, they veil their anguish beneath twelve yards of silken silence.
Can't you see them now?
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.
For less than 900 rupees
The sun seems to shine
On two little faces in line.
We are at the Premier Stationery shop
They hop along stairs and meander through aisles
Lost in a haze of bottled colours.
They turn each one and choose a hue
Yellows, blues and greens and a shade of purple dew.
The elder one inspects her sister’s basket.
Aha! You have 15. So another four she picks to equal the score.
Then off to the brushes section they go-
Round ones, flat ones and fan shaped ones,
As a forest looms large on a canvas unseen.
Their head roves on rows and rows of shelves that my stiff legs cannot see.
One picks a black canvas and asks, ‘Ammi, is this costly?’
‘Oh No, My child, Pick what you like.’
In innocence she sits and chooses the boards.
An easel they spy and look up with enquiring eye.
I nod and into the basket they lightly place
And rush to the billing counter to find the first space.
Now the treasure is theirs in each separate bag.
Earlier, my 5 year old had proudly marched off,
Boarding ticket and metallic paint in hand.
How little a child needs for the bloom of a smile!
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.
Where clouds gather upon heavy clouds,
Condensing only into a burning thirst,
The parched earth dies of sheer hunger—
The monsoon passes, yet no storm arrives.
Deep within the homestead of the heart,
A desperate wish finds no place to rest.
Everything simply drifts away on the wind;
Did the closed doors ever open at all?
Through silent, unspoken invitations,
In secret whispers and tender pleas,
Even after striking a compromise with the clouds—
They never pour down as the rains of July.
RAIN INTOXICATION
Anindita Sen
The monsoon dances in wild abandon—
Who longs for whom, and when?
In this euphoric shade of pure trance,
Come, let us lose ourselves!
The fragile vine on the flimsy roof
Gathers handfuls of falling rain,
Spreading a sweet, honeyed fragrance
At the feet of the water nymph.
The oleander's fallen passion
Smears intoxication across the body,
In the wild rhythm of overflowing waters,
During this drenched hour of longing.
In this euphoric shade of pure trance,
Come, let us get drunk in the rain!
TOSSED BY THE STORM
Anindita Sen
Tossed and turning in the tempest
Waves rage here and there
Yet everyone's boat is different
Blocking the way forward!
Even then, pearly drops sway—
Tiny specks of hope
Has the time still not come
To hold each other in the same rope!
In the midst of trapped times
The reflection of relationship
Snaps away... yet returns
A prism of catching grace!
Where danger lies in ambush—
An anonymous oblivion…
Daily bread the weekend worries
Tilting rice tin to see
If it might last a few more days
If it lengthens my dream!
Returning from death's kiss,
Losing a loved one,
Difficult time will surely pass
The remainder of it is just leftovers!
We may not be in the same boat
The storm is contemporaneous
"Steady the helm, steady it, brother,"
The roar belongs to everyone!
If only all fears were washed away by rain!
Melting away mistrust and
The garland of anxieties,
If only someone would come and declare—
At least one person—
"All... fears... are... lies!”
Let any messiah challenge the sun
Before the lines of the equator,
Throwing away the impurities of the lungs...
With a vaccine syringe!
Did the shoulder bound to the cross turn back even once
Before walking into the execution ground?
The final knell did not ring out after all
In church after church....?
The overwhelmed man, whose head touched his knees,
Will raise both hands above his head
Now,
Standing on the prayer bench
He will say...."You are great!"
Anindita Sen is a bilingual published author and Translator.She has published seven collection of poetry and four novels in her credit. She is a well known translator, a regular contributors to various literary journals in English as well as in Bengali. She was awarded a few literary awards. As a profession, she was a Biology teacher associated with Hem Sheela Model School based at Durgapur, West Bengal.She lives in Asansol, West Bengal.
Vibrance galore
Full of fragrance
Extremely delicate
Shining radiance
Stunning and breathtaking
Velvety waxy blooms
Dancing to the tunes of the gentle breeze
In Fuchsia pink and Lavender frilled gowns
Dancing the night away
With green stilettos
Nature the pristine ballroom
Nature's skillful artistry
As they swirl and twirl in precise steps
Showcasing graceful manoeuvres
Intricate movements
Each one narrating her own storyline
In complete silence
As passersby watch them
In awe and admiration
Inducing a deep sense of solace
Spectators are left tickled pink
In a state of bliss and rapture.
