Literary Vibes - Edition CLXX (30-Oct-2026) - POEMS
Title : My Ginger (Water colour pencil 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.
Title : The happy witch by Swatishree Parija
Swatishree Parija is from Jagatsinghpur district, Odisha. She is a Graduate with Honours in Geology and has recently earned a B.Ed. degree. She has also qualified in the Teachers' Eligibility Test (TET). She is currently preparing for competitive exams.
From her school days, she has had a keen interest in creative activities. Her hobbies include writing, painting, reading books of different genres and photography. She has been writing short stories and poems in Odia, English, and Hindi since for the past many years.
She has actively participated in various speech, painting, and essay-writing competitions and has received several awards and prizes at the school, district, and state levels.
Dear Readers,
Happy to present to you the 170th edition of LiteraryVibes. In this festive season, with Dussehra behind us and Deepavali round the corner, what better way to enjoy the days than curling up with this wonderful literary magazine and soak up the sweet taste of good literature? I am sure the nice stories and fine poems in LV170 will bring joy to your heart. Let us raise a toast to the enthusiastic poets and tireless writers who have contributed to the magazine and made it possible for us to enjoy the articles.
As I write this the news of devastation in coastal Andhra Pradesh due to Cyclone Arnab bring tears to eyes. Let us spare a thought for the unfortunate victims and offer a prayer to God to bring them succour. When we were students fifty-sixty years back, cyclones and floods used to come once in a decade. Now they come four to five times a year, bringing untold sufferings to the hapless poor. Unfortunately it is the rich who play with nature with their digging, cutting and burning but it is the poor who pay the price. When the houses of the poor are razed to the ground, battered by Cyclone and floods; the rich still sit in air-conditioned rooms watching cricket or movies on their television. That's the irony of life and an aberration in God's creation. The innocent have to often pay for the guilt of the devious, unscrupulous exploiters.
In this month of important festivals I am aware we offer copious prayers to Gods and Goddessss to give us extra blessings so that we feel inspired to lead a better, richer life. As a coincidence I came across a couple of stories in internet which are very topical and extraordinarily relevant for all of us. I wonder how many of us will draw the right kind of inspiration from them and enrich our life. I wish all of us could ! Here are the stories. The authorship is unknown but our gratitude to whoever wrote them to teach us that life has a lot to offer, we should know how to absorb it.
1. A SUCCESS STORY
He thought he was the successful one in the family.
He had a job, a salary, and a career he was proud of.
His wife stayed home with their three children.
To him, she was simply a stay-at-home mom.
But two weeks after he said those words to her, something happened that completely changed the way he saw his wife.
It started on an ordinary morning.
The house was full of noise.
The children were arguing, the baby was crying, and dishes were waiting to be washed. His wife, Anna, was moving from one task to another without even stopping.
She was preparing breakfast, taking care of the children, and trying to keep the house under control.
Then she mentioned something.
Her high school reunion was coming up.
It had been ten years since she graduated, and she was thinking about going.
Instead of supporting her, her husband laughed.
He asked her what she would even talk about at the reunion.
Then he said something that hurt her deeply.
“You're just a stay-at-home mom.”
He did not think much about the words at the time.
But Anna did.
She became quiet.
She did not argue or get angry.
She simply turned back to her work.
But something between them had changed.
A few days passed.
Anna continued doing everything she normally did. The children were cared for, meals were prepared, and the house continued to run.
But she was no longer the same.
She talked less.
She smiled less.
At night, she stopped reaching for him.
Her husband noticed the distance but convinced himself that she would eventually forget what he had said.
He was wrong.
Two weeks later, a large package arrived at their home.
It was addressed to Anna.
There was no return address.
His wife was upstairs with the baby, so he brought the package inside.
He became curious and opened it.
Inside was a framed photograph of Anna's high school graduating class.
There were many signatures around the picture.
Behind the frame was a handwritten note.
He started reading it.
The note was from Anna's old classmates.
They said they missed her at the reunion.
They said they noticed that she was not there.
Most importantly, they reminded her that she should be proud of the life she had built.
They called her a wonderful mother.
They told her that raising children and caring for a family was important work.
Then they invited her to the next reunion.
Her husband read the note several times.
One name caught his attention.
It belonged to Anna's closest school friend, who was now a successful surgeon.
For years, he had used people like her as examples of what success looked like.
But now he realized something.
He had been comparing two completely different lives.
He had looked at a job and a salary and called that success.
But he had failed to see what his wife did every single day.
He thought about the nights she stayed awake with the children while he slept.
He thought about the birthdays she planned, the appointments she remembered, the meals she prepared, and all the small problems she solved without asking for help.
She was doing work that nobody applauded.
Work that had no salary.
Work that had no job title.
But without her, their family would not work the same way.
And he had reduced all of that to one sentence:
“Just a stay-at-home mom.”
When Anna came downstairs, she saw the opened package.
She looked disappointed but did not become angry.
Her husband apologized.
He told her that he had been wrong.
He finally understood that earning money was not the only way to have value.
He told her that she was not “just” a mother.
She was the person who helped hold their entire family together.
Anna listened quietly.
Then she picked up the photograph and looked at the signatures.
She told him something that surprised him.
She thought her old friends had forgotten her.
She had felt like she no longer had a life outside the home.
That was when he understood how deeply his words had hurt her.
He had not simply insulted her job.
He had made her feel that her entire life had no value.
From that day, he started seeing her differently.
He realized that being a stay-at-home mom was not an easy life.
It was real work.
It required patience, energy, love, and responsibility every single day.
The photograph now hangs in their hallway.
Not as a reminder of the reunion Anna missed, but as a reminder of her value.
And her husband learned a lesson he would never forget:
Success is not only about money, job titles, or promotions.
Sometimes, the most important work in the world happens quietly at home.
And the people who do that work deserve to be respected too.
A person does not become valuable because of a salary.
They are valuable because of what they give, what they build, and the lives they touch.
Sometimes, we spend so much time chasing success that we fail to notice the person making our success possible.
2. THE MAGIC OF WRITING
He was sent to a mental hospital three times and later became one of the world's top-selling authors. His most popular book has sold over 150 million copies and has been translated into more than 80 languages.
They tied him to a table and turned on the electricity. He was just a teenager whose only crime was wanting to be a writer instead of a lawyer. His panicked parents thought his creative mind was a sign of insanity and committed him to a psychiatric institution three times.
Yet, decades later, that same man sat down and wrote a book that would change the world in just fourteen days.
His name is Paulo Coelho, and his story proves that our harshest critics are often completely wrong about our future.
In 1988, Paulo poured his soul into a simple fable about a shepherd boy chasing a dream in the desert. He called it "The Alchemist." He knew it was special, but the publishing world didn't care.
The first publishing house to print the book watched it sit on the shelves gathering dust. Sales were so poor that they officially dropped it and gave him back the rights.
