Monthly Archives: July 2015

Dr Kumarendra Mallick

2nd vol ,No1  (July 2015)

When the wind of love blows

When the wind of love blows
the waves in the sea
lower their head for it to pass
lest it may get delayed to reach her
waiting lonesome among the flowers

When the wind of love blows,
in its rugged terrain a narrow pass
the mountain creates, for it to move
to wipe the tears of the lonesome
who sits day-long among the flowers

When the wind of love blows,
the sun pulls the curtain of clouds
for the breeze to remain cool
for the delicate face of the one
who waits so long among the flowers

When the wind of love blows,
the forests with all eagerness
wish to ornate it with leaves and petals
to give shade and fragrance to the young one
who waits wistfully among the flowers

When the wind of love blows,
the eagle wishes to offer its wings
the extra weight of hugs and kisses to carry
to the one who waits among the flowers.

The Archer

‘What is that you are playing with?’
‘A bamboo bow and arrow, father,
brother made for me today.’
‘Do not hurt any, take care.’
‘Yes, I am hitting only into the air.’
Time moved on,
the four-year old is now sixteen
and has the aim of an Arjuna!
News of his achievements reached far and near,
hundreds assembled to see his magic
in festivals and big countryside fairs.
Fascinated by his extraordinary performance,
the king of the land took fancy
to invite him to his court and exhibit his art!
Excited, the poor youth could hardly hide his joy.
In the presence of thousand men and women
he was asked to prove his dexterity and acumen:
to take aim at an apple hung by a thread from a height.
The young man with great ease at first attempt hit it.
The applause was loud and the king was glad,
and asked, ‘Bravo, try once more the same game.’
The confident boy repeated his great feat and felt happy.
The applause was louder this time rising up the air.
With a contented smile the king patted the boy
and asked him to aim at the apple once again.
The hand of the youth was not sure this time,
though he did not miss the target. It was fine.
The king did not stop with that, and signaled to try again.
The young archer felt the heat,
And was not so sure this time to repeat the feat;
He didn’t miss his aim, yet felt for the first time
the presence of an unseen hand that, in fact, is taking the aim!

Womb to Womb
We journey
not from womb to tomb,
but from womb to womb…Before we arrive
on this earth so lovely and sweet,
mother nurtures us
prepares us in a small world,
seemingly dark, yet that is where
we learn what we shall see,
experience and act
in the big new world!The new world we step into
is another womb too.
Nature nurtures us
and as mother prepares us
to view another world,
a world of wisdom.This truth when it dawns upon us
we realize and see the unseen,
we take another birth.As a tide in sea
we rise and fall,
fall and rise,
or as a sun
at the end of every night we dawn.
Death does not snatch us,
but instead the door to a new world it unlocks!We journey
not from womb to tomb
but from womb to womb..
Dr Kumarendra Mallick is an IIT Kharagpur graduate and a Shanti Swarup 383274_252114538189502_1250167007_nBhatnagar Prize winner in Earth Sciences. He is a scientist by profession and writng is his hobby. He retired from active service on Dec 31, 2001 from National Geophysical Research Institute. At the time of retirement he was holding the post of Scientist (Director’s Grade). Thereafter he was an Emeritus Scientist there for five years. He was a visiting professor at the university of Naples, Italy and a visiting scientist at Univ. of Karlsruhe, Germany. He was also an Associate professor at IIT, Mumbai during 1979-83. He has authored three books on geophysics.Recently in 2009 a book of verses with the title, ‘Letter to an imaginary pen friend and other poems‘ by him has been published.

Jaydeep Sarangi

Who is My Master?

What language should I speak?
All possibilities are wide open
Like open market for trade.
I move between
The language of the poet
And the translator,
Reason and effect
As if one will die without the other.
Someone told me when I was a tinny boy
Forgotten her name
May be a shadow
“Language is a master.”
I didn’t understand
I was too small.
Now the sky is clear to me
I see things through its language
I read my master through his code.
A coat made on the banks of the river Thames
Is not that will be living for ever.
Small sprouts are visible on the banks of the Ganges
And near the banks of the Yellow river.
We are holding willow branches. My old master
Is to leave behind his earthly abode soon.

A Doorway near Vistula

Someone told me near the river Vistula
A ruler of the tribe of Lechitians
Prepared a stone
A door of a city.
I embrace my loving water
Stories between the stars.