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)
All day long
The heat kept whining
At the doorstep.
The pond
At the corner
Retreated in silence
Into slumber.
At daybreak
The angel of the house
Folded her sighs
With precision.
At night
The breeze arrived
All of a sudden:
An apology.
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).
WHEN I DIE (POEM)
Dr. S. Padmapriya
When I die,
Keep two flowers by my side,
The resting soul will think,
That it is remembered by!
When I die,
Don't be angry with me,
I too might have erred,
I am not perfect...I agree!
When I die,
Don't cry too much,
There are better things to do,
Than wish the dead 'Bye'!
Still, it shall prithee my heart,
That someone remembers me,
Apogee or absentee,
THE BRAVE GENERAL ( A POEM)
Dr. S. Padmapriya
The brave General,
Marched on and on!
Seeing the formidable enemy,
His army became forlorn.
Turning their backs on the General,
They disappeared on that morn.
The brave General,
Marched on and on.
He turned and to his profound shock,
Found that his men were gone!
The brave General marched on and on,
Seeing the General with his serene visage,
The enemy weakened with the fear,
That they would be mercilessly torn.
Expecting to see a great army in a while,
The enemies decided to leave and be gone.
The brave General vanquished the fleeing men with ease,
Marched on and on.
Back home to a hero's welcome,
He thanked his soldiers in front of all,
The people shed tears,
Someone in the crowd said,
"What brave men we have!"
"Yes," replied the brave General,
"Without them,
Would I have been able to march on?"
Dr.S.Padmapriya is a well-known poet and author from India. She began writing poems in English at the tender age of seven. Her poems, short stories, essays, book reviews, forewords, articles( general, critical, and research), and other literary works have been published far and wide.
She is the author of four poetry collections – ‘Great Heights’, ‘The Glittering Galaxy’, ‘Galaxy’ and ‘New Poems’, one novel, ‘The Fiery Women’ and two collections of short stories – ‘Fragments’ and ‘Surreal Stories’.
In addition, multiple non-fiction articles on diverse topics have also been published on various platforms, including in 'New18.com' and 'Organiser'.
CATOGRAPHER
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
Yes, you read it right.
Catographer, the name given by my daughter to a rescued cat.
I have never seen the cat
Nor will I ever see it.
My daughter cares for it.
Back from her chamber, she visits the cat at the shelter.
She takes it to the vet sometimes.
Her caring and the kitten waiting for her…
I find this relation endearing.
I don’t meet it lest I get attached to it.
Sometimes our mother-daughter conversations revolve round Catographer.
Who has taken up a tiny space in my heart.
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist, a national scholar transformed into a globally loved, award-winning poet. Her poems have been translated into 40 world languages and she has published 9 books. A globe trotter she loves calling herself a global citizen. Not only does she write poems but she promotes peace poetry, multilingual poetry, global poetry and passionately promotes indigenous poetry. Paramita believes that by promoting indigenous languages, she can bring some endangered languages into the main stream. In 2019, she got the Gold Rose from MS Production, Buenos Aires, Argentina for promotion of Literature and Culture. Apart from many awards like the Sahityan Samman in 2018, Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore award in 2019, Poetess of Elegance 2019 and many more she was one of the recipients of the prestigious Panorama International Literature award from Greece in 2022. Paramita is the President and Initiator of the Mumbai Chapter of the Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library (IPPL) and also the Cultural Convenor and Literary Coordinator (West India) of the International Society for Intercultural Studies and Research (ISISAR).
Standing here on the sea shore, watching myself fade from the horizon
Am I dying slowly exhaling my life unto thee?
Nope, I don't believe in death
Who comes in silent stealth
When you are my land and I'm your sky
How can I ever say goodbye?
When I am boggled by the questions unanswered,
Every crossword incomplete,
Every game of chess is check mated
When I shower everyone with kindness.
All that I get back is numbness
My deeds go unnoticed
Just as the line drawn on water .
