Wish you all a Happy and Prosperous 2020

http://www.setumag.com/2016/06/author-anurag-sharma.html
Anurag Sharma
Dear friends,

It's that time of the year again when a passing year is seen collecting and reviewing last few precious moments before those are preserved forever in our memory and a brand new year knocking at our door with plenty of new expectation and opportunities. Before 2019 could leave us behind, we at Setu were lucky to honor seven great personalities from all over the world with Setu Awards for Excellence 2019. Please join me in congratulating all seven winners:
New year is the time to review past year and make resolution for the year ahead. We have tried our best to serve you excellent contents with help from the best contemporary editors, authors and artists. Our resolution at Setu is to travel a few extra miles this year. We published two books in 2018 and five books in 2019. Our resolution is to publish many more great books in 2020.

Wishing you all a happy and prosperous new year 2020 from entire Setu team,
I am,
Anurag Sharma
Setu, Pittsburgh ✍️

Here goes the old year 2019!

and that time of the year when old resolutions are to be forgotten, deleted and new ones to be adopted for the upcoming 12 months.

A time for bidding goodbye to the