Monthly Archives: January 2016

Minal Sarosh

Peg

Envy, envy,
why wear this veil of politeness?
I know you hide behind closed doors
like clothes from a peg left hanging,
crumpled malice, worn again and again,
and gnawing jealousy, hasn’t it turned
your hands, your legs, hollow and void,
till you’re left just dangling
without a sane head?

Full Moon

Not while sitting under a banyan tree,
but it’s always, the absolute moon
stuck between night’s black eyebrows,
which is enlightenment for me.

Not when it’s just a crescent,
ethereal, and my surprised fingers
look through other starred worlds.

Not when it’s just a pencil arc,
shard of a broken earthen pot,
mortal, and I yearn for a round
silver bangle on my wrists.

Not this, like a watermelon wedge,
as my thirst has been growing
to be the full loop moon.

But more, yes more
like a celestial circle, endless,
where I know not where I begin
and where I end.

 
On Horse’s Hooves
This morning suddenly,
through the window,

like of hair the tree looked
a tangle of leaves, disheveled.

While as if riding on the snail’s back,
slowly, slowly, the clouds moved, lazy.

And as if for the first time, the koel sang,
gently awaking, waiting for applause.

But suddenly, the lawnmower
rushed, rasped across the lawn,

and grunting, galloping,
at the back of my mind,

it sounded like impatient time
running away on the horse’s hooves,

cropping, crushing my slumber.
.

Listening

Just for this one day
pull out the surprised joker
from the pack of moments.

Switch off the radio birds,
the monotonous jingles
singing again and again.

Switch off the blinking cell,
a maze of waves, this wired toy
buzzing on and off.

Switch off the television,
stop shedding tears
with shrill dramatic lives.

Oh just for the day, this one day
let me shuffle, play with silence,
indulge in small talk,
and listen to my unheard words.

 

New Faces

Now I’m not a frightful face of fire,
nor is my face a wavering wick shadow,
no, now I look more like these white ashes,
waiting for faceless oblivion.

My ears, eyes are not an empty house,
nor my legs the wild garden,
but am just a patient door
waiting to open, hear footsteps.

And I don’t look like a window, either,
nor the breeze caught in this room,
but have just gone limp like the curtain
waiting to sway with destiny.

Now, when my years are all spent away,
I’m not the day, nor the night,
but will be just like the dust scattered,
from which I sense centuries
waiting to rise with new faces.

 

 Minal Sarosh is an Indian English poet and novelist. Her first poetry book mripublished ‘Mitosis and Other Poems’, Writers Workshop (1992), Kolkata. Her first novel published ‘Soil for My Roots’ (Lifi Publications, New Delhi, 2015).She is winner of National Awards like — (a)All India Poetry Competition 2005 of The Poetry Society (India) Delhi. – Commendation Prize. (b)Creative Writing Competition 2006 of Unisun Publications, Bangalore-Third Prize : (c) SMS Poetry Competition 2007 and 2008 Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, Mumbai-Third Prize : (d) Unisun Reliance TimeOut Book Club Awards 2008-09 -Special
Mention

SHUBHA SAGAR

A TRIBUTE TO A GREAT SOUL

As millions of people,the world over,are busy paying their tribute to you,
I see you in a totally different light and present a different point of view.

People are saying ,over and over again, that ‘may your soul rest in peace’,
I would say that your mind and soul were always ‘at peace’ and ‘at ease’.

And it’s this state of mind that helped you achieve so much in your lifetime,
Even though for fame,money and position, you never really cared a dime.

You had a fiery passion for life with which you wanted to ignite young minds,
You just believed in giving nothing but your very best to situations of all kinds.

Your love for youth and seeing a bright future in them,you never ever disguised,
Hence you did not leave a single opportunity to be with them and be their guide.

Your desire to realize your dreams never let you sleep,your dreams were selfless,
And inspired millions not only to dream but fulfill dreams through efforts endless.

As for your pristine love for your motherland ,it was so exemplary and evident,
To millions you have taught the true spirit of following religion by being prudent.