No expectations, no judgements
No words, no obligations
No complaints, no confessions
No compensation I seek
You are a sojourn in my trek
Who labelled me a Meek
You can pour the ocean in a human's heart and it will still be dry, whilst they think
It becomes your obligation to cure their ills
Even in paradise the sun goes down
May be I am naive,
wouldn't Live in a fantasy world that supports their delusions of grandeur,
exploiting others without guilt or shame.
Integrity is mispelled in the dictionery,
compiled by narcissists and hypocrites
Painted faces dressed in grace
And Toxic words dipped in honey wins the race
Leaving me like a confused Ace
Cut off anything that's malignant, I swear
Body or mind, lest it may invade as a tumour
Till you hear the howling of death birds.
I know it's hard to digest the truth ,
which destroys thy castle of illusions mirth .
When desire wanes, it opens the old rusted door of lessons learned.
Breaking the shackles of servitude
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the bliss of their self content caves.
I am an exclamation!!set ablaze.
Leaving those fools in daze.
Leena Thampi is a celebrated author and entrepreneur renowned for her captivating writing style that transcends the ordinary. With six published books ,twelve Anthologies and numerous internationally featured articles, her work has garnered widespread recognition and accolades. Recent being "Author Literary Awards from The Book Channel for her four books across different categories, the 'Women Face of the Year 2024' by Fox Story India, and the City Excellence Awards by Bharat Times. Her literary prowess has also been recognized with Rabindranath Tagore Memorial literary honors and Gujarat Sahitya Academy honors.
Leena's unique narrative voice blends luminous prose, magical realism, myths, and raw life realities, inviting readers into a world of wonder and introspection. A multifaceted talent, she is a certified child psychologist, relationship coach, and TEFL trainer, and serves as Co-founder and COO of HAVL Hi-Tech Pvt Ltd.
Higher regions of the ethereal world lie within,
Far from mundane dealings, plus-minus, gloom and sin.
The intrinsic journey is so pious,pure and free from all frivolities,
That makes one delve deep in the ocean of celestial realities.
Visiting any shrine and performing all rituals or none can't be fructified,
Unless or until one's inner and intent with good deeds stand justified.
Wink within the Supreme Power that perpetually enlightens us every time ,
But for our arrogance fraught with whim and fancy makes us deaf to listen to life's chime.
COMPOSITE CAMPUS OF SURVIVAL
Dr R. S.Tewari
Life unfolds the vista of myriad miracles of love ,lore and mundane evolution ,
Lies in which the itinerary of trust , tranquility,struggle and celestial resolution.
All the challenges, threats and thunders weave the texture of life
That make man stronger, and keeps his spirits hilarious for strife.
All ups and downs,joys and sorrows followed by success and failure
Make life a composite campus for survival in the lap of Nature rare.
Let us decorate this blessed zone with fragrant flowers of good deeds and duties,
Making human stay meaningful,far off all storms of gloom,sin and insensibilities.
LIFE IS ANOTHER NAME...
Dr R. S.Tewari
When pragmatic wisdom and truth travel together,
We aren't scared of challenges and mark well what is foul and fair.
'To err is human' is true ,yet improving and proving stand equally truer,
The journey may be cumbersome ,but the rooted intent makes it rare.
Ethics,logic and concepts make life truly composite and goal- oriented,
Deviation from one's faith and resolve breeds unrest ,making future deserted.
Life is another name of
'live and let live' with values and humanity,
Opening new doors of optimism with modernity, taming every adversity.
TO UNEARTH PEARLS
Dr R. S.Tewari
Be static, judicious , honest and truly optimistic,
Despite all strife,keep your head high and bellistic.
Prejudices and preoccupations make one weak and violent ,
Reacting and responding in such state distort the intent.
Will power with positivity far from mal- practices strengthens one's heart and mind
To face and fight out all odds, and sustain in ups and downs ,yet remain kind.
Throw away all that is greedy, beguiled, unfair and arrogant,
Stand firm with valour, rationality, selfless sustenance significant.
The earth will rise and the sky 'll descend to greet you and your ideals,
And your foot-prints shall surely be treaded by the youth to unearth pearls.
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.
POETIC HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Poetry is mighty and majestic
Unequalled in magnitude
Unrivalled in multitude
For its imagination is fantastic
Poetry is vibrant in vision
Unlike science and mathematics
With limitations and boundaries
With nothing more, nothing less,
Like the apple flown high falls to the ground
Like (a+b)2 is a2+b2+2ab
To be noted in the spectrum of a line.