Each stone scripted stories
Of the Wawel Hill
Wisla murmurs its recorded silence.
When I pass through the Basztowa Street
My mind connects with a sovereign nation.
My friends remind me how they are connected
With my Sindhu land. They visit the Ganges basin
By walking pass Vistula
When unknown birds twitter. Heavy hearts cry for their families.
Rivers carry water
Channel minds; roots of civil societies,
Rice civilisation.
All bridges are doors
From separate lenses. All hearts are red.

Jaydeep Sarangi , is a bilingual writer, academic, editor, translator, academic 555505_10202387193540256_1611804666_nadministrator and the author of a number of significant publications on Postcolonial issues, Indian Writing in English and Australian Literature in reputed journals/magazines in India and abroad. His important books of poems include ‘From Dulung to Beas’(2012),‘Silent Days’(2013), ‘A DoorSomewhere?’ (2014) and ‘The Wall and Other Poems’(2015).Jaydeep Sarangi teaches English at Jogesh Chandra Chaudhuri College (Calcutta University), 30,Prince Anwar Shah Road, Kolkata-700033, WB, India. Email:

Vinita Agrawal

Reborn as warmth

Desperate like denial
I am a pollen of wants
Reaching, moving, winding
Towards a mock orange sunset
Waiting to be shoved down Pacific’s throat
The Sonoran desert of nothingness has had its fill of me
From pink to gold to a dead autumn hue
I am through with transformations
Find me alkaline soil, bury me
Along with these traitorous seedlings of being lost
Until one fine day
When we meet again…
The arch of life shall awn
Accommodating the mounds on your palms
Awakening me
Unfurling the whorls on my feet
And all my nyctinastic spaces
sprouting warm emerald green exaltation
And wild dances of joy

Essential Aspirations

The softness of love belies its path
I speak of silk but tread on battlefields of depravity
I dream of skies but sink in rivers of blood
I see paradise but pass through needle-eyes of hell

I would come to you without belongings just to truly belong
No rain, no sun, no false heavens or broken moons
Just the biology of a bond, forging new ethers of us
In the azure arches of your eyes

Then we’d talk about settling down
You in my arteries, I in your veins
Traversing fields of consciousness
Watering nodes of essential aspirations
Inferring simple ecstasies, like eye contact

My name would be welded in yours
Plural paths would dissolve into a lingua of understanding
Core and surface become one
Like ghosts finally being gifted bodies
Like bodies finally being granted wings

Until then we are so many forms, so many skills
We are words, music, temptation, redemption…
Near, Distant – ebbing and flowing like a moon with the night
Vassals of tender love and hard circumstances
We are also mountains withstanding life’s artless gales, sighing softly

Moment of Love

A moment had turned around
One that I had nourished
like a hungry ghost until the dawn of the universe,
that I had pelted like a pea stone into feather-down pillows
beneath my restless dream-filled head every night.
Nights that came only for darkness’ sake.

That moment had sought me out

Engulfed in lichen it was,
with a spine of mortar.
Squared to perfection, all decimals rounded off
like an unerring account of my footsteps
wandering galaxies in search of you.

Love was finally crowned emperor
Adorned in raiments,
bedecked with jewels of true finding
like an opal gorge raked into existence
by desperate hands and naked fingernails.

Moonbeams piped diamonds into my smiles
Billowed solstices of joy from my breath
I forgot about the jaguars stalking my doorstep,
forgot about obstacles baking batches of scandals;

Remembered only the golden maize
nodding benevolently at us
beaming at our trysts on cosmic soil
for this was our time. Our moment.

Vinita Agrawal, is a Mumbai based writer and poet. Her poems have been 11695877_10153480281504399_4892631453075048510_n published in Asiancha, Raedleaf Poetry , Wordweavers, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Spark, The Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, SAARC Anthologies,, Touch- The Journal of healing, Museindia,, Mahmag World Literature, The Criterion, The Brown Critique,, Sketchbook, Poetry 24, Mandala and others which include several international anthologies. Her poem was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011 by CLRI. She received a prize from MuseIndia in 2010. Her debut collection of poems titled Words Not Spoken published by Sampark/Brown Critique was released in November 2013. Her poem was awarded a prize in the Wordweavers contest 2013.

Ebi Robert


For a subject is a servant of honour,
a speechifier of whatever he serves.
For use has it, the gods’ hour
is spent by bibbers in the grove.

A speechifier of whatever he serves.
But why does Ogidika swallow his own toe?
Is spent by bibbers in the grove,
I mean Ogidiga’s hour is ours.