They told him the book was a complete failure. Anyone else would have given up right then. After all, the experts had spoken out. But Paulo had survived actual electroconvulsive therapy; he wasn't going to let a rejection letter stop him.
He firmly believed in the central message of his book, which states that when you want something, the universe conspires to help you.
He refused to give up. Paulo found a second publisher willing to give him a chance, and then something wonderful happened. It wasn't a resounding success due to a massive and expensive marketing campaign. The book grew slowly, almost whispering.
One person read it, felt a change in their heart, and passed it on to a friend. That friend passed it on to another.
Soon, that whisper turned into a roar.
The book traveled from the streets of Brazil to the entire world. Today, The Alchemist is one of the most successful books in human history. It has sold over 150 million copies and has been translated into more than 80 languages.
It sits on the desks of the most powerful world leaders and in the backpacks of penniless students.
If Paulo had listened to his parents, he would have spent his life as an unhappy lawyer. If he had listened to his first publisher, his masterpiece would have been lost forever. Instead, he chose to trust his inner voice.
He showed the world that the only true failure in life is refusing to begin the journey, or giving up the moment someone says no.
Your current difficulties are not a punishment. They are simply preparation for the wonderful things that await you along the way.
Keep moving forward, because the world is waiting for your story.
...................
Hope you will like the two stories which are truly inspirational. Please share the LV170 with your friends and relatives through the following links:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/745 (Poems)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/744 (Short Stories and Anecdotes)
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/743 (Young Magic)
Please spare a few minutes to offer your feedback on the poems and stories in the Comments Box located at the bottom of the relevant page.
Take care, relax with LiteraryVibes in hand and we will meet again on 27th November, last Friday of next month.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Bhubaneswar, the 30th October, 2026
Table of Contents :: Poems
01) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
02) Dilip Mohapatra
KEEP THE CHANGE
THE BAD ONES
WHEN I START FORGETTING
03) Bibhu Padhi
04) Abani Udgata
05) Sujata Dash
06) Madhumathi. H
A LOVE LETTER TO MY BODY...
POINT OF VIEW, OF MY FAVOURITE PIECE OF CLOTHING... (THE SAREES SPEAK)
07) Dr. Saroj K. Padhi
08) Pradeep Kumar Biswal
09) Satish Pashine
THE MASK
AN APOLOGY FOR BEING RIGHT
THIS WORLD—WHAT A STRANGE PLACE!
10) Lata Krishnan
11) Darsana Kalarickal
12) Lopamudra Mishra
I WALKED BACK TO MYSELF
MY JOURNEY BACK TO MYSELF
MIRROR`S REFLECTION
13) Baldev Samantaray
14) Braja K Sorkar
THE SWORD OF THE EPIC
WHEN THE ICE -AGE COMES
STORY OF A RIVER
15) Kunal Roy
16) Anura Parida
17) Soumen Roy
18) Sudipta Mishra
19) Dr Beena Anil
20) Dr. Rekha Mohanty
21) Anindita Sen
22) Bipin Patsani
23) Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
24) Dr. Rajamouly Katta
LIFE SOJOURN IN TIME
A NATION’S STRENGTH
LIFE: DREAMS AND REALITIES
25) Dr. Niranjan Barik
26) Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
EXISTENTIAL
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
We all exist: our old house,
refrigerator of 2012 make,
old fans, the only old AC
in our only bedroom, micro wave oven,
my 1994 husband and his old wife, me.
Children being away, not included.
We exist, we decay,
not in a fashion the radioactive
substances decay, but our attributes
vanishing one by one - good ones,
bad ones and unmentionable ones -
some unkindly, some kindly .
In most cases like my husband's
deteriorating heart threatening to conk
my nostrils rattling in sleep
louder than a rattle snake
and our leaking flat, we either don't find parts,
repair men, or cooperating neighbours.
Our children, God bless them, are
angelic; and they don't discuss
their breakdown of moods, dreams,
and we, like the wise Magi,
don't pontificate, rather choose
our course by gazing at stars.
Our old souls and the souls
of our old existential house-gadgets
crowd us, compete for attention.
When one blinks indicating
an impending breakdown, my husband
teases me, "Rascal is dying for your attention".
She bled, her body flowered.
Mother called it dirty.
Consecrating rituals
re-installed the sacred.
Father looked out for a prey
to tie her with, pegged, muzzled.
If her desires felt free
like the insects', parasites',
she was called a sinner.
If she held them in lies' leash -
she was considered saintly, enlightened.
She learnt, rather was taught -
free thoughts grew wild, would
breed indiscipline, but could
flourish as lovely little bonsai;
even if her head grew out of her feet.
But she walked out, broke dams,
freed her waters, her thoughts
broke the binds, her bonsai soul
grew unrestrained towards
boundless peaks, Ganga's spans.
She sat free, thought free,
her mouth repeating
no gods' names but her own;
singing hail to silence
praying to herself; feeling sacred.
(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.
KEEP THE CHANGE
Dilip Mohapatra
The cab pulls over the curb
as my destination is reached.
I read the fare on the meter window
showing a figure of one eight eight
and pull out a crisp two hundred rupee note
the rustle of the bill giving me a high
I hand it over to the cabbie
who picks it up dispassionately in one hand
and his other hand fumbling in his pocket
to find the change he wished to return—
And then feeling like a minor royalty
standing at the crossroad of generosity
and empathy
and perhaps a veiled superiority
I say condescendingly:
‘Keep the Change.’
Those were the days
when you could let someone
clean up the literal fractions
of your economic disparity
in the guise of the small mercies
which you thought
erased your guilt
to some extent
but things have changed—
The choice is no longer left with you
when you are presented the bill
with a digital QR code
and as you tap the cold screen
you are forced to choose
from a preset scale of tips
that is rather impersonal and synthetic
and you are robbed of the pleasure
and intimacy that you had enjoyed
when you had said
‘Keep the Change.’
I have often wondered why God
cut off the wings of the guardian cherub
Lucifer the morning star
the harbinger of light
and made him the Prince of darkness—
Why in the Garden of Eden
did the evil serpent appear
and so did the forbidden fruit
to entice the heavenly couple
to disobey God’s decree
and suffer banishment
and loss of immortality?
Why was Tom the cat
created to chase
poor Jerry the mouse endlessly
till eternity?
The baddies crop up everywhere
in stories and history
in movies and poetry
not to speak of
in real lives too
and perhaps they are like spice
that keeps life
from becoming too sweet
too monotonous—
from turning insipid
and vapid.
Perhaps every paradise
needs a serpent in its grass
every story
a shadow at its edge.
WHEN I START FORGETTING
Dilip Mohapatra
When you find me
wandering aimlessly in the memory lane
don’t startle me by asking me
if I know you
for most likely I will fail—
just tell me who you are
and hold my hand and
stay for a while.