Poetry is a sojourn in the present
Touching the past and the future
To be eternal into the flow eternal
In the fountain of minds
As seen through the telescope of imagination
Poetry is the art born in mind
To be appealing to the heart
Like sunrays, beams and twinkles
It is the lens to visualise
Mountain heights and ocean depths
A huge mansion to handle in the vacuum
It lights two hemispheres with its rays
At a time, in a fraction of time
It is a free bird to fly spree
All over the world sans VISA
Breaking all walls built by man.
MY EMOTIONS AS FALLING FLOWER
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
All my life I faced storm and shower
With all powers as a warrior
I was the queen in crown
Now I am Flower in wilt and wither
My moments are a few in count down
Their number is going to be zero,
For I am conscious of time’s flow,
Past, present, and future
That I am going to fall soon I know
Innumerable emotions in my heart.
All hearty look at my plight in tear
Recalling my life from dreaming as a bud
Unto my falling as a flower
I was the host to invite every guest
For the fabulous, delicious fest,
Relishing, revelling,
As a freshly, fully bloomed flower
As gleam to shatter gloom
Like the moon with its cool beams
Like the sun with its warm rays.
All were in excessive joys,
Hearing my unheard melodies
Watching my charms on petal brow
With fragrance to fill the air
Sweetening and gladdening.
The soft touch of petal couch
The sweet substance at my heart
All for the palatal feast
As honeyed cud to revel in excel
Taste buds eager to open,
I welcomed all the five senses
For their sensuous and sumptuous feast
Still, I dream…I love to live longer.
Now I am the falling flower in moments
In the form of wrinkles on my pretty face
As twinkles of colours faded in my race
Like dark clouds to hide bright rays,
The flaw of my supernal stature.
I know I am going to fall,
I am trodden by turbulent feet
I am on the ground as a fallen flower
Under the feet, I am crushed to paste
I join the womb of my mother soil.
Who gave me life and glory,
Beauty for gaiety to viewers’ plenty.
Though my fall is in the offing,
Inevitable and irresistible?
I am lovely creation for love, I am great
Feeling full life in life short and sweet
In my sojourn I leave my offspring,
The seed for renewal, ever living
I am beauty, I am verity ever.
I am the sermon of the Creator
In my adoration as a flower.
I am for selfless service,
Serving is my wish for creatures’ bliss.
No tear as I am ephemeral
But joy for my blissful service is eternal.
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
ODE TO SILENCE
Dr. Protiva Rani Karmaker
Silence has a sheer beauty
Of magnanimity & purity,
Silence has a depth
Of voice to realize spirituality.
Silence has invisible eyes & ears
To view this world of weary talk & noise,
With deep pauses and anticipation.
Silence has a quietness of Dawn
Profound & sacred stillness,
To embrace hardship
And regenerate broken spirits
Forsaking all odds of days bygone.
Silence! Lovely Silence,
I love thee sometimes
To talk more with nature,
Birds and raindrops in a small tree
You have such a sheer beauty!!!
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.
THE BUILDERS OF THE NATION
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
An amazing experience with my students
Offered me an opportunity for an innovation
Allowed me create another noble generation
They ever moved with great love and affection
I strongly inculcated varied precious qualities
Since they articulated their potentialities
Well planned youngsters with an ambition
Travelled all around while they’ve cognition
Determined team joined higher positions
Enhanced their intelligence and qualifications
Partook in various prestigious competitions
Exhibited their medals and expectations
I always recall naughty students’ acclaim
I gladly remember their name and fame
As they successfully won the war game
Keep up their teachers’ and family name.
LIFELINE
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
When you stand on a pebbled path
Like an immovable big rock
Your eyes speak volumes of ideas
And your challenging feet find ways!
No path is smooth, and no path, tough
You travel where your mind goes
Leaving hundreds of favourite roads,
You chose the one that is less travelled!
Every step taught you a lesson
And every pathway showed you route
You learned what life on this road is,
That made you recognize a lifeline!
Trembling tides in the rough seas
Thundering blue skies at the top
Uneven hills, plateaus and valleys
Labelled you the way you're today!