Above all you were a human being par excellence and so very down to earth,
Even though of talent, true spirit and a techno savvy mind you had no dearth.

All those who wish to offer you an ode today should realize that the only way,
It can be done is to imbibe the values you believed and practiced night and day.

The deep underlying message conveyed through these words, dedicated to a noble soul,
Is not to write about him for effect only today but to make his dreams for India, your goal!

SIMPLICITY

Simplicity is a virtue that is so rare to find in this era and time,
It is almost as if being a simpleton today is actually a big crime.
Complexity and chaos has become the order of the day today,
It is sad indeed that we rarely enjoy a relaxed, stress free day.

The style quotient today is boasting of a busy and hectic pace,
Everybody seems to be part of a huge marathon or a mad race.
Affluence today means more and more possessions and wealth,
Everyone seems to lack ‘peace of mind’ and a very good health.

Cosy houses have given way to cramped flats with no fresh air,
Simple traditional clothes have been replaced by western wear.
Healthy and wholesome food has given way to fast and junk food,
Polite language has been replaced by one that is rude and crude.

As I recall my childhood in a small town where I lived years back,
I realize life was simple yet beautiful, which today we sadly lack.
The play time adventures, so many festivities and celebrations,
The sharing and caring, many a secret longings and infatuations.

Not having a TV was such a boon, it gave us time to be outdoors,
Weaving and listening to interesting tales by the dozens and scores.
Not having computers and mobiles actually helped us come closer,
Nagging and nudging friends ,forever ragging and bullying each other.

We have paid a price, over the years, converting our towns into cities,
We have made the simplicities of life turn gradually into complexities .
How I wish life could be simple and sweet today like in the era gone by,
When we would nurture all relations and had simple moments to enjoy!

EVERY DROP COUNTS

Every drop of water ,adds up to make many a mighty ocean and sea,
Creating huge waves, infusing our body and mind with boundless energy.
Every drop of the golden Sun, adds up to form the expansive daylight,
Lighting and warming up the earth, making it look so beautiful and bright.
Every drop of air, adds up to create the divine life force flowing constantly,
Moving in and out of innumerable living beings, sustaining lives incessantly.
Every drop of fertile soil, adds up to make the glorious and generous earth,
Producing food for the populations over generations, without any dearth.
Every drop of nectar adds up into a swirling and surging sea of sweetness,
Attracting swarms of bees to the blushing blooms through their fragrance.

Every drop of matter, adds up to create on the globe, the vast environment,
Enabling huge ecosystems to thrive and coexist by becoming interdependent.
Every living cell, adds up to form , a really mammoth variety of living creatures,
By producing off springs, generation after generation, with diverse features.
Every drop of blood, adds up to form a powerful, pulsating, perpetual flow,
Gushing inside a living body, giving it the energy boost and the radiant glow.
Every drop of grey matter, adds up to create a colossal network of neurons,
Stimulating and triggering the brain to control all the thoughts and actions.
Every drop of love, adds up to create a universal bond bringing people closer,
Giving meaning to relationships and existence, winning hearts over and over.

SANDS OF TIME

You are but one speck in the sea of humanity,
That is reeling under sheer insecurity and vanity.
You’re caught in a vicious circle of action and reaction,
Hence you need to ever guard your communication.

Why constantly prove yourself right, right from birth?
Can you not be content in knowing your own self worth?
Spend more time introspecting than portraying yourself,
Ever strive to retain your identity and never lose oneself.

Savour each and every moment and slow down your pace.
Life is meant to be cherished and you are not in any race!
Do not always for your gains, try to please and appease,
What is meant to be, will definitely come to you with ease.

So make the most of the life you have been blessed with,
It is a wonderful opportunity you have been graced with
So be careful as you tread on the sands of time,
As you often leave your indelible footprints behind.

YOUR ATTITUDE DEFINES WHO YOU ARE

Attitude is the often ‘spoken and heard’ word today,
What exactly is an attitude, I wondered aloud one day?
An attitude is ‘the way a person thinks and behaves’,
At least this is what the dictionary meaning conveys!