When you find me
loitering in a bygone era
a pulsating past
which I feel as my present
don’t jolt me out of my reverie
and show me today’s date.
When you find me
in a verbal duel with you—
where what you say to be real
and what I remember as true
are at loggerheads
please let me win
for your loss doesn’t matter
my win does.
When you find me
smearing my fingers with
curd rice and ice cream
for I have forgotten
the use of spoon
don’t rush to feed me
just tie a bib around my neck
and help me wash my hands.
When you find me
repeating
a story from my school days
which you have heard from me
many times
patiently listen to me—
just understand that
perhaps this is the only story
I remember.
When you find me
suddenly exploding in rage
or burst out crying
or retreat into silence
don’t flip your lid
just try and find out
what could have caused it
and treat me as you would
expect others to treat you
in my shoes.
When you find me
irritable and even hostile
sometimes aggressive and volatile
and feel that I am not the same
person as you remembered—
remember that
I am still me
and the same person you loved
and cared for.
Dilip Mohapatra writes poems that dwell at the threshold where the tangible yields to the ineffable. Rather than describing the world, they uncover the hidden correspondences that bind its disparate realms. Quietly meditative yet intellectually alert, his poetry invites the reader to move beyond appearances into a space where the finite touches the infinite and every ending gestures towards a larger wholeness.
A globally published author, he has to his credit eleven poetry collections, two short story collections and two professional books.Winner of multiple International Awards and recognitions he writes from Pune and is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. His email id is dilipmohapatra@gmail.com
MID-WINTER AFTERNOON
Bibhu Padhi
It is a mid-winter afternoon
and childhood happiness
is a remote dream,
lost somewhere
among the blue
mountains of the east coast.
The trees with their flowers
are meditating on
death and new life,
today and tomorrow.
On the benches
in front of tea stalls
men sit and talk about
the future of my country,
how the new government
has betrayed our faith
in growing things, how
it has transferred all its duties
to the innocent people,
how it has framed
its ill-made laws, ignored
the poverty of our land.
We wait for messengers from
heaven, holding god’s decrees
that might give us the warmth
of March, the crystalline rain
of July, washing away
all our disbeliefs and pains.
But it is still a mid-winter afternoon
and childhood happiness is a remote dream.
Bibhu Padhi was born on 16 January 1951 in Cuttack, Odisha.He studied at Ravenshaw College, Cuttack for Master of Arts in English literature in 1971. He received a Doctor of Letters (D.Litt.) from Utkal University in 1991 in English literature. He has 19 volumes of poetry in English and 5 volumes of poetry in Odia. His poems have been included in numerous anthologies. He has also authored a novel, called Absences. He has written a book on D.H.Lawrence, " D.H.Lawrence: Modes of Fictional Style " and also "Indian Philosophy and Religion : A Reader's Guide ".
Sometimes I write a poem
At may be 2 o clock night
With the eyes closed , yes!
And written by fingers
On God- Knows-what surface
Each word and line sends a flash
Across the dark tarmac on which
It seems fireballs land from nowhere
Do I write or read the poems
As they are being written
As if on a giant screen and
Wish they were my own.
A poem does not belong.
Like the sky or beauty of
Early morning or late night
Hours, a poem decides
To emerge and disappear .
Like those storms in the vein
When the words fail to climb
The wall the waves bring along.
The silent hour deep into the night
When thick silence soaks the ground
When soft touch of another hand
Slips off in a terminal separation.
A ghost of a rhythm lingers still,
tracing lines no paper ever held,
where the breath of what was almost said
dissolves back into the dark.
I do not hold the pen; I am held—
a spectator to my own undoing,
listening as the night gathers its light
and takes back every gift it gave.
Abani Udgata lives in Bhubaneswar. Writes poems both in English and Odia. Udgata has been awarded in all-India poetry competitions and published in anthologies. He has been a regular contributor to LV. Email: abaniudgata@gmail.com
The earth , the sun, the stars
Take time to traverse
Their allotted path
Never in a hurry to overtake and surpass
The seasons quietly perch and gently sprawl
The summer, winter , spring and the fall
Let each other breathe and blossom
Remain well knitted
Like parts of a whole
A leap of faith transpires each time
When a murmuring river enters the roaring sea
A ripe leaf sheds fear
Gently releases hold
Kisses Earth's veneer
Fades gradually, turns brown
Coalesces with the crust
Haven't we all been sufficiently prompted
By such subtleties of life?
To savor our space and pace
Shed fear of eventuality
Embrace each strand of living
And let go of excess belongings?
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.
A LOVE LETTER TO MY BODY...
Madhumathi. H
My dear, kinder home to my soul
They say, “Our body is a temple”
In ruins, are some temples
Likewise, you are, enduring my unresponsiveness to your cries
I apologise, for all the aches, excruciating pain
I never intended to cause…
Every time I try to heal you
Life smirks, thrusts more heartbreak
Anger, fear, fatigue, desolation stuffed head to toe
I know every bone, nerve, muscle layers bear the consequence…
Sleep, stolen from the eyes
I leave you long for rest, a good night’s sleep
Wellness, becoming a mirage…
None have visible symptoms, to believe
Every time you are in pain
How do i prove your agony, to the inconsiderate world?
Chronic, is the most ignored word in pain
Is it fair to write a love letter to you?
An apology, is all i can seek…
Apologies for all the pills, dumped
For all the hospital visits, tests, anxiety, panic
Until I find heart rate calmer
Circadian rhythm in your favour
Until I get rid of guilt, and start feeling good
Until fear, fatigue, stress, are scraped off you…
Until you tell me, “I feel light, energetic, nourished”
Until i take you out to the sea often, on trains
On random trips
Until you get rid of trudging
How can I write without progress, efforts, when love is a verb…
“I am sorry, let’s heal, please stay with me”
Is my only shameless love letter, dipped in guilt…
From the ruins, let’s rise
Let me worship you, offering healing…
Let’s land in love again, breathing hope.
( This poem is a dedication to all the chronic illness sufferers, & those who go through inexplicable challenges, that affect their physical health. Prayers, for everyone's healing, joy, prosperity & peace.)