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
WHO DO YOU CALL A FOOL
Swatilekha Roy
Is it the one
who plants a sapling,
who feeds the soil with his fingers,
who fills buckets when it rains,
and saves every drop?
The one who strokes its leaves,
whispers to the roots,
and waits – years, if needed –
for it to become a tree?
And when it finally fruits,
calls the neighbors over,
cuts it open,
divides his life
Or is it the one
who goes to the market
and buys a tree
already heavy with fruit?
A tree with no earth on its roots,
no history in its bark,
a tree that lived in deep neglect,
carrying the wound of never being loved –
and was declared dead
the moment it was sold.
Swatilekha Roy , She is a bilingual poet,Lecturer ,F.A degree College ,Cachar Assam.She is creative and passionate nature photographer too
A PSEUDONYM CALLED " I "
Harisankar Sreedharan
An undone life's syllables
Lay jumbled in the trash..
A book lost inTranslation;
"Able was I" the garbled
Syntax when rearranged read,
The original text had got
Part erased by accident,
The author's Pen is resting
On a writer's block
"I am waiting for the moment
To return; there's some ink
Still In the pot or it seems so,
The thick, turquoise jar
Doesn't let light pass through!"
Said the writer,
"I can't be rewritten
After all, I was an
Accidental written piece!"
May be the next edition,
Still in the empty space
Between the Cover page
And the blurb, has won
Nomination for a
Guilder's prize!
Here's His, Testament
"You may kindly
Receive it for me!"
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.
BEYOND THE CHAIR
Dr. Niranjan Barik
The Chair makes the person,
The person makes the Chair.
Yet the Chair may also
Make one forget the world.
It may sound the trumpet,
Hurl bombs,
Fume missiles and drones.
But at the thirty-two level
Sat Vikramaditya,
Sword in hand ,
Not to slay,
But to save;
To make Justice blind
To fear and favour.
Why does a person fade
When no longer seated on the Chair?
Then begins the true test
Of man or woman ,
How they live without it.
Some enter the heart;
Some remain
Only in the mind.
BEYOND THE NATURAL
Dr. Niranjan Barik
The bird flying carefree,
Turning somersaults in the sky.
The grasshopper crying out
Its strange, untutored music.
Leaves wearing
A thousand shades of green.
The sun that lights the path —
At times scorching,
At times soothing.
Snowflakes on mountains,
Or spread across the plains,
Silvering the earth
In moonlit silence.
The moon in the sky,
The moon in the lake,
The moon in the trembling pond.
From Ganga to Godavari,
Nature keeps unveiling herself ,
But only to those
Who learns to look
Upward and downward,
Outward and inward.
For what is seen
Is never all.
The quiet blue sea,
The clear, star-studded sky,
The whispering breeze at dawn ,
And then, suddenly,
A tsunami,
An earthquake,
An inferno.
Creation and destruction
Walking hand in hand.
Who shall answer?
Biology?
Chemistry?
Physics?
Or Philosophy?
Perhaps each knows a fragment.
None the whole.
For the more I behold
This vast and restless universe,
The more I begin to feel
That what we call natural
May itself
Be supernatural.
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.
THE SPELLING OF PEACE
Pankhuri Sinha
I now know the number of dogs Euthanized
In the so called kinder parts of this
World, I don't know how
Many pups are brought into
This world each day to make money
For breeders, legal and Illegal!
Sickening to think what we the
Humans, if indeed, there is a race like that
Can do to the she-dogs, the cows
And all other animals, no one has
The time to even think about it!
I mean, we descended from the Cave Men
Who painted after each kill
I mean, there are kids in Gaza
Starving to death and Gaza is
A problem beyond solution since time immemorial
And there are other serious
Things- All about Humanity
There just isn't time and Space
For animal compassion
We are all utilitarians!
Animals are milk , meat, pets
Friends, Companions and all
Other mushy names we give
Them, when we want to
We need to! Its all Utility
Based! This whole world runs
On the concept of demand
And supply , by creating more
And more needs and working
Hard to meet the fulfillment
Of the need, or needs!
Even poetry, stories, arts books
Constantly talk about their own utility!
About selling themselves!
I mean, we are paranoid!
For God's Sake!
But wait a minute! Who reads Poetry ?
Or knows even the meaning of it?
Or even of Paranoia!?
