Monthly Archives: July 2015

Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar

Why Wives Hate Poetry?
His poetry is like a ‘kept wife’
Ever unwelcome as a sneer
On a poet’s own home turf
For his wife’s suspicious heart,
Abuzz with the cacophony
Of running grinders and mixers
In her well furnished kitchen,
Is envious of his poetic love
That ignores hers in her den.

She wants no interference
Of this poetic persona non grata
In the marital coterie of her life;
Nor does she want him to have
Any enchanting affair with the vamp
Who consumes their spousal time
And all their marital happiness
And exposes his familial negligence.

Metaphysics of Woman

A body,
To touch
To feel,
An object
With pristine beauty
To be seen in glee
A thought of God
To give a thought to it
Enticing the world over
By her sweet demeanor!

A soothing umbrella
To the tired and the fired
Bathed in the sun of hardships,
The sheep of rudderless life
Anchoring to the shore
From the sores of solitude!
By giving a company
Up to the last….

A fountain –
Humanity finds a way
From her womb
A taste of sweetness
From honeycomb
Of libidinal energy,
The power boosting
The metabolism of man
Channelizing his energy
Goading him to a goal
Not to go astray…
Not to lose hope
Not to lend his soul
To the nymphs of the night –
A wrong womanhood…

A map of dualities –
One leading to the body
Another beyond it –
Hung in balance
Showing the Milky Way
To sustain a new life
To take a healthy shape,
So as to enjoy his life
With the other big one
But in different way
Not for any energy
To build his immunity
But to forget himself
Being lost in a trance…
Beyond all happiness
And pains and sorrows…

In the feminine world
The v-shaped valley –
A bed of sensual gratification
Where in the deep slumber
The soul thus mingled
With the other half
Loses his sense of existence
In cosmic vastness,
Where a life finds a way
Or sometimes goes astray –
Is a cosmic universe
Engulfing all the physics
And metaphysics of life
A transcendental valley –
Passing through
The jungle of the body
To the roaring Lion –
And immense bliss –

To the Divine Being…
Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar is a trilingual poet ( in Maithili, Hindi and English10801644_10204637325948678_9145761407248314636_n ) and a well-known reviewer. Born and brought up in a small village of Kharka Basant under Jalley Block of Darbhanga,  he is an MA in English Literature with specialization in Linguistics and Phonetics from Lalit Narayan Mithila University, Darbhanga. Theory of Literary Criticism is his recent literary zone of interest. Apart from writing poems, he is very much fond of writing short stories, views on news in various newspapers like The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, The Statesman , The Telegraph etc.



Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee

A Woman Needs Two Things

As a beloved or as a wife
a Woman needs two things in her life
A fabulous smile and a guy that creates it
All other words ,caring or sharing just a hype
Smile is a difficult thing
It comes only when birds sing
To know a woman full
An experience that is always beautiful
But how many men can really do it
More is how many men really want
That a woman is able to chant.

A woman needs two things
She needs a song and a guy
Who is happy when she sings

A singing woman is the most beautiful sight
She is then beautiful in her own right
Hello friends, allow a woman to be ever bright
She will bring to the universe an ever new light

Imagine what could happen if there was no woman
If no woman ever smiles
You could feel imprisoned in sorrows
Or you would look like banished to exiles

Rains in My Heart

Twilight fettered in darkness of cloudy evening
I was reborn in rains
In my heart all night it had been raining
I was walking down memory lanes
So many sweet memories of love and giggles
So many tears and smiles
My eyes were the Ganga of Shravana month
Flowing in full like the Niles

Her sweet smelling presence when we talked
Tresses of her fern hair
Sprouting green grass all around us
In her angry silence she looked so fair
Memory is so sweet is so painful
Her Love was the first dawn of light
I like Adam entered Paradise Regained
She made my soul so bright

Like the blue ship she sailed all night
In the dark yet dreamy unchartered sea
We were like the sailors of Columbus
All cheerful and so much full of glee
She might have forgotten my garrulous talk
I still cherish to look her smiling eyes
Nothing is now remaining for me
Her smile, her songs,can love be all lies?