POINT OF VIEW, OF MY FAVOURITE PIECE OF CLOTHING... (THE SAREES SPEAK)
Madhumathi. H
How beautifully dawned, a therapeutic day, that October
Filled with miracles for her…
Draping sarees, is draping poetry around her soul
Autumn leaves, floral prints, shades of blue
Red, purple, a palette of colors for the elements, seasons…
Poetry, the festival of her soul
To match the muse, theme, she dresses up like a bride
Celebrates art, in joy and surrender…
“Autumn saree”, that’s how she calls me, fondly bought
I carry stories of storm, and the calm
City drenched in rain, uncertain of travel
The morning arrived, magically clear skies, warm people, smooth travel
As she held the mic to read her poem, “Draping autumn”
My maple leaves in many colors, fluttered
Curious eyes from the audience, complimented, blessed her passion
She smiled, blushed, a little teary-eyed too…
Am synonymous to autumn, to the seasons in her
Photographs cherished, of moments framed
Saree, is an emotion to her
I know another friend in “peach and green”, blushing
That’s a beautiful story woven with love…
Vintage hues, textures of her Mom’s sarees
Timeless, precious yards of pure grace…
Sarees to her, are home too…
Amid chaos, pain, poetry is her elixir
Every time she sees, touches, and feels me, she whispers:
“you are poetry, therapy, the universe’s way of hugging my dreams…”
~Madhumathi. H
( This prompt I came across randomly. But the Poem is from real experience of attending YPF - Yercaud Poetry Festival Celebrating "Autumn". 2024. At Pondicherry. Curated by Poet Mrs. Geethanjali Dilip.
Rains & storm phase, but Nature cleared the skies for our travel. Truly a memorable event, & a close-to-heart Saree)
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.
WALK ALONG THE BANK
Dr. Saroj K. Padhi
These days as I take
a few steps in early morning
alone along the empty way
enjoying the cool breeze,
the greenery and bright ray,
beside the bank,
flanked by trees on both sides
that pathetically wait
to be slain soon
for widening of roads;
their overarching boughs
overlooking the poor river
that’s being emptied out
by illegal sand mafia
spelling doom for the future
ground water shrinking into the abyss !
As I move ahead of potholes
patches of tar, idling cattle herds
in the middle of road,
soon the journey is abuzz with
disturbing sounds and smells
emerging from the slums
on both sides in big spells!
As I move on and on
not knowing whereto I’m moving in life
threatened by dooms on all sides ,
suddenly the birds start their ceremonial
screeching of the morn
reviving the temporary joy of dawn !
The dark clouds hanging overhead
grow denser altering mood
making me murmur to myself
‘Is this development at the cost of Nature
not engulfing all that we are creating ?’
When will man learn to behave
snd basis of life thereby save ?
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.
I OWE YOU AN APOLOGY
Pradeep Kumar Biswal
Silently you left last night
We didn’t expect it so soon
I was supposed to visit you
It never came true
In the recent past
I owe an apology to you !
I get your message
Listen to your voice
Over phone at times
Meet you in meetings
Could never say once
How much I adore you !
I had seen you before
In your heydays
When you were a star
In your own world.
A sharp nose
Sparkling eyes
A lasting impression
You had on everyone.
I was then a novice
Trying my hands
In prose and poetry
Hardly you noticed.
Last year you shared
A letter I wrote to you
About two decades ago
How did you preserve it ?
Once two years back
You invited me for dinner
In Press Club here
I cherish those memories.
A tall man you were
Never bent a little
You held your head high
Wherever you stood.
You left so silently
Nobody could notice
There’s a vaccum now
I owe an apology
For not being able
To make a visit !
( In memory of poet JP Das )
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.
Every face
wears a mask,
every eye
carries a dream.
Some hide their pain
behind a smile;
some hide their tears
behind laughter.
Life brings
wounds and worries,
yet a smile
still finds its way
to the lips.
Perhaps
that smile too
is a mask—
or perhaps
it is simply
a way to live.
Who knows
how much one hides,
how much one pretends,
or what lies
beneath the surface?
Who knows
how deeply
someone is broken,
or how quietly
they may be lonely?
Everyone
carries a story
within,
yet writes
another story
upon the face.
Perhaps
this is life’s way—
to keep the truth within
and keep smiling.
For not every truth
can be spoken,
not every pain
can be shown,
and not every tear
can be shed.
Perhaps
the mask
is not always
a disguise.
Perhaps
it helps us
carry our burdens,
face the world,
and remain human.
For every face
has a story
the world
may never see.
AN APOLOGY FOR BEING RIGHT
Satish Pashine
I was told
I was wrong.
So I listened.
I questioned myself.
I waited.
Time moved on.
And then,
slowly,
the truth appeared—
not loudly,
not triumphantly,
but simply
as truth does.
I did not say,
“I told you so.”
There was nothing
to prove.
Instead,
I smiled and said—
“I apologise
for being right.”
Not because
I was wiser.
Not because
I knew more.
Perhaps only because
I had seen
what others
were not yet ready
to see.
Sometimes
being ahead
looks exactly
like being wrong.
And sometimes
truth needs
no defender.
It simply
needs time.
Being right
is not always
a victory.
Sometimes
it is merely
the loneliness
of seeing the truth
a little too early.
THIS WORLD—WHAT A STRANGE PLACE!
Satish Pashine
This world, this world—
what a strange place!
Every kind of person
lives here:
the kind,
the cruel,
the naïve,
the wise,
the clever,
the crazy—
and a few
who are convinced
they are none of these.
Some are so sweet
even sugar
would ask for their recipe.
Some so bitter
even a karela
would feel embarrassed.
Some speak
and win your heart.
Some speak
and make you wonder
why they were given
a mouth in the first place.
Some speak so much
they forget
what they were saying—
yet continue
with the confidence
of someone
who knows everything.
Some words
touch the heart.
Some fly over the head.
And some leave you wondering:
“Brother,
what exactly
were you trying to say?”
But why take
every word seriously?
Why keep an account
of every taunt,
every remark,
every raised eyebrow?
If you do that,
when will you live?
Sometimes
the original matter
gets lost along the way.
One person speaks.
Another reacts.
A third explains
the reaction.
Soon,
nobody remembers
what started it.
The subject changes.
The sides change.
And the noise
becomes bigger
than the matter itself.
Sometimes
we hear words
through our own hurt
and answer
what we imagined
rather than what was said.
And sometimes
we are so busy
seeing other people’s mistakes
that we forget
to look in the mirror.
Perhaps wisdom
is knowing
when to stop.
Not every word
needs a reply.
Not every argument
needs a winner.
Not every battle
needs to be fought.
Being right
doesn’t require
proving someone wrong.
And saying
“I was wrong”
doesn’t make us smaller.
So laugh a little.
Endure a little.
Ignore a little.
Let some things
blow away in the wind.
Trying to keep
everyone happy
is a full-time job.
Even God
hasn’t managed it.
The world
will continue
being the world—
with its wisdom,
foolishness,
kindness
and contradictions.
People will advise.
People will judge.
People will criticise.
Someone will say,
“If I were you…”
Thankfully—
they are not.
Changing everyone
is impossible.
Changing ourselves
is possible.
So keep your peace.
Keep your humour.
Keep your smile.
This world, this world—
there is no answer to you.
But remaining happy
amid it—
that is still
in our hands.
Shri Satish Pashine is a Metallurgical Engineer. Founder and Principal Consultant, Q-Tech Consultancy, he lives in Bhubaneswar and loves to dabble in literature.