But why does Ogidiga swallow his own toe?
For use has it the gods’ hour
I mean Ogidiga’s hour is ours,
For a subject is a servant of honour.



What think thou with?
Blue Aurora!
Green merits!
I must warm you.
My heart has blue-prints of passion,
but now in pilgrim of shouldered Viana.
You are in test of a poisoned trial
Which will witch thou, winkling peony.
Art dew devise device dawn-guitar?
Art eve cube Tied up maze?
Blue-eye lass com summing graves
forcing music singing blue?
In thy ways everyday,
Cutting calls aurora blade?
Blaze still, green merit.
My sweet “CESS” incense
down to the bed sweet,
hang withal; Amor sueño on merit
give way; Tengo que darle un dulce (beso) kiss.

Ogidiga is the Python-god of the Nembe Kingdom. The god landed in the Ancient Nembe Kingdom when he and his chief-priest from Isekiri, visited the ancient Kingdom. Prior to his visit, ‘Ekekoru’, the Royal Python, believed to be a harmless and wealthy god, was worshiped and adored by the Ancient Nembe. But when Ogidiga visited and saw his wife, Ekekoru, he settled down and refused a return to Isekiri, where he came from. Henceforth, he became the god of the Nembe Ibe(territory) up to this day. But Ogidiga, also called ‘Opuadagba’, knows no mercy. He is not to be killed by any Nembian, for it is an abomination. Note: Nembe is an Ancient Kingdom of Bayelsa state of Nigeria. The brave King Koko of Africa who fought with the Royal Niger Company(British), was from Nembe. The battle is called the Akassa Raid.

Ebi Robert is a poet from Nigeria. He has contributed to430964_492480850795222_876655076_n
many anthologies, such as Emanation, Foray into Forever edited by Prof Carler Kaplan(USA) of International Authors, Love, A Four Letter word,edited by Raja William of Creative Talents Unleashed(USA), Tribute To Mandela, edited by Mitiu Olawuyi, etc. His works has also been featured in magazines.

Anupam Naskar

From the corner of your western window
Spare an indifferent glance to this autumn rain ;
Like thousand silent stones falling
on a gloomy dark stream ,
flowing with the caprice of this afternoon mind.
And I forget to keep track of how I am getting older
In this feverish time sleeping with an infinite anaesthesia,
With memories lingered through the alleys of time where demon keeps on coming back
Through the broken mirror of apathetic people
To watch the debris of my restless time
From the eyes of the saddest poems penned for my saddest inevitability….

Anupam is an economist, chemical engineer , MBA and poet. He is holding a1393814_10151925045841348_961186456_n BE Chemical Engineering degree from Jadavpur University,Kolkata,India. He also holds an MBA from IIT Kanpur.Presently he is pursuing Economics phd at Indira Gandhi Institute of Development Research (IGIDR) Mumbai. Anupam is an avid reader of Bengali and English literature. He writes poetry in Bengali and English and his poetry has been published from many domestic and international magazines.

Sibasis Jana

If I were a kite

If I were a kite
I’d float and run to the infinite ‘akas – ganga’,

I’d sing the songs of fairy stars and solar families,
their births, marriages and unifications.

My body like harp would ring with the rhythms of gentle breeze songs.

From the deep blue ocean I’d envision the earth diurnal course work
with the palpalable threads of gravitations.

I’d arise and awake, ascend and descend enjoying the bliss of earthly paradise
and heavenly freedoms.

I’d send the messages of earthly devotees to God’s abode to wipe out their miseries.

I’d connect the body with the mind through the heavenly doors of spiritual ‘om’ opera house.

Through the ethereal wave of ‘ida’- pingala’- susumna’
I pass my breathings from ‘muladhar’ to swadhisthan’, from ‘ manipur’ to sahasradhar’.

I’d vibrate the cosmic consciousness to achieve the spirit of astral freedom and self-Realization spreading the seeds of ‘satyam’- sivam – sundaram’.