I Go All Blue
(“There is no blue without yellow and without orange”.
Vincent Van Gogh)

Your Blue image mesmerises me
In the ambience of nature so bright
When you are so blue in your mind
I go all blue reaching the infinite
Your blue beauty awakens me
The desire for the pure aesthetic delight
The brighter you become in your blue
My silent stillness becomes white.

Long ago your blue fascinated me
I felt in you my beloved the blue eyed one
Like my blue jeans you shone and dazzled
I was lucky to have my first love won.
When I feel blue I start breathing again
Like the clear raindrops
Your blue blonde spirit wash my pain.

I am not Picasso to have the blue
He had his blue period for his art
Like the Ocean and the Sky
Blue as colour makes you look smart.
In our life all good things and hopeful ones
Blue is everywhere
You are my blue-eyed woman
Will love you for ever , I swear.
I love the serene ocean which is blue
I recall Maugham’s Mediterranean sea
I love the depth of your mind
When you clad in blue smile on the lea.

 Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee, the bilingual writer and academician is at present602728_10201525681285998_735992391_n the Chairperson of the Post Graduate Dept. of English and is also associated with teaching in the PG Dept of English of Rabindra Bharati Univesity, both in regular and distance. He is the Executive member in the International Advisory Board of International Theeodore Dreiser Society, USA.he also writes short stories for children.He has to his credit books on American and Indian literature.

Asim Kumar Paul

Living Flame

I cannot show me as fire.

When my mind burns, a yellow flame resides

As a burning circle inside hollow heart

That is pulling my life with smoke,

For forty years of trials and toasts of imagination.

I would like to form a triangle

With three threads of life, with impediments,

Small lens cannot create full view of the blue sky,

Passing my views to a leaking jar over senses

Those are my relations making blurred images.

It is my fate, doing nothing for them,

Ending in a small passage, not accustomed to see it,

I cannot pluck thorny episodes, dancing on threads,

And I look only to my image that shouts,

Silent protester I am here, moving in allurements.

In the last thread of managing money,

Whole essence is damaged when I take partnership,

Small source of money gets groaning

Some decisions are parted away whimsically,

I cannot draw a tangent to the hyperbolic curve of anxiety.

Asim Kumar Paul writes poetry in English and in Bengali, too. He has threeAsim Kumar Paul, sitting at International Poetry Fest-2012, Guntur, AP, India self-published Poetry Books. All of his poetry books are praised by eminent poet, Dr. Benjamin Zephaniah, of UK. He has got one award, The Perfect Poet Award Week 73, Hyde Park Poetry, USA, in 2012.

Sukumar Choudhuri

A Young Poet’s Lyrics

The timid poet felt helpless as excited by his humming tune
His father did indicate. That he must recite in full.
So sang he up his freshly writ lyric perforce:
“By inner sheen of the eyes I have seen all beyond eye,
I shall look into my soul now as the light has gone by.”
His wide eyes were moist with passion.
Entire creation got stilled by charming strokes of sound and tone.

Real estates were left behind, the ledgers and so many bustles.
The overwhelmed  father shedded tears of joy.
He embraced his reverend son after so long.  Thereafter
signing a  cheque  of Rs.500 in his office he
gave it to the handsome poet.
Eyes affectionate, solemn voice, be gone.

‘Mughal Emperors in the past used to show respect to the adept
in this manner`, he said. ‘The Mughal Empire is no more now. But
your essence of genius deserved such a royal prize.`

His servants were happier than the poet. They have been
his companions all-time. Raising the winner poet overhead
they filled the worshiper’s corridor with uproar in celebration.

Now there is deceptive and confused noise in the verse domain.
Postmodernist poets recite poems of expansive consciousness.
In those poetical venues the great father is an outcast now.
Affection of father so sparse.

If anyone places a reward in the hands of a young poet even now
we still remember the great old father.
We remember that old-time young poet,
of the ancestral heritage of worship corridor.