CHANGING SCENES OF NATURE
Lata Krishnan
Leaves are turning yellow and red
Abiding the nature’s law
Preparing to leave the tree that fed
they celebrate even their fall.
These trees had leaves so lush
Only a few days ago
As autumn declares itself in a hush
The leaves get ready to go.
Colours change with the wind and breeze
Turning into a golden tree
As we admire with wondered eyes
Spray its leaves like confetti.
Every season shows off its charms
In their priceless beauty
It repeats and renews its every form
Turning more and more pretty.
It does not care for the audience
Watching the spectacular show
As we gaze truly amazed
It bares itself to brow.
CommentHighlight
Every leaf that leaves its perch
Goes back to earth for sure
grateful to the tree that gave birth
dissolves itself as manure.
Each living thing on earth
Has its own time to shine
Then, when nature gives a hint
Get ready to just resign.
Unselfish is nature’s way
That flows along with the wind
Breathtaking in its season’s play
Unrelenting in its stint.
As each day brings beauty new
Heart sings a song of pleasure
although these eyes fail to fully capture
the changing scenes of nature.
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.
WATER IS A HOOK
Darsana Kalarickal
There was no water
in the memory of the angler.
In the last convulsion
at the edge of the stream,
what gleamed in his eyes
were cracked and parched clods of earth—
the fossil of a fish,
and that of a kingfisher.
Within those fossils
had hardened the anguish of the prey
and the helplessness of the hunter.
On the hook he had abandoned
dried the remnants
of the bait.
At the bank of the stream,
a lone tree stood pale and exhausted,
its weakened roots
stretching desperately
to touch the water
as it drifted away.
Its scorched, splitting branches
reached into the barren sky,
holding out their leaves—
leaves already dying,
waiting for the mercy
of a single wind.
How loudly must one say
water, water,
for the mantra to reach
hearts from which
even compassion has run dry?
Water is like memory.
And memories are hooks—
hooks that cast themselves
across the vanished past
and the overflowing present,
drawing them together
on a single line.
Yes,
water is a hook.
*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.
I WALKED BACK TO MYSELF
Lopamudra Mishra
I remember the days
when even standing felt like a mountain,
when a brace held my body
and fear held my heart.
I counted days.
I counted weeks.
I counted every small movement
as though it were a miracle.
Then came the first step.
Then another.
I climbed one stair,
then two—
and slowly,
the staircase stopped looking like a wall.
Today, I squat.
I bend.
I walk.
I step onto the treadmill
and listen to my feet say,
“You are stronger now.”
My ankle may still whisper pain,
my steps may not yet be as fast
as I want them to be—
but I no longer walk in fear.
I walk with courage.
Twenty-eight weeks ago,
I was healing from an injury.
Today,
I am rebuilding myself.
Every scar has taught me patience.
Every painful step has taught me strength.
Every morning I rise
is a quiet declaration:
I did not stop.
I did not surrender.
I kept moving.
And now,
with every step I take,
I am not merely walking forward—
MY JOURNEY BACK TO MYSELF
Lopamudra Mishra
I had a dream, In my dream, you smiled. Your captivating smile Lit up my world, And made the darkness worthwhile.
I woke up, And realised it wasn’t a dream— It was you, The hope I had buried, The strength flowing through.
Quiet for so long, Silent through the storms, Soft in the daylight, Loud in the night, You kept my deepest wishes warm.
Then came the fall, The fracture, the pain, The days of waiting, The nights of doubt, The longing to walk freely again.
Thirteen March changed my way, Turned ordinary steps into a dream. But I gathered courage, day by day, And found my strength was more Than it once seemed.
From a brace to walking alone, From trembling steps to climbing stairs, From fearing the road beyond my home To meeting life with newfound care.
My knee learned to bend, My feet learned to trust, And slowly, I rose From the fragments of dust. Every step became a victory, Every breath a new beginning, Every little movement whispered, You are healing. You are winning.
Now you live in my dreams, Calling me again and again. I cannot just sleep and wish, Or wait for the sun after rain.
I need to wake up and chase you, I need to speak and act. I need to turn my wishes into wings And never look back.
For healing is more than mending bones, More than walking without pain; It is reclaiming the life I love, And daring to dream again.
It is finding the woman I was, And discovering who I can be— Stronger in spirit, brighter in hope, Unchained, alive, and free.
The wishes, oh, the wishes— It is you in my mind, again and again. You are the dream that calls me forward, The sunshine after the rain.
And now I know, As I walk into tomorrow's light, I must not merely dream of you— I must rise, pursue, and fight.
For the wish I chase is not just a dream, Nor a distant star above— It is the life waiting to unfold, The courage to begin, And the beautiful self I am learning to love.
MIRROR`S REFLECTION
Lopamudra Mishra
I always desire for a flawless complexion,
If ever I see my image in mirror,
I was proud of my glowing reflection,
Every day I apply some tips to enhance my impression,
Uff! Today .......
On my rounded cheeks,
I found some black marks,
Demolishing my cognitive blueprint,
I checked it with curiosity,
How come this audacity?
Harming my delicacy and notoriety,
I applied methods to erase the prints,
The stubborn spots took a lot of energy,
To extirpate from the lurid arena,In desolation ,
I choose it as a part of my carcass,
If you love me with sobriety,
Then you will come to me and accept my flawed beauty,
Ephemeral beauty can not be trustworthy,
A pleasing heart is better in resemblance to dazzling gem,
Moon ,too gorgeous with its charming black beauty.
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.
Have I ever been sad
Have I ever been happy
Sometimes I look at myself
like a dead man’s soul
looking at the forlorn body
Like a lonely tree
I see the gale
sweeping the field
Like a distant cloud
I follow the mourners
and trim the edges
to melt with the crowd
of black hoods
Sometimes
I feel like an alien actor
I feel the numb
I should have been more sad
I burnt him last week
He meant so much to me
I feel so incomplete
Wherever there is loss
There is numbness,
living on the edge,
there is panic.
There will be a missing dot
The incomplete pattern
that leaves a tiny blot
which spreads in time
into a gaping hole
like the spilled ink on a blotter
I become a spectator
Not the one who holds the hole
May be I have grown
to a thick bark
of the old banyan tree,
that can not touch
the core that carries water
like the lifeless calluses
drained out of blood
May be I have never lived within myself
May be it takes time
for the numbness of distraction
to be dispelled
by the recurring refrain of loss
I cry in solitude again and again,
after so many
summers of bewilderment,
when even the events
and details are faded,
and the green hurt
at the place of tear
of the felled branch
Is reduced to a dry twig
It hurts my soul
It hurts the vein in the leaf
Neither can I see it
nor can I touch it.
But the unreal indulgences
The manufactured pain
Often searches for a name
And can’t find them
In flesh and blood
May be I’m
In love with
The idea of pain
Often I float
in morbid dissection of me
I look at the ancient tranquil tree
it’s head resembling mine
I touch my hair locks
with apology and disgust
Yet I don’t take the trouble
to paint it green
Let me not do anything
Let me rue over it
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.