We come across, attitudes of so many different kinds,
They are a reflection of what goes on in human minds.
Whether an attitude is right or wrong, it’s hard to define,
And between two perceptions, there can be a fine line!

It is sad to see people carrying a ‘high and mighty’ attitude,
And always making it a point to be generally, nasty and rude.
In contrast, some others strive to be calm, poised and polite,
And they automatically,respect and love, from others invite!

Those, who are ever judging others, fail to judge themselves,
As they are actually emotionally upset with their own selves,
Those, who with every word and action spell and spill humour,
Often hide their pain and anguish, under their calm demeanour!

There is a ‘never mind’ attitude and a ‘devil may care’ attitude,
One that is ‘forever apologetic’ and one ‘without any gratitude’!
‘I am the best’ attitude is often found among not the very best,
And ‘I am good for nothing’ is drawing sympathy from the rest!

Yet, individual perception of attitudes, when kept aside,
The kind of person one is, attitude can help others decide.
The right attitudes are sure to take you a long way in life,
And the wrong attitude can add to your misery and strife!

It is true that humility does not come easily to a lot of people,
But when acquired, it does make the attitude softer and subtle.
Let us change our attitude to one, more pleasant and profound,
And make peace with our own selves and with others around!

 

  SHUBHA SAGAR,  an educator by profession ,has taught in various schoolssub across the country.Since last 10 years she has worked with International Boards, IGCSE AND IB,teaching Biology and holding key positions.She is M.Sc.(hons.) in Zoology and M.Sc. in Psychotherapy and Counselling. Writing poems and tarot reading are some of her hobbies. She attributes her writing skills to her alma mater,St. Mary’s Convent, Allahabad. Her love for poetry dates back to the time when she was in grade 7 and her teacher fondly named her ‘the little poet’. She likes to write traditional poems and has written over 500 poems.

Rahul Ahuja

Figments of Monsoon

The tempestuous rains
slashes upon the windows
of my sub-consciousness

The paper boats float in
puddles, carved on the
wet lanes of my dreams

The ethereal air fills
my arid lungs with
a tinge of petrichor

The parched longings
keep vanishing with
the hazy mirage
of my drunken desert

The hankering figments
burns bright and dissipates
within the chimera
of the delirious night
My Heart Aches

I tread upon the figments
of Howrah Bridge
Imagine Tagore crooning
his ageless songs
Dip the parched words in the
holy Ganges of my thoughts
Post letters to nowhere
through The General Post Office
Roam in the imagery streets,
inhaling the saccharine aroma
Hear the chants of ‘Durga’
within the alleys of my solitude
Ah, I have never been to
Calcutta and my heart aches
I crave to break the wall of
illusion and transcend into reality.

 

Rahul Ahuja is a poet hailing from Surat located in Gujarat. He feels that ahupoetry is a fortuitous journey. His poems have been published in several national and international anthologies. He won the “Poiesis Award” for the third place in the 4th Rabindranath Tagore Award- International Competition 2015. May it be a crumpled leaf, floating clouds or trees; he loves to observe the essence of nature which has also inspired him to pen down his poems. Being a lover of art, he believes that everything around us is art and poetry. He can be reached at rahulahuja159@gmail.com

Aabha Vatsa Midha

THE ANGRY WOMAN
Trudging
Angry
Bitter
She night walked through life
Unaware
When the demons seized her soul
Ripping her peace of mind
Shaking her confidence
Bulldozing her faith.
Angrier she grew by the minute
Bitter day by day
A hollow
Empty
Persona of her lively soul.
The milestones passed by
Blindly
The seasons melted into each other.
Dusk and Dawn gave no respite
And her dark odyssey lingered on.
A doomed tunnel
Bereft of sanity.
Miraculously
A light shown for a short lived pang
She gasped for breath
Running towards freedom
From her steely cage
Engulfing mouthfuls of oxygen.
Gradually the mirror eased
The reflection in the mirror
Transformed.
A ghost no more
With broken ribs.
Happier she grew
Content she became
Bathed in glorious raptures
A thundering blessing
She captured the halo in her heart
Sealed with a promise of gaiety
Cos
She was angry no more.