The Escape
I quit the trial.
For that matter I’m none special;
have no magic wand
and the dying souls march towards the end.

Not that I’m shameless so much,
but it’s then short-lived often;
so many things to feel sorry for,
crowd and chaos,
glooms and glitches.

I keep on quitting.
But nothing extraordinary of that;
have no touch stone
and just then the news spreads,
“Kanuda hanged himself;”
it pricks my heart pierces my head,
it’s so pain enormous.

It’s so strange I feel.
But I really don’t know
if culminations are all tragic…..
and then the escaping withdrawal that stays back.

I escape away…..
from such botherings,
from the temple of my faith….
from things undone.

Sukumar Choudhuri, he enjoys an enviable reputation. Brimming over the 10007420_10205767657049296_5688512102922199982_ngeographic confines of Bengal as well as Vidarbha, his fame has now permeated throughout the Globe. His susceptibilities are many. Among
them, his love for literature is foremost. He may rightly be called the mainstay of the life force of the 80’s world of Bengali Poetry. Forsooth, the ever-reactionary transit of Bengali poetry had never known so much of virulent and dynamic probing into the abysmal threshold of vivisecting self-analysis leading to precariously revealing impacts. Never had so much of unmatched translations of elusive humane experiences found such bohemian ebullitions. To date his publications number only twelve or thirteen volumes, each tracking a different trail. The diversity of style, the floridity of expressions and the varied nuances rather suits him because he writes ‘to transgress art to reach the art beyond’.He loves diversity and therefore ponders over man’s contrasting and contradicting role and its gamut of variations. Life reveals its little secrets before us in bits and pieces and intellectual perceptions can manage to grasp only a tiny flitting glance of them. The remaining only rest in the realms of imagination. This aspect of life is his pet theme and therefore always exists as a signature refrain in his writings. This is also the reason why a veil of romantic mysticism prevails around him.The person, like his poetic frugality, is a spartan in speech. He is the Creative Editor of ‘Khanan’, the only Bengali Little Magazine of Vidarbha. A little more about Sukumar, who is averse to publicity and is leading a self-exiled life in Maharashtra. He was born on 14th January 1962 in Balarampur village in the Purulia District of Bengal. He had his childhood days in Jhalda, a small town surrounded by hills, jungle,falls and rivers. One of his poetry works in local dialect of Jhalda, has initiated a storm of controversy. The book has been awarded by ‘Durer Kheya’ of Kanpur as the best book of the year (1999). His works has widely been translated in Marathi, Hindi, Kannad, Urdu, English and Telugu languages. We are amazed at the effortless  ease with which he courses into the various tributaries of literature besides poetry and drawings. He has been awarded “Ekhon Kabita Puraskar (1997)’ for the best poetry, ‘Maya Megh Puraskar (1998)’ for the best short story and ‘Mahadiganta Puraskar (2000)’ for the best editing. He has recently been awarded with Sadvabana Puraskar in the year 2009. Little Magazine Library O Gabeshana Kendra of Kolkata, All India Radio, Nagpur,Kabi Pushparani Smriti Sangsad, Bhilai, Vidharbha Sahitya Sangha, Nagpur and many other academies invited and felicitated him on different occasions. Besides he has been awarded with the prestigious ’Sahitya Setu Puraskar (2001)’ for his sincere contribution to the world of Bengali literature. Moreover his well-researched papers presented in different occasions triggered the mankind for his different and unparallal evaluation on specific issues. In the recent past on 30th December 2005 his edited journal ‘KHANAN’ had been awarded ‘Munshi Premchand Award’ as the Best Little Magzine of India’ at Jalpaiguri Book Fair. As on date his published works are ‘Manush Hey’ (1986) ,’Mangso O Manisha’ (1987),’Mayer Baper Bari’ (1989, 2nd Edition),’Aamader Parjyatan’ (1996), ‘Chhannamoteer Kuhu'(2006, 2nd Edition) (Eng Translation ~ ‘Bohemian Songs’ (1999) by B Sudipta),’Lal Leel Hoeelda Tin dikey Jhaeelda’ (1998), ‘Fanimansar Ulu'(2000), ‘Libidore Haarmala’ (2000), ‘Padya Pratibeshi'(2001), ‘Gadya Pratibeshi’ (2002), ‘Rajaneer Neel’ (2004) and ‘Aamar Katiye Otha’ (2004). He prefers working on different tributaries at a time. He is bit slow in processing his creations, as he believes in spontaneity. His creation can only be compared with the virgin dew drops. Most probably he defined it as the ‘silent notation’ in his poems. Whatever it may be, with his non-stop creations, everybody thus experience the flow of his witty love and finest feelings towards life and literature.