THE SWORD OF THE EPIC
Braja K Sorkar
Where has that long sword gone!
It could not be found at all.
One day, everyone needs such a weapon,
its sharpened blade makes one feel very fearless,
then the manuscript of the epic and the echoing breath are
created with the sharp intelligence of faith!
How much is lost every day.
Only that weapon, the holder of personal talent,
knew the direction of the path.
I don't know where the fatigue of the long journey will take me,
I only know that my withered feathers will fall,
fly away towards infinity,
all my creations will be erased from the epic...
WHEN THE ICE -AGE COMES
Braja K Sorkar
My dear, one day this solar heat will be extinguished:
When the darkness deepens, the fire of thirst
will burn in both eyes, the first sign of the ice age.
How many words will be in the chest!
Then we will both entwine the threads of thought
in close embrace,
Our decaying bodies will tremble in the intense cold,
Yet in the frosty night I will pierce you with deep kisses,
With intense bites and pure sins
I will pierce you with your unfathomable,
I will keep searching for the mouth of the river
in the organized gorge!
The abundance of life will go into the abyss
Just as the heat of life has disappeared from the solar body
called the earth,
All the noise will stop,
Yet an atom of life will be created within our will,
In the night in the valley of death.
STORY OF A RIVER
Braja K Sorkar
A deep chasm, like death, awakens between two mountains.
It does not even know when it was born in the primordial womb.
In the abyss of pain, who was sleeping …
One day, life, heat and combustion became a river,
where did the young woman who was menstruating gradually run away!
People and ants crossed the river on the bridge of faith:
They spread their settlements along the river,
a commotion arose!
An illusory light!
One day, the water's clothing caught fire:
Seeing the body of the river burning,
people learned how the direction of the flow is created
by the inflammation of water, and the life lived changes.
Even near the river that is dead, a town is built,
green hopes of laughter, tears, separation and sadness!
The dew of silence is intertwined with the dead leaves....
The sailing boat tied to the pier is so illusory!
Who even today finds a soulmate and dies.
Today, I will descend into the depths of the river
without any motivation...
Braja K Sorkar is a widely published author, editor, and translator. He has authored two collections of English poetry, including the award-winning title Syllables of Broken Silence, which earned him the Indology Award in 2021. A dedicated curator of global literature, he edited and published an international world poetry anthology in 2021 titled ‘Voices Now: World Poetry Today’ and has served as the editor and publisher of a reputed international literary magazine since 2023, titled Durgapur Review. His own poems are featured widely in numerous anthologies both in India and abroad, with translations extending into Chinese, Spanish, Bengali, Hindi, Assamese, Manipuri, and several other Indian languages. Professionally, he is a registered translator with the National Translation Mission (NTM) and is closely associated with the Sahitya Akademi. He remains a regular contributor to leading literary magazines worldwide.
A CANDLE LIGHT DINNER
Kunal Roy
A rain swept evening.
The drops hang from the leaves' edges,
mercury lowered -
cool breeze,
shrivelled me up a little!
The eyes glued to the path -
she was to come down,
to meet up,
to break my silence,
to entice me for a romantic journey!
My heart skipped a beat,
I kissed her eyelids,
held her soft arms,
went inside !
sat together,
amorous conversation,
before the supper,
put off the bulbs,
lit the candle,
beheld one another,
with smiles around the lips!
Lost in some other hemispheres,
promised to stay long,
food turned cold.
Yet relished -
amid every odd!
Picked up the morsels,
with fork,
tested -
the taste of difference!
Love gathered a momentum,
as encouraged,
a bracing hug!
The quiet thoroughfare,
two souls,
she and I,
left for the day!
The perfume lingered,
And I -
shut the door behind,
drew the curtain,
threw myself on the cushioned bed.
A fountain of delight,
A fountain of elegance,
A fountain of bliss!
The moon clung to the sky,
The stars looked at her,
I shut my eyes,
switched off the lights,
slept -
for tomorrow,
a new sunshine,
a new breathe of her life!!
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.
THE FORBIDDEN WINDOW
Anura Parida
I was told not to open the window,
A terrible storm rages out there.
The storm always goes on,
Therefore I was warned not to go there.
Through the window I could see,
The dust and debries flying in the air.
But when I peep through the peep hole,
Of my house, nothing like this is there.
Because through the door when I pass,
I think before I leave.
I think about myself and the people I’ll meet,
The storm isn’t ever lasting.
There are day where we are free from the damp air,
But you never know when the storm might begin again.
To open the window there is a desire and an itch in the palm,
Thought I know the consequence I am drawn to the window pane.
My hand on the handle, eagerly waiting to be turned,
The storm seems to stop,
There is a break in the sky,
Crepuscular rays enlighten everywhere.
I opened the window without hesitation,
That was a mistake I made.
Dust swirled around the house,
My lungs filled with palpable air.
I hurriedly closed the window,
But it was too late.
My neatly piled ideas and thoughts,
All scattered and torn everywhere.
But..
How can I blame the wind,
For the mess it made,
When it was me who opened the window for air.
studying in the 10th grade. Ever since I can remember, words have been my closest companions, and poetry has become my heartfelt expression.
Through my writing, I explore the tapestry of emotions that color my world – from the joy of friendship to the contemplation of life's mysteries.
Besides being a writer, I am an avid reader, devouring classics and contemporary literature alike, which helps me expand my creative horizons.
Art, in all its forms, holds a special place in my heart, and I enjoy sketching and painting to complement my poetic musings. Thank you for reading, and I look forward to sharing this beautiful world of creative writing with you all!
THE UNSHATTERED ICE
Soumen Roy
The labyrinth maze of Bara Imambara
Laughing at the World Trade Centre 7?
Where alleys merge to be lost
Yet the ice never shattered
An effigy burns in public
Twisting in between twists
Diamonds yet remain priceless
Though valuables are the gold.
The frozen night had kept the soul awake this night
And the owls hooted melancholy
Yet something remained starved throughout
With plates filled with kebabs
©Soumen Roy All Rights Reserved
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.
Oh, Shailaputri, sitting on Nandi, the bull,
holding a trident in Thy right hand and a lotus in Thy left,
Destroyer of evil and ignorance,
Mother of spiritual awakening,
I salute Thee with folded hands.
Oh, Ma! Thou art an embodiment of the Divine Trinity.
Within Thee, I behold my Lords Brahma, Vishnu, and Maheshwara.
Oh, Brahmacharini, adorned as an ascetic,
representing purity, knowledge, and penance,
inspiring us to cultivate inherent virtues
such as restraint, dispassion, and renunciation.
Holding rosary beads in Thy right hand
and a water pot in Thy left,
Oh, Ma, Thou showest us the path of penance and abstinence.