PAIN
Through silken dreams
Interlaced with thriving memories
I feel you
Through my closed eyes.
The maze of our celestial dance refuses to die
Despite being frayed by vagaries of time.
I can almost recall your touch
Feel the pulsating warmth
Still drown under your bold gaze
As I hug this song of remembrance.
Your memory is both a jubilation
And a throbbing pain
A permanent entrant
In the hidden crevices of my heart.
When swept furiously by tides of remembrance
I tremble as the pain lashes me
Flowing unbidden as warm saline tears.
How I wish the tears were sweet
And the memory sans pain.
How I wish I could recreate the magic
Of a breathless encounter.
The cold unspoken silence
Does nothing to soothe my blistered heart
And yet I cherish this pain
For only this is my constant comrade
Of Words and shared embraces
And of a heart aglow with a brilliant sheen of hope
That one day this pain will twirl
Into an enduring reunion.

 
 FRAGRANCE
From unknown unexpected domains
You invaded my soul
With a fragrance so adored.
A fragrance that bespoke of sheer brilliance
Captivating my heart in its fold.
Just like the most precious of blooms
Live for a handful of days
I could inhale your fragrance
And soak in your love
For a brief odyssey.
But behold, like the carefully preserved
Deep red roses in the folds of my diary
Your fragrance still lingers in my mileu
A daring reminder of our rendezvous.
Will the roses bloom again?
Will the dewdrops kiss its tender petals?
Will the exotic fragrance wreak its magic once again?
I can sense you are around
Invisible , but subtle in your presence
And like the dark clouds
Waiting to burst into a torrent
I await the moment
When your fragrance intoxicates me once again.

 

Aabha Vatsa Midha is a post-graduate in pure sciences based in Faridabad. abhaShe is an ex-teacher, a blogger, a poet and an author. She grew up in Allahabad and Zambia imbibing diverse cultures. A self confessed optimist, she is a believer in the power of the written word. ‘She has two poetry books to her credit, titled Harmony and Home Alone. Two additional poetry books titled MIRACLE and DESIRE are due to published in mid August.She writes in contemporary free style and has a wide innerscape of thoughts. You will find she composes poem in widely ranging topics from nature, love, longing or women’s rights.She is a quintessential student of life , taking each day as a gift to be unwrapped with countless possibilities.She can be reached at aabhavatsa@gmail.com

Gopal Lahiri

Open Secret

Each morning is still a secret for me.
Soft sunrays are
like the underplayed rhymes.

A conscript of happier times,
I love the diction of the passing clouds.
And the tweets of tiny birds.

rock formations over sugary sands
crystalline water
I want to float,

I long for the centre of the eyes
On the oil in canvas frame,
A far more formal.

Those poems written on wildest dreams
by candle ends, last night,
seem to feel closest.

If they are awkward,
This may be ironic but then
Again it may not.

Hollow Stars
someone to talk to,
coasters, dressing table, comb,
the beds with curved back,
pen and ink illustrations,
as if colourful masks,
on the dark wood frame.

drip-stands, nurses, trolleys,
capsules, medicine box, syringe,
no hope to cure perhaps,
in critical care unit,
it’s all glass, cold, frozen.

open window,
in the street
multi-hued buses
two wheelers,
marble dealer
spiking the way,
roadside eatery
still breathing,

in moonlight
needle eyed people
walk in and out
of the temple,
women in
bright ensembles,

the passing bell
makes it short,
just that way,
the sterile image
of the hollow stars.
What if
What if, every evening
drops me on the pavement?