Dr Ram Sharma

 Life’s Clarion Call

When dawn scatters the golden pearls of life
when night sings the lovely song of love
the consciousness dances in deep blue sky
the light of energy laughs in greenary
then the dreams of life awake
when the dark clouds hover all around
when the sea howls with uncontrolled waves
when the storms come without any direction
then my life`s swan song starts singing
in life`s clarion call

Our Dreams

Our dreams
sometimes dreadful , sometimes pleasant
our dreams
sometimes new , sometimes old
we dream
sometimes in day , sometimes in night
our dreams
sometimes of meeting , sometimes of parting
Even if we are not able to get anything
but we always get our dreams

Dr Ram Sharma is an English Prof. Writer, Poet & Translator10377265_793734793996081_2522138315326551739_n.

Purnojit Haldar

Many days later

Many days later
You and I
Under the chestnut tree
Not bound by memories
We had together
But free

You, with old and grey
And wrinkled pages,
Engravings of blue and black
Across the margins
I, the encrypted scribe of those words
Repeated and repeated,
Written, rewritten
Will collapse down
On the same ground
And turn into soil together
Where you and I
My memory and my body
Will dissolute
Under the chestnut tree
Where the bodily form do not matter
Where all longings and belongings
Fret and fears of yesterday
Will cease
Where the fatal disease of relationship
Will grow weeds on its fertile grave
Into that Nirvana
You and I
Should join
Under the chestnut tree
To turn into tiny ingredients
And look up into the sky


If you say tomorrow
tomorrow is another day
Tomorrow I may not be happy
with eyebags even bigger
Tomorrow the walls form Cracks
and death creeps in like a spider unnoticed
Tomorrow there will be more people
burning on the pyre
and I’ll follow them,
maybe as a bearer of the corpses
or maybe dead just like them
you say
one more round of whiskey
But my throat is dry
my hands losing its stability
And the malicious spider
down into my throat
like a cancer there
Tomorrow may not be a happy day
If you say tomorrow
Tomorrow can be the darkest day with rains
your eyes cannot look at me
There shan’t be songs like this
only Crows combing their hair
and waiting for a lump of flesh from my body
Only the heat is too strong
too much if I was alive
Tomorrow is another day
tomorrow I may
as well be a man long gone

Purnojit Haldar is a research scholar ,poet &story writer.21248_347981535325105_167299805_n

Shruti Goswami

I crawled back and forth
And a hundred years flew
Like rain and thunder
Torn asunder
Shook the earth
Like a bottle of wine
And I drank thirstily.
I crawled back and forth
From birth to death
Awaiting footsteps
That faded long ago
Like the picture drawn
With charcoal
Whose likeness you said
Resembled me.
I crawled back and forth
From Have to Have- nots
And the Haves have not
The Have- nots do not realize
What they have
And each cry for greener pasture.
I crawled back and forth
From season to season
Searching for a reason
For the rise of the moon and sun
Trying to end
What already has begun
This cycle that consumes
Since time was born.

I lost my way back in the woods,

Forgot to inhale the dried brown leaves,

Reminds me of an age old book.

The beauty of life escaped my mind,

In you, my mind was enshrined.