Oh, Chandraghanta, destroyer of evil tendencies,
opposer of demonic powers and negative forces,
ever ready to fight injustice,
with Thy third eye open,
keeping a watchful eye on destructive forces to curb them.
Oh, Goddess of divine energy,
adorning the crescent moon on Thy forehead,
Thou instilest fear in the hearts of evil-doers
and punishest them for their wickedness.
With Thy sublime face,
Thou lookest upon me like a mother, Ma!
Oh, Kushmanda Devi, creator of the universe,
with Thy divine smile,
embodiment of warmth and cosmic energy,
Thou bringest creation and vitality to the world,
the fourth aspect of Nava Durga Maa and Mahadevi.
Oh, Ma, with Thy glorious warmth,
Thou illuminate the universe.
Riding on a lion,
Thou dispellest darkness and ignorance
and enlightenest the ignorant ones.
Oh, Skandamata, Goddess of motherhood,
love, protection, and compassion,
bestowing blessings upon Thy devotees,
whose well-being Thou protectest
with Thy benign grace and love.
Seated on a lotus,
with Thy son Skanda in Thy lap,
Oh, Ma! Thou embodyest divine motherhood.
With Thy auspicious presence,
Thy children, like me, feel empowered.
Oh, Katyayani Devi, Goddess of power,
slayer of the tyrannical Mahishasura,
remover of negative energy
and obstacles in the path of progress,
benevolent Mother, bestower of peace.
Oh, Ma, Thou art the epitome of love and compassion.
Thou hast arrived to liberate suffering souls.
With Thy fierce roar,
Thou challengeth the forces of evil.
Oh, Ma, let the wrongdoers fade away into darkness.
Oh, Kalaratri, Goddess of the fiercest form,
embodiment of the formidable forces of the universe,
destroyer of evil and fear,
Thou standest against the forces of darkness,
protecting Thy devotees from harm.
Oh, Ma, Thou liberatest the downtrodden.
With a calm mind, let me rest,
so that I may work to emancipate the oppressed.
With Thy dishevelled hair and fiery eyes,
my Goddess stands before me like a saviour.
Oh, Mahagauri, Goddess of purity and radiance,
fair-complexioned, pure, and divine,
protector of devotees,
bestowing blessings with Thy gracious hand.
Graciously, Thou adornest the pandals.
Thy gleaming eyes bring peace to me, Oh, Ma Durga.
Seated on a bull,
Thou offerest unconditional blessings to Thy worshippers.
Oh, Siddhidatri, Goddess who bestoweth siddhis,
wisdom, and spiritual accomplishment,
the ninth form of Nava Durga,
bestower of divine knowledge and fulfilment.
Oh, Ma, Thou art ever present in blissful ecstasy.
By worshipping Thee,
Thy devotees seek spiritual accomplishments
and divine blessings.
Oh, Ma, may all the maladies of the earth be cured
with Thine divine presence.
May Thy benign presence
dispel the darkness of ignorance
and spread enlightenment.
Maa Durga is the epitome of feminine strength and prowess,
invincible against wickedness and oppression.
Let our women imbibe Her divine qualities
and strike a shattering blow against tyrants,
molesters, and perpetrators of violence.
May every woman awaken to her indomitable courage.
May she be transformed into divine energy.
Let her nurture the diva within.
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.
COMPOUNDED WISDOM
Dr Beena Anil
I have learnt a truth worth keeping:
Never wait for fortune, make your own.
Deny the myth that women lack financial wisdom,
When Nirmala weighs each coin and every doubt is overthrown.
Through shifting markets and turbulent tides,
An Arundhati rises, a guiding north star,
Steering the pillars of trust and ledger,
Proving resilience resonants deep and far.
With Naina clear-sighted, she reads the flow,
Predicts the curve before it navigates,
Turns expected risk into vision,
A flow no myth can confine or amend.
Gita speaks the world’s fiscal tongue,
Curating every trade and the balance sheets of nations
Are fearlessly read, and fearlessly made.
The seed blooms as Falguni’s breaks anew,
As an elephant in the room to build valuation,
Where ambition meets the numbers, bold and bright.
Realise Madhabi anchors the interest,
While Roshni lights the ray of leadership,
Showing that value is what women master and earn.
We author the margins, the ledger, the drive,
For wealth in our hands is not fortune or chance.
It is wisdom compounded, sustained, and alive.
With over 25 years of dedicated teaching experience in language and literature education, I am excited to learn, unlearn, and relearn alongside my resourceful and inspiring students over the years. I have authored 5 books and published 25 research articles in various national and international journals of repute. My research passion lies at the intersection of linguistics/literature and pedagogy, where I explore how language/literature shapes identities, cultures, and societies. My research interests include: Second Language Acquisition, Technology-Enabled Language Teaching and Mobile-Assisted Language Learning (MALL), Bilingualism, Translanguaging Gender Studies, Menstrual Studies.
UNSEEN FORCE
Dr. Rekha Mohanty
(BEHIND,BESIDE & IN FRONT OF ME)
When sun rays of noon muffle and tone down,
Dew drops start settling on grass blades in early dawn,
I see your smiling face
through peeping white clouds
playing hide and seek,
I rush to stand
behind my window
and enjoy the fun…
I welcome the festival
season of Autumn,
Prepare my home,
Presentable with few
addition and alteration,
Like to be part of social gatherings,
Enjoy with dynamic mood
of young…
Am really obliged for your guidance and inspiration,
Not a single moment
we enjoyed together
is wiped out from memory
or forgotten,
You have been always a force gentle and unseen,
You were my beautiful past,
Are living in my present,
Will be with me until I am alive,
Infusing radiant energy like Sun…
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.
Fragrant blue throughout a canvas
A bluish boat swaying
White castles in the vastness of the sky
The Cloud Maiden
Lingering trace of melancholy
The earth is finally breathing in
Without a barbed wire, nor a boundary
The universe deep within
The home coming of sparrows
Greenaries everywhere
Glacial lakes getting condensed
Golden horizon appears
No fear of greenhouse gas
The border of smoke can be crossed
Without its ticking time bomb
A heaven untouched by shadows
The agitated earth becomes free from its fever
And it is back to its own rhythmic tune
The pandemic reveals the truth of nature
Restoring life's balance, a timeless boon!
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.
WAITING FOR WORDS
Bipin Patsani
When I am benumbed
in the grip of nothingness,
I look up at the sky, I know not why.
I wait for an image or idea
to turn me on;
I wait for the first line
to come on its own
like a gust of vernal breeze
tickling my tired soul,
awakening me to be whole again
in my creative entirety.
But at the centre of everything
lies that formidable force,
the sublime source
that makes the marrow move.
Poetry is more of love and faith
to be reckoned with its worth.
It is the way we feel
than the chill of cold reasoning
that slows down the flow
Till it meets its death
Like the painful yet gracious saga
Of the river Chandrabhaga.