Slipping so well with the blood stains
and bullet holes in the narrow brick wall,
get used to terminal failure,
needs some space, the fading light,

forgotten easily the tweet of the tiny bird,
a dark crow and a lazy pigeon
sit still in pouring rain,
look into each other’s face,
perhaps in search of the feather-mask.

a pool of water on the wayside,
the crowds go among trees,
stream in and out of the park,
they have seen already
unseasonably warm temperatures.

knowing fully well the meanings
of the quiet stirrings around
the circles on water,

the sailing moon
never quite understand
why evening is just a metaphor.
Skywalk
A few local trains come and go past the station
Churning people with their clutched brief cases,
On quiet evenings, the girls with deep eye lashes
Walk past in a hurry at where I stand,

I still see the young boys as if in facial masks,
They smoke, not so cheap cigarettes,

Once I glimpsed the slums below where
People fought on any pretext and hurled
Abuses at each other knowingly.

I shared that night and the silent stars
With frosty faces that became regal anyway.

Hardly a night goes by without a scar-mark,
The crackle of the forbidden sound bites,
The hints of impasse as a tormented footnote.

I do not know why I am standing still
Night birds, I can watch only their flight
Under the pastel yellow moon light.

But this is not about you, it’s the truth
Of unspeakable, the unrecorded idioms,
To weigh up the pros and con of the dark side.

 

Canvas
In my eyes, it is so obvious
sync with life

set of her shoulder
tilt of the forehead
look in her round eyes

life in a plastic bubble
under the brutal sun
its always worth asking

what is the gist of earth?

The long nose and the abrupt curve
On the undulating forehead
Haunted, immutable.

speed, force and movement
they are all, on canvas.

Gopal Lahiri was born and grew up in Kolkata. He currently lives in Mumbai, gopalIndia. He is a bilingual poet, writer, editor, critic and translator and widely published in Bengali and English language. Anthology appearances (among others) includes National Treasures, Indus Valley, A posy of poesy, Concerto, Poet’s paradise, My dazzling Bards, Jorasanko, The Silence within, Indo-Australian Anthology, Homebound, The Dance of the Peacock, Illuminations. His works have featured in journals Indian Literature, Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, Haiku Journal and electronic publications Arts and Letters, Underground Window, Muse India, Poetry Stop, Debug, Eastlit and Coldnoon Diaries. He has jointly edited the anthology of poems: Scaling Heights.

Nitin Soni

To Remember

 I’ll tell you something committed to my memory

Something known for novelty and humanity

 

A dirt-free road in the month of June, I remember

The streets of New Delhi and the busy life of

Connaught place inner circle,

And red-green light of traffic signal, I remember…

 

An old American woman in a blue shawl with a camera in her right hand…

Grinning with glee – she gives a hundred rupee note to a

small innocent beggar

I remember…

 

I remember the bunch of beggars she captured in a camera

They followed her till she entered the Madras coffee house

Waving her hands and gesturing ‘goodbye!”

I remember…

 

It seemed a familiar scenario

The red signal welcomes the same beggars to beg

I remember; some of them were not more than six-years-old

And two or three children were newly born…

 

I walked on, silently, down the scorching road, and

I remember

How the old man pulled down the window of his car

Flipped one rupee coin, and asked an innocent beggar to depart

 

I remember I called out to the beggar twice…

She did not hear my first call, then

When I called out to her a second time…

 

“Do you like chocolate and ice cream?”

I remember her answer, “Anything that makes my stomach happy.”

I took her to a nearby restaurant

And asked the manager to feed her like a queen!

I remember her smiling face…

 

All I can remember the next day when

I visited the place again

She, Sonam, wearing a muddy frock and begging with an empty plate

 

I remember I clicked a picture of her from far

Tears began rolling down and I wished to leave…

The silence of the road being more dangerous than

the silence of war

 

That’s all I can remember!

That’s all I want to remember!

 

 

In Naked Silence, Naked Reality!

 

My heart sobs every time I see him struggle

In the middle-of-the-road he slows down …

His soul rebels against the cycle of life

Destiny has again embarked upon time!

 

He looks back

Where?

To his past…memories, affection, wickedness

Deeds and perfection!

The work he has done

Sometimes brought a glimpse of joy

Or there was deep sorrow which mocked the state of happiness…

And vanished after saying– goodbye!