I thought poetry was about
Passion, Mercy, justice and so on but no
Its a Profession
And the commodity that sells
Best in poetry is love
Not just in the Market
But even to the poets!!
Falling in love makes people
Write beautiful poetry
But old timeless love
Is Vintage stuff!
And I haven't even opened
My deportation file!!
I don't know how to spell
Peace, I can only spell War
Cause that's what I lived with
Faced each day! And unfortunately the opposite
Of war is not peace! Or just peace!
Its justice or something
Like that for all that the war did!
Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual poet, story writer and translator from India. Two poetry collections published in English, two story collections published in Hindi, six poetry collections published in Hindi, and many more are lined up. Has been published in many journals, anthologies, home and abroad. Has won many prestigious, national-international awards, like the Girija Kumar Mathur Award, Chitra Kumar Shailesh Matiyani Award, Seemapuri Times Rajeev Gandhi Excellence Award, First prize for poetry by Rajasthan Patrika, awards in Chekhov festival in Yalta and in Premio Besio Poetry competition in Italy, Sahitto award in Bangladesh, and Premio Galateo in Italy for poetry in mother tongue. Has been translated in over twenty seven languages.
She has studied in Delhi University, Symbiosis Pune, SUNY Buffalo, and the University of Calgary, Canada. She has worked in various positions as a journalist, lecturer and a content editor. Has done writing residencies in Hungary and Bulgaria, and attended the Tranas Literature Festival in Sweden.
COMING HOME
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
You might have seen her,
smilingly detaching herself from her shadow,
walking like a woman in her dreams
like a slowly falling star on the lakes,
like a bird that folded its wings and settled down
like a dew drop on a patch of doting grass.
Finally when the breeze cools down
and the morning sky turns red,
the stars twinkle their good byes
She enters, slow and calm
like a sigh frozen on a flake of snow
like a leaf falling from a thoughtful tree
like a silent pebble rolling down a gentle slope.
I can feel her presence,
she has finally come home,
smelling of a man
that is not me.
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.
She: Silk and Thunder, Avantika V Singh et al, Authorspress, New Delhi, Pp 255, Rs. 695/=, ISBN 978-93-6095-059-0
- Reviewed by Jaydeep Sarangi
She: Silk and Thunder , Confluence Volume IX showcases the thunderous confidence and amazing creative energy of contemporary Indian poets writing in English from different soul spaces. Many poets included in this collection are well known; some are less known but extremely talented in spirit and style. Together, the confluence is reached through a mosaic of metaphors of conquest with idioms that are distinct, bold and fresh.
The framework of the anthology consists of ten sections, each one dazzle with internal strength and vitality, gazing through multiple doors of poetic truth. Some poems peep into the ways a woman becomes, some explore divine shakti to shape Indian womanhood. Some poets experiment with the idea of warriors fighting in battles, showing extraordinary capacity for resilience and strength. Poet Jairam Seshadri’s “Foreword” is a vital dose to the anthology, ushering a promised journey towards a luminous fullness of women’s selfhood through poetry. He poignantly maps how women’s contributions transcend all human calculations. Indian Poetry Circle is a powerful platform for poetry where Jairam’s visionary involvement ( and leadership) is an active art; perfection with tenderness.
Poems are corridors of soft happiness, and all poems demand mention at some point in time and space. But, some to me, will stay for all seasons of the mind. In the first section, I read poems by Jairam, Swagata, Anju, Laxmi, Gita, Sampath and Sarala more than four times in different earth rotations, faithfully. Little by little, strides poems slowly made,
“But to work as one--
To glory make(.)”
Editors of his anthology are soul makers. Each poet takes us for a spring ride, treading gently.
All other sections in this well planned collection are really silvered truths of life’s fuzzy realisations, upholding some wonderful poems for the readers to read and cherish. Women’s issues are poeticized as entrenched gender, impacting rights and role-relations in different structures. ‘ A Utopian Dream ‘ by Radha Rao is magical where ‘God smiles at her from the brink of heaven.’ Seasoned poet Sivakami Velliangiri exhibits her control over language and mastery over the images. Her ‘mirror’ image resonates in me even in an alien land. Sathya Venkatesh’s ‘True Reflection’ is a poem of hope in the midst of gutters; ‘this too shall pass’.I read Molly Joseph’s poem with a deep breath. Her power lies with her experienced use of words and images. Some are unforgettable! Some poems in the collection are loud assertions about how society has undervalued the work women perform.