The golden light

Setting sun empowers the golden corns with parting lips of dejection.
The smoke from the chimneys fills the bluish sky with whitish- blackish carbonated emitions.
Wintry scraps of love decorate ‘nandan- maidan- sadan’.
Horse riders gallop with the pride of jingle bells at Victoria memorial.
River’s tent is decorated with the bridal parties of ‘0ld wive’s tales.’
Puran- quoran- bible – tripitak wrapped in vendor’s
Alphabetical clusters.
Anti files scrape in the
Heaps of broken glasses.
Lovers elope enjoying ‘haldiram’ flavour.
Still the sun shines.
The moon glitters.
Amoral birds float on
the wings of divine poesy.
Happy Valentine’s Day

go deep into the ocean of love
and fetch the pearls underneath,
drink the milk of amorous tunes.
play the flute on the bank of river
jamuna like Krishna , Radha will
come on your wave screen.
Memorise the immortal love tales of
‘sakuntala-dusmanta’, ‘pururaba-urvasi’
‘malavika-agni’ ‘,nal-damayanti’,
and sweeten heart’s call vibrantly.
sit under the shadowy moonlit night
pluck the glances of ‘thisbe-pyramus’,
‘troilus-chressida’, ‘dido-aeneas’, ‘jason-medea’.
walk on hilly beach of Goa
hear the sweet notes ‘dona-paona’.
open the pages of love sites
with ‘ romeo-juliet’, ‘orlando-rosalind’,
‘hero-leander’ and calculate the mystery
of dove, rose ,arrow and wings.
call Chaucer to fly his birds in parliament of fowls,
invoke winged cupid and psyche or kamdeva with three k’s
to spread the seeds of love in the magic casements
of four Vedas in four sides,
ye, to celebrate such a valentine’s day.

Sibasis Jana, a bi-lingual poet, critic, educationist, is an Asstt. Professor in1016286_484893478264490_1976361002_n English at Panskura Banamali College, Purba Medinipur. He has three books and several research papers to his credit. His areas of interest are Indian English writing, Folk Studies, Rasa Theory, Film studies and Religious studies. He is the life member of Guild of Indian Writers, editors and critics (G.I.W.E.C.), Kerala. He is the Asstt. Secretary of S.P.E.L.L(Society of poetry, Education, language and Literature), Kolkata.

Nitin Soni

Silent Clock

A white wall endures the encumbered clock
Decades of decades in critical silence
Needle has its own fascination
Slipped into the harmonious world of virtue!

An intense gawk hypnotized his intrusive peek
Surmounted over fortune, and exploring weed
O’ well laced shoes…of a ghost who haunts from ancient times
And – of a believer glorifying a clock,
Mocking the times of yore, and crowning the white “blemish”
Time! Time! Time…

While inflowing he ponders over happenings and deeds
Symbolizing the humankind – scrutinizing, questioning the “Timing” authority
His shadow trails in the middle of haunting images, cherishing flashes
Disguised past, raucous voices, wounded humanity and celebration of triumph!

He pushes himself to the fore, in the world of clock
One corner of time he flees away to golden era
Brushing up his memory, nostalgic!
Witnessing the verdict of slavery oriented mind, agonizing!
He comes back, shedding tears and debating alone with time!

Another hidden corner urges to be looked at
He crosses the threshold anticipating for some joyful faces
Independence – saffron, white and green!
Celebrations, migrations, seduction, abduction, rapes and
religious riots
Post-independence – it turned out to be the worst time!

There was extreme struggle to banish the brutish British master
Reckless exploitation slashed the innocents into pieces, tears!
Raping the golden bird, time-to-time!
He came back lamenting, the sorrowful time!

Bisected heart! Another corner begs to him –
He goes in – corruption, dishonestly, racism, and caste
Domination, power and things falling apart!
His spirit weeps the distressed moments

He pleads to go back to life
A white wall – Silence in the chaotic world of clock
The same wall, decisive needle – for repetition!

Decades of decades in critical silence
Slipped into the harmonious world of virtue!


In the grassy fields on a mundane evening night I go astray.
A gentle voice, a soft touch of the wind – “Would harmoniously betray!”
Thou, my beloved, would someday come, and I would courteously say…

Thou command I’d obey, lighting a lamp at her heart, and at night
Take off the garments I wear, give my soul and feelings to pray’r,
Adore my gorgeous lady, the air that I breathe, say…

The sun, beaming and burning…the love I have felt for you
All these years has given me “Hope” while I ponder at night,
Moon, shooting stars, Goddess of love, “Wish” and begging

Lush green fields, pleasing wind, fruitful trees,
Melodious song of birds, Asian and European, and a bee vibrating my ears,
A cool mist, smelling optimism and a warming breeze…

Fool – wise preacher – scholar, adolescent – adult
Slave or servant, lover or hater of creation’s lord,
Whose sword is directed by the words of wisdom and judgement…

The books of love, always reminded me of you, rested at my chest filled with of diamond
The saga of love, magical ardours, they have told –
Unlike me, peace, pure love, affection they have sold…

Farewell to my hope, to creations and creatures,
To beloved, with love
To the world I cherished my entire life with…
Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!