So don’t make me dry, my muse.
Just flow on, don’t make me die.
THE DIVINE DIP
As I carried soil above,
climbed stairs to prepare the ground
for the flowerbed on my terrace,
a poem peeped in
to get written on the round.
I felt, there is more poetry
in preparing grounds for things beautiful
and in cultivating pleasure
than sitting idle and scribbling
sweet nothing, accumulating trivial treasure.
It may be pleasant to sit contemplating
on your love and pouring in poetry
on your beloved’s lyric looks,
luscious lips, big eloquent eyes,
piercing sighs, showering kisses
and how much you miss her
or share with her sweet moments
of the blessed blissful union.
Those who toil hard and grow
green gold in their fields
must be feeling equally ecstatic
and overwhelmed when they see
the smiles of their prize produce
like poets, soul searching in poetry
and enjoying the divine dip
in the beauty of their creations.
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.
TRANQUILITY AROUND ME
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi
Mesmerizing mountainous range stood tall
The lap of nature shielded the ground
The joyous earth spoke in awe here
The whispering wind brought an aura!
The wintry sun peeped through the hills
The painted sky spread the sunrays
The grassy carpet cared for me and you
And every day made you dream!
The tranquil terrace welcomed me
I stepped out of my hut at once
Those sticks, grass, fireplace
And the boundary wall waved at me!
I collected wood, weeds and matches
I made fire with my deep thoughts on
Will the fire fire my enthusiasm,
Or will the flame bring brightness?
Burning fire comforted my shivering body
Heat brought happiness and warmth
Thoughts changed their own route
And the actions found their own way!
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
LIFE SOJOURN IN TIME
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Life, for sure, fleets on trips in its long race
Unlike flora to grow sky-high in grace
In annual trick of looking new in Spring
After shedding leaves in Fall in time’s ring.
Life sojourn, the first stage as expedition,
Tender smile, lovely lips in elation,
Daring to toddle minding no peril.
Cries at its advent to mother’s lap at will.
Life race, the second stage in excursion
In bower by force for education
Learning all new and strange for a career
To feel credit to spend a life, freer.
Life race goes to the third stage of picnic,
Honeymooning, sightseeing majestic
Enjoying heaven on earth with all sights.
All fleets so fast as the trips’ delights.
Life race reaches the stage of pilgrimage
With children reared well for clan image,
Seeking blessings of God to reach the goal,
Bearing tears and smiles in heart for life whole.
Strange ways of life are to glow in rays
In glitter or shatter all fateful days.
Life is a series of trips, man admits
To time’s unrivalled powers, he submits.
A NATION’S STRENGTH
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
A nation’s strength,
So special and distinctive in worth,
That abides and enshrines in unity,
The focus and fulcrum for solidarity
Never in volumes and numbers
Never in features and colors,
Unity is not in being one
To be idle, to sit and eat all store,
Unity is not in being one,
To drowse, to lie more in bed and dose
Unity is to work together in commitment
For all constructive and productive.
Unity is to till the soil in devotion
For plentiful crops and yellow harvests
For mellow fruits and nutritious grains.
Unity is not something outside
Available in commercial markets.
Unity is everything built within
With the bricks of honesty
With the cement of sincerity
With the plaster of patriotism
To shine in the hues of nationalism
For all to glimpse it and feel
Free and independent
Safe and self sufficient
Away from cheats and corrupts
Away from exploits and insults.
Unity is the shield in every field
For love and honor,
For amity and harmony.
The nation-building
Not of flesh and bones,
Not arteries, not veins of demons
But of hearts and souls of humans
For nation is humans.
LIFE: DREAMS AND REALITIES
Dr. Rajamouly Katta
Life is the most charismatic chime,
A sojourn facing ebbs and tides
All the while in the vast ocean of time,
Dreams and realities in its rides.
In childhood, it looks at the future,
With glows in eyes as it is the harbinger
Of good fortunes to build a high stature
As a jolly singer and joyous swinger.
It glimpses the welkin as a young prince
For angels to descend for boons choicest,
On trees, the fruits cherished long ever since,
It’s eager to relish and revel as a fest.
It appears all pale later in time’s powers
As it finds the fruits ripe missing
To teach all bitter in its deep towers,
All the hues of bright hopes seen fading.
All that turns the past in time in old age
The dreams in store once stand in presence
Like a book, at glance, mocks every page
The mind is to recall it in full sense.
It looks at the future in innocence
For childhood is the bud to dream
It recalls the past in experience
Old age, youth faded in time’s stream.
Life is after all a thrall in time’s terrain
A journey from dreams to realities
A series of lessons to learn in its domain
It is poetry with mysterious sensibilities.
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
Smiles can be signatures,
unique, unmistakable,
belonging to one,
and only one.
A radiance soft as sunrise,
delicate as rose petals,
warm enough not merely to disarm,
but gently draw you
into an embrace.
There was equanimity in that smile,
a quiet soft power
the spirit of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam,
the world as one family.
And within it lived
an unmistakable Odia Asmita,
the pride of a soil,
the warmth of its people,
the quiet simplicity and love of a culture.
That benign smile travelled
from classrooms to conferences,
across disciplines, institutions,
and distant continents.
It earned friends wherever
scholarship met humanity.
For him, the social and the political
were not distant worlds,
but means toward a better life,
a humane society,
and a larger common good.
Now, when I look back,
I find that smile still there
not merely in photographs
or memories,
but in the friendships it created,
the minds it touched,
and the hearts it entered.
Some signatures fade with time.
Some remain.
That was a signature smile,
rare, gentle, unmistakable,
the smile of a rare heart from Odisha.
(In cherished memory of Prof. Jugal Kishore Mishra, Professor of Political Science and former President of IPSA, who was not merely a colleague but a younger brother to me whose warmth, wisdom, and benign smile remain forever in my heart)
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 PALL-BEARERS.......
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
In these moments of grim foreboding
little licks of fire
try to ensnare the frightened snow flakes
in acts that are so final, so unforgiving.
The air is silent, hanging
like a mournful song about to burst forth
it suddenly breaks into piercing cries
ringing in the the pall bearers drawing closer.
Voices float in from distant horizons
over desolate expanses of time
they come beating through the air,
voices that once were and are no more.
As I wait for those who will carry me away
I move swiftly
closing the doors one by one
of rooms that I will not visit again.
..........AND THE SILENT PROCESSION OF HOPES
Long before the day ends
and the evening descends into night
like a grief-laden cloud on a cliff.
My silent procession of hopes
will keep marching
with songs playing
and the eyes shining.
The night will end
the dawn will smile
sweetly like soft petals
opening to the early rays of sun.
The dew drops glowing like pearls
will kiss their goodbye from the flowers
promising to return,
with unfailing certainty
in their determined march
on the path of eternity.
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 ten 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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