Magical muse Aparna's ‘The Unreachable Abode’ is about a new tribe of women in India. Her fabric is a rare form of delight. Some women face compounded inequalities.
Seasoned poet, Pankajam Kottarath’s ‘The Third Gender’ is a snippet of the heart-warming world where equality and good justice are integral in the system. Poet Malabika Mitra’s ‘Being Docile’ is a poem of strength and fellow feelings through a set of metaphors.
Poet Sangita Kalarickal’s ‘Just Another Day’ describes how women behold the beauty of nature from within, images drawn from our daily acts and chores. Geethanjali Dilip’s ‘ I Am That Woman’ is pure silk. A senior poet, Santosh Bakaya’s ‘Our Stories Repeat’ talks about primordial stories of love and longing. Her cadence is mesmerising.
Beautifully produced, this book serves as a clear vision of society that is consistent with nonbinary intersectional interventions in gender roles. Poet Annie George’s ‘Lighting Up Lives’ examines how a woman with her ‘pure soul sent from above’ celebrates life within her own form; “A masterpiece, a work of art that transforms.” There are others in the collection, with deep roots and colourful wings in poetry, I couldn’t discuss here. But I cherish them inside, quietly but powerfully.
--
Dubbed as ‘Bard on the Banks of Dulung’ Jaydeep Sarangi is an Indian poet, poetry activist with eleven poetry collections in English latest being the half-confession (2024) and a scholar on dalit studies, postcolonial studies and Indian Writings with forty one books anchored in Kolkata/Jhargram,. Widely anthologised and reviewed as a significant contemporary poet Sarangi is on the editorial boards for journals of repute, devoted to marginal studies and poetry criticism. With Rob Harle he has edited six anthologies of poems from Australia and India which are a wealthy literary link between the nations. With Amelia Walker, he has guest edited a special issue for TEXT, Australia. Sarangi has twenty books and several articles/essays/reviews on dalit studies which are an window to the world. His recent article, “The Sociological Self as Palimpsest Caste, Class, Religion, and Gender in the Select Writings of Bama” appeared through Routledge, UK. His recent books include, Within Her Home and Out Side: Essays on Indian English Poetry, Black Eagle, USA Mapping the Mind , Minding The Map:Twenty Contemporary Indian English Poets , Sahitya Akademi, 2023 and A Life Uprooted: A Bengali Dalit Refugee Remembers, Sahitya Akademi, 2023. With many international and national awards in the bag, Sarangi is currently the President of Guild of Indian English Writers, Editors and Critics (GIEWEC) and Vice President, EC, Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata. Living with poets and poetry, Sarangi is the principal of New Alipore College, Kolkata and the president All Bengal Principals’ Council, Calcutta University unit. He may be reached at: jaydeepsarangi1@gmail.com Website : https://jaydeepsarangi.in/
Avantika Vijay Singh is a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She is the author of two solo poetry books i.e., Flowing… in the river of life and Dancing Motes of Starlight (her debut ebook). She is the winner of the Nissim International Award Runners Up 2023. She enjoys writing humour too for her blog “Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives” in the Times of India.
Jaydeep Sarangi is an Indian poet with ten poetry collections in English latest being Memories of Words, poetry activist and scholar on postcolonial studies and Indian Writings with forty one books anchored in Kolkata/Jhargram,.. With Rob Harle he has edited six anthologies of poems from Australia and India which are a wealthy literary link between the nations. With Amelia Walker, he has guest edited a special issue for TEXT, Adelaide (Australia). His recent books include, Mapping the Mind , Minding The Map:Twenty Contemporary Indian English Poets , Sahitya Akademi, 2023 and A Life Uprooted: A Bengali Dalit Refugee Remembers, Sahitya Akademi, 2023. Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map ( 2023, Sahitya Akademi) is his latest book. Sarangi is currently the President of Guild of Indian English Writers, Editors and Critics (GIEWEC) and Vice President, EC, Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata. Living with poets and poetry, Sarangi is principal of New Alipore College, KolkataHe may be reached at: jaydeepsarangi1@gmail.com Website : https://jaydeepsarangi.in/
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