“I Saw Her in My Eyes”

My eyes are shining.
I see a smile on my face.

My life is a tray of love
It does not betray.

My eyes are shining
I see a smile on my face

I saw her this morning
With a licking delight,
A bird of vast sky
I caught her, again, in my eyes.

The mirror I saw
It laughed on my face
I couldn’t believe my eyes
As if she wasn’t my fate.

I wasn’t very hopeful,
That –
She would hold my hands
The moment I woke up
I wasn’t well

Still my eyes seemed sleepy,
And –
As I saw her in my eyes
Delightful I would say
It was the time of my life

My eyes are shining.
I see a smile on my face.

Yes you are beautiful
I saw your face,

Yes you are lovable
I cuddled you twice,

Yes you are a dream
Of my monotonous life.

My eyes are shining.
I see a smile on my face.
You are an angel
An unknown virgin of my heart
I saw you in my eyes
Not willing to see you depart.
When I saw you in my eyes
It filled my life with love and hope

You are a stranger
On this beautiful boat.

Nitin Soni ,Known as ‘The Curly Poet’ and honoured with the title of ‘Most 11009970_951481861563599_3281606478821042512_nPopular’ at Delhi University where he studied English literature, Nitin Soni is a poet, storyteller, script writer & social worker whose writings have appeared in many national and international publications. His poetry collection, THE BROKEN BOAT, will be launched soon. Nitin lives in New Delhi, and he can be contacted at

Kaushik Roy

Clap! Slap!
There they’re – paying tribute to Raja
Clap, clap, clap!
He saved many a girl from grill of religion
Making them safe from pyres
From being burnt alive
He died a pauper’s death
Far away from his home
Deprived already of
His mother’s lap.

There a man stands on a podium
Turbaned in saffron
Petrified with prominent eyes
Preached the world
With the message of peace
From Hinduism
Clap, clap, clap!

There they have a holiday
To celebrate the centenary
Of a long bearded bard
White as an angelic soul –
White beard, white dress, white mind
With brown skin
With millions of white pages
Turned into lyrics
Clap, clap, clap!

There they have the man
Whom the truant school girls
Blame for making them study
Making schools for them to go
Lest enjoying all His blessing in life
Of dignity, of knowledge, of respect
Clap, clap, clap!

There a horse carries a hero
On his back at the five point circus
Amongst many crowds and carriages
Waiting to be garlanded once a year
With a chain of marigolds
Who once tried a way of emancipation
Of the whole nation on his own
Dying a death unknown forever
Clap, clap, clap!

There every currency note carries him
Like a hero
Looking at him as a model
His loincloth is long forgotten
His being tormented inside outside
But celebrations
Clap, clap, clap!

There somewhere in the city clatters
There in the rustic serenity
There in the mountainous innocence
There in the corporate masquerade
There in the political jugglery
There in the societal pride and prejudice
The faces forget those faces
Faces remember faces of gentile-civility
Mask for the masking
Slap, slap, slap!

A mother scolds a child
A father scolds a child
A teacher scolds a child
A boss scolds a child
For being a child
Be anything but a child
In the childless civilization
Where child must grow into a man
To survive
Lest he will die the death
Of a fool, the fool of the fools
Slap, slap, slap!

The heroes are heroes
To celebrate not to follow
To remember in books
Not to make a part of life
Heroism is not realism
Romanticism is not realism
Realism is realism
Rest is stupidity
Of emotional fools
Slap, slap, slap!

The Zen

When she opened the box, found a letter
Brown by boxed for ages
A sage has given her the box on
Her way home from the forest of fire
She saved it heavily guarded from funeralled

She opened the letter and read
Every word was meant for her
Her nerves to stand before the fiery words
Scribed in the pages brown
For her to read and decipher

Words are easy to read
To decipher hard is the task
Almost impossible to infer as they are all bizarre
She read and read and read and read
She tried to look through to look into

The sage was nowhere in sight
The sage is not meant to be in sight
Until she pangs and pangs and pangs
With the letters with the arrangements
A job an ordeal a heavy load on her

Grey hairs waited for the sage
Greyed and tattered with reading through the pages
Greyed eyes with cataract to hide
She hazily sees the form of the sage
At distance to come to her

The young old sage a man or woman
Not known to her knowledge
Comes close the form
Says the sage in serene voice
Fool never to decipher life.

Kaushik Roy is a poet ,novelist and a short story writer.10415567_891065084257400_5689473032211531156_n

Albert Ashok

Autumnal Morning and Inheritance of poverty

This autumn morning is worst of all
like an autumn morning
the ragpickers, a sack on their back
the labourer infront of a closed mill
some street urchins unaware of crude bombs
looking for foodgrains in the heap of city garbage
near Shraddhananda Park
The iron hands of Municipal-corporation crane
dumping all waste
and its a regular flowing
the emitting foul smell overpowers the breathing wind


The third world and the world the communists staged revolution,
reigned and
painted a dream under the thatched roof of million and billion wall
of tramps, vagabonds, farmers and labourers
they are no more in this world panorama
but before they washed out
they made it sure that
working class shall never rise again
they taught them slogans:
Unity is strength
working class can rule
losers have nothing to lose .

Wow! What a bonus to capitalism!

Southerly wind never blows here
I have a headache as my head is full of trash
whatever I paint I can’t put a sun in the sky
I see people as an image of autumn
funny enough to be ridiculed
making merry revolving an occasion and immersion

all get quiet in an another day

with blank eyes set to repay the misused loan
And Mahamaya will be coming every year
With inheritance of poverty

This morning is bitter and
it will remain bitter for another 34 years
in my Bengal
till then I shall not live.

Albert Ashok is a Painter, an Author and a Graphic Designer 10629869_10153055724050805_3004582546989528538_n.

Aju Mukhopadhyay

Time Whispers in my Ear

susurrus over the vast undulating grass
tumbling of water in the forest river at night
cackling of hilly meandering streams
flowing of molten lava down the ravine
spewing of ash;
volcanic eruption at unknown site
spread of forest fire with a strange beam
spreading rapidly with the wind,
desert storm changing the face of the sand dune
without notice;
rains and rains in the rain forest again
in the country sides and cities, rolling of water bodies;
seeds sprouting, trees growing and dying
again and again;
sibilation of nature’s shifting phase;
nature is at work without rest in every nook and corner
in every pore and cell, near and far;
time whispers in my ear
that with nature it flows with all its belonging
to the events forthcoming
while consciousness keeps its progress in everything
constantly rolling towards the future;
time whispers in my ear
that past never sits in its forlorn chair
but leaves its essence for assimilation;
time whispers in my ear
that the ethos of the bygone ages, their zeitgeist
can never be recovered by any strategist;
the world may be seen in the grain of sand
but the flow of sand is constant;
infinity may be guessed in the palm of hand
but it cannot be gripped by any standard;
time whispers in my ear
that everything passes on for ever.

Kolkata: A Still-Image
Passing by the hillock of garbage
he lifts the handkerchief mechanically
to his nose-
uneven broken footpath
sharp stonechips hit the ankles
coming out of the newly repaired disheveled road
resulting from yesterday’s two showers.
The contractor sniggers standing somewhere near-
“Out of a contract valued two paise
if one third of it is shared
how much is left out of it for the work?
What better way is there to use the stonechips?”
Broken roads overcrowded bus footpaths encroached
Hoodlums and youngsters raising donations-
passing all these by he enters the womb of
the stumbling city to easily cover a long distance
by Metro-Railway: “A remarkable system
to be preserved with pride.”
Reaching Park Street, the only road
to show the discipline by the men and police,
he finds a VIP car with red-alert on its head
followed by vehicles galore on its front and aft
speeds with the gun aimed at men
protruding from a corner;
if someone notices, most do not look at.
Courageous leaders- are the people their representatives
or they are of the people?
All around he finds them moving on the roads
with black hairs on their bodies,
he lifts the handkerchief again to his nose.
Walking mechanically through all these passing scenes
with lamenting thoughts and knitted brows
suddenly he halts-
light fragrance of the flowers!
This tree over the head, they too are there
favourites of the city, they too love it
like the conscience of men
with infinite patience
like many statues, reminiscent of the past, standing.
Aju Mukhopadhyay, the poet, critic and biographer, is a bilingual writer of 61846_452240424520_6917571_nfictions and essays. He has done some important translations on his way. He has authored 12 books in Bangla and 16 in English. His works have been recognized with awards by such bodies as The Writers Bureau, Manchester, Poets International, Bangalore, International Library of Poetry, USA, Excellence in World Poetry Award, 2009 by the International Poets Academy, Chennai, Lucidity Poetry Journal, Sugar Land, USA and others. His poems topped the list of some e-zines and websites like asianamericanpoetry and poetsindia.