 

He fights back standing on his knee

Chuckling and admiring the path of glory

His history drags him to life again

This time he wakes up …

Since ages he had lain in his grave

 

His soul weeps in this moment of time

Each second makes him remember

He could have lived more

If he hadn’t cheated on values, morals

The dear ones he was meant to support.

 

He howls like an infant

He looks back

To where there is no path, no glory

Trees are lamenting the separation of leaves

Bricks have turned black

Human shadows have gone insane

Some animals are seen making loving to each other in the garden

Loved ones are not to be found…

All looked chaotic while he was there…

The time has won the award of “Past Life”

In naked silence, naked reality!

 

My heart sobs every time I remember his past

In the middle-of-the-road, he was gifted to a grave

His soul rebelled against the cycle of life

As always, destiny has embarked upon time!

 

Even She

Even that whore

Wanted to move on

But couldn’t…!

As soon as she made an attempt to flee away,

She saw a bunch of people looking at her with stones in hand, and condoms at the edge of their lustful lips!

 

She lost a lot

Sold out everything

Turned into a blockbuster

But couldn’t cut the chocolate cake…

 

She desperately wanted

To move on…

For a higher salary

Among those who know!

 

A few hours later,

Another God disguised as customer Bolted the wooden door from inside With a fresh smile and wrinkled face!

 

She realized in next five minutes

That she can only move up and down…

 

Nitin Soni   Known as ‘The Curly Poet’ and honoured with the title of ‘Most Popular’ at Delhi niUniversity where he studied English literature, Nitin Soni is a poet, storyteller, script writer & social activist whose writings have appeared in many national and international publications. The Broken Boat, his maiden poetry book, reached the number 1 position on Amazon India within a few weeks of its release. Nitin lives in New Delhi, and he can be contacted at nitin.0759@gmail.com.

Sibasis Jana

Netaji…

Netaji means freedom and blood,
Netaji means life and struggle,
Netaji means celebration and glory.

Netaji means nationalism and enthusiasm.
Netaji means spirit and Azad hind fouz.
Netaji means colonialism and post colonialism.

Netaji means heroism and spiritualism.
Netaji means India and Delhi,
Netaji means sublimity and immortality…

 

Ode to Swamiji…

O the cyclonic monk come to our earthly abode with thy divine science of rajyoga’ and karmayoga’.

From saptarsimamdal’ to simla, from philosophy to theology, from bhubaneswaridevi to sri Ramkrisna thy abode, education, religiosity reoriented.

From childhood to sanyas life thy vision and mission, thy intelligence and creativity, meditation and achievement glorify thy swans.

Through thy yogic light ‘veda- vedanta- Upanishads simplified from innocence to experience, from the gita to football ground.

From kanyakumari to Chicago address thy lectures flower nationalism to spiritualism, education to cosmopolitanism.

O, the divine spirit, appear to us again in the Indian ocean to revitalize this jambudip with the clarion call ‘ arise, awake…’ in this meditative Himalayans ganga, kundalini’ saraswati swans.

 

A yogi

Hail to the divine guide, the preacher of kriya’ Yoga and the innovator of Energization come to our earthly paradise again.

Thou spread the seeds of Vedanta in the west, transmute the spirit of Raj yoga and illuminate the science of physio therapy and psycho therapy.

Oh the premavatar’ ( the incarnation of love), the representative of spiritual bard, the god gifted engine enlighten us with thy divine science.

A man, a soul,
a life , a swan,
A lighthouse, a yogi.

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.

 

Ananya S Guha

City Of Cities

At a corner curled is a robust thief
in city of cities beside a mall
in city of cities.
Fictive city, city of imagination
city of cities.

In city of cities the walled fortresses
speak of new age, unbecoming light.
Guns rule roost, in city of cities.

Shaft of light
droning voices
dancing figures
apostates in city of cities

In waking night
troubador of times
city of cities
you weave, a thin life
premeditated living
as arsonists and bombers
tear shreds of your life
in abject gluttony.

City of cities your riposte is
your will, silent answer to
marauders as you undergo face lift

breatning new life
into city of cities.
Ragpickers can only question.
Tormentor of times
city of cities!