In the freedom of awakening,

Where the deepest feelings of curiosity,

Is invoked by the deepest emotions;

Where supreme consciousness unite,

Mind with matter, and substance with spirit,

I now stand, naked, blessed and blissful,

Awaiting the return of the native.

Shruti Goswami, an Architect and Urban Planner by profession, was born_DSC8068 and brought up in one of the premier industrial townships of Durgapur, West Bengal. She completed her schooling from Durgapur and then did her Bachelors’ in Architecture and Masters in Town and Regional Planning from B. E College, Shibpur ( now IIEST, Shibpur).Her father, also an engineer by profession, and her mother, a housewife, had inculcated in her a deep love for literature and music from an early age. She is an avid reader of proses; however, she finds her mode of expression in poetry. She believes everyone has a different way of expression, but creativity is a language that can be understood by all and sundry, and therefore, prefers to call herself a “translator of emotions”. She is inspired by the simple things in nature, and love is her deepest motivator, because it gives her a spontaneous ness that other emotions do not stir.
Her poems have been published in several national and international Journals and Anthologies like Taj Mahal Review, Harvests of New Millennium, Scaling Heights, Heartstrings, Ink Spot Radio Show, Suvarnarekha, The World Anthology for Peace, Resonating String and in online poetry journals such as Fragrance. Her poems have also been recited on a radio show for poetry in Canada. She also writes short stories in Bengali and they have been published in several magazines like Palash Katha and Lipinagorik. Three of her Bengali poems have been use in a short film and recently premiered in the Kolkata Short Film Festival called “Eshona” meaning “Quest”. Her first book, co-authored with poetess Ananya Chatterjee, “Another Soliloquy”, is a collection of 50 poems and was published in 2014.
She has varied interest and travel is one of her favourite hobbies. She was also among the top 20 beauty contest finalists in Kolkata in 2013 in the contest” Deepti Ey Somoy” jointly organised by the Bengali vernacular “Ey Somoy” (under TOI) and Senco Gold from among 7000 contestants.

Md. Shahbaz Khan


Burning and burning in my world of dreams

Only tears in eyes and pain in heart, unfair it seems.

Love my religion and devotion

No sense, no fear, I lost my motion.

A Goddess rules, veiled behind hair of black night.

O Muse! Give me your charm, love my soul’s appetite.

I can’t reach her, no power I have.

But I saw her sparkled enchanted eyes

Peeping behind the veil at me.

O horror! Horror! Came a mishap,

No eyes, but prevailing darkness.

Rain comes in heart and goes,

Eyes start raining, and heart beating…..

Md. Shahbaz Khan was born in Bhagalpur. He is a Master of Arts in English 63772_896495343708320_247409789222337545_nand currently pursuing his Research from Tilkamanjhi Bhagalpur University. He possesses the ability of anchoring, singing and social work. He has also composed poems in English Language. His poem ‘New Year’ was published by the year 2011 in Contemporary Vibes (January Edition) and his poems got place in Mr. Brian Wrixon’s Anthology‘Words on the Winds of Change’, ‘On the Words of Love’, ‘A Poet’s View of Being’ and very recently in ‘Inklinks’ along with famous writers of the World and again in the Brian Wrixon’s Anthology ‘In Our Own Words’ and in two Indian Anthologies of English poems ‘Imagination’ ‘Moods and Moments: (Soul Reflections Of Loving Hearts)’. His short story ‘Black Night’ also got a place in Very recently he has authored a collection of Hindi poems entitled “SAMARPAN” in which his poetic mood can be understood.

Sudam Chandra Panigrahi

The hoop girl in train

As my train chugs along
she wearing tattered salwar
comes along with her daughter
of three years
who smeared
two big round red dots
on her cheeks,
a flower tucked
to a rope on her cap.
Holding a small hoop.

Her mother beats a steel dish
kept upside down on the isle
with a stick,
while daughter
shows her hoop skill,
starting from right foot
through hands
ends up in left with zeal.

Music speeds, speeds up she
begins jumping
from this end
to that.

When she spreads
her hands for some coins
some give with red eyes
and words
while some complain.

And they walk
to other coach
propelled by hope
and hunger
Holding their hoops and steel dish

Last journey

When two lives
Exchanged rings
And garlands
Among relatives
It was sheer festivity
echoed in the air
And wafted around
As they received gifts
Bouquets, best wishes
And compliments.
Dreams were woven
On the canvas of time
While some strokes waited
To finish the chime
As a new life rhymed about.
A water filled pitcher
Sat on a swastika mark
In front of a decorated gate
While wicks flickered
To greet nouveau life
United a while ago
Coming in a vehicle bedecked.
At that succulent time
Crashing came a gale
tumbling the pitcher,
ravaging wicks
and all decorations
While the car rammed
another vehicle
from direction opposite
crushing all dreams
into ashes
as lives, dreams and promises-
Silent and expressed
waited for cremation.
Promises remained
mere memory
no one was there
to claim
or fulfill.

 Sudam Chandra Panigrahi,   Author of Love Across the Borders, waits for1176227_232317956915445_879689448_n the publication of his second novel in 2015. By heart a poet and many of his poems have been published in a number of national anthologies.

Bharat Rattan Nagpal.

The Green Valley
into dark, heaps of darkness
negotiating the yellow terrain
Our carriage bends, turning to be erect,
We blink
Our eyelids are watery streams
until the shafts of light

The breath taking turns
take us to the valley.
The carpet of green
lying at the middle
between the steeps and the slopes.

The middle aged man
overwhelmed, fixed his gaze
upon the glassbox
to pursue his mathematics
metamorphose the environment
into calculations
All that turned opaque.

We, in pauses
exchanged glances, whispered syllables
when the outlines
of the distant abode of Lord Shiva
gained in transparency.

The middle aged man astounded
had snake like creeps
He found himself entrapped, insupportable
between the glorious sunshine above
and the countless, serpentine roots
rocks, atmas below.

Beatific Vision

Lord, draft me in the mountain of love
wherein I keep ascending,
Slender is the present web
when I stand enclosed, diminished

Lead me to the untrodden paths,
They are endless,
Like a dream child,
I will scrub my slate,
script new strokes
everready, everfresh
everwilling for ventures,

When the clouds darken
stagnant pools that astound
I will not be smothered
The river that flows on me
will continue its spell
in its stillness, fury, abandon
You are the mystic glacier
from where it emanates

I will wear new dress,
summon my vitals
play Your play,
celebrate, swoon,
in the unsung song of Your drumbeats

Under Your decree,
The mighty spirit of life
that overflows,
will submerge in me,
in thunder, lightning,

The Inheritor
Bumping through darkness,
towards the twilight,
The misty dawn breaks,
The aircraft landed
on remote tract

The Tibetan greeted us
A simpleton, elbowing his hand
through the phiran
His swaying head, protruding giggles
tobacco stained teeth
displayed his amicable gusto

A man of steel,
His fingers rotated variously
in directions : North, South, East, West
A monastery – mosque and the temple,
confluence of cultures,
and a microcosm
mingling of costumes, looks, nuances

I was ceasing to blur, disbelieve
Seated on the pavement,
I paused –
It was clear daylight,
The troupe of dancers dashed
bugles blew, anklets chimed, bangles clanked
Everything, everywhere was hilarious
There was communion of elements,
music of oneness.

Beauty and love, I visualized
lie in the child nestled in her mother’s arms
in an old man in unkempt dress
leaning upon his stick,
The community of family waving with delight

Then I went close to River Indus,
drank the bluish water from another source
Ecstasy and Freedom, I registered
have no past, present, future.

Prof. B.R.Nagpal is a retired associate professor of English from Ramanujanprof College, University of Delhi. Published two volumes of verse,Published poems in journals like “The Poetry Society of India,” “The Hindustan Times,” “,” and “Indian and Foreign Review.”Published three critical works on Modern British Fiction and several critical articles in national and international journals.