Distress Buying, Selling…

She sells fruits or is it vegetables
She sells on pavements, white washed houses
her coins ringing notes of sadness
She disposes of vegetables in evenings of skies upturned
when volatile winter thunders.
She sells in a neighbouring village
her home, her point of no return
She sells in Shillong’s bustling traffic
She sells she knows not what
her smile tells that she sells
and we buy, distress buying.
We eat. We haggle. We buy
and sing songs of praises.

She sells, distress selling.
We buy distress buying.
The notes emaciated, withered fingers
she continues to sell.
Pavements lined with vendors
lit lamps, when there is no light.
She sells whirling in scathing darkness

Dust

dust does not settle
it unsettles rovingly
it has movements
it wanders aimlessly
in houses, corners, books
and roads
the mind is dusty
when the rot sets in
the same questions, the same answers
the same love and hate, the same games
and the same same killings.
here in India it is the gatheing dust
over centuries, and history takes a new turn.

Ananya S Guha works at Indira Gandhi National Open University (IGNOU) as asga Senior Academic. His poems in English have been published in International & National Journals and e zines. He also writes for newspapers. He also writes book reviews, articles for newspapers and articles on education, distance education and vocational education.

Shruti Goswami

Pride

Tell me life, now
Tell me death
What pride is concealed
What emptiness
In the hollow of your hallowed portals
That I have never met
Tell me now, let me know
What fight, rustles like the leaves
Inside
When you betray each other
Forget
That I defy, now you
Then you
Hold my breath
To deceive.
Let me stay
Pregnant,preconceive
As you breathe down
Each other’s neck
Prey on mortals
Silently.

Tell me life now
When you leave.

Divine

Shivering leaves
Corrugated
Purring softly
Like a cat on prowl
Scared at the touch of rain
Transform like a butterfly
The very next morn.

I care not
About the Buddha or the Zen
It simply rained
One fine night
Much to my dismay
I was scared and scarred
But I am now transformed
Eternally
Like the life divine.

shShruti Goswami 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”.

Kushal Poddar

Seeing You, Not You

You, not you, the light behind you
gleaming, rendering dim to
your face and shape- and every time
you shift your head to adjust
a strand or a streak, blinding me
in a jiff- approach and I close
my eyes to see if I still
have those dreams. You, not you, draw
the chair and sit. I look
beyond you, yonder a bird
pecks away the grains of fall.
Accidental Sweetness
The sweet scent of rot
awakens us, in
the morning.

The man whose hand
was caught in
a weather balloon

drifts over this house.
The mass, mess, light
heaviness.

The sweetness we hold
between our lips,
or I intake

to escape from it,
or you dunk your
sentences

all have the body
of him, the one
got high, Godlike.
Pretty as dark

Lazing on the ledge
a moonlit leap
a moon flight
and shy crow caws
Pretty As Unprinted
Small cells undone
one by one,

bubble wrap noon,
dwarf shadow

tall tree, one step
more and my

balcony ends.
One step back

and more of the room
for darkness

breathes in and shrinks,
breathes out and grows.

Here goes a picture
pretty as

anything unprinted.
Here flies a bird

to sit on the fence.
One more step.
Open Air Drinkhouse
rom my unclasped hand
the glass lifts up, glides, whisky
burning inside, in the cloud,
out of its bear shaped clod,
near the moon, brighter than the orb,
sacred something, swirling,
representing a forlorn festival.

 

Kushal Poddar, widely published in several countries, prestigious anthologiesku included Men In The Company of Women, Penn International MK etc, Van Gogh’s Ear, been featured amongst the poets for the month December by Tupelo Press, Vine Leaves Literary Journal’s Best of 2014 and in various radio programs in Canada and USA presently lives at Kolkata and writing poetry, fictions and scripts for short films when not engaged in his day job as a lawyer in the High Court At Calcutta and an English Language Trainer in various universities. He is editor of the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’ He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio) and “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs). The forthcoming book is  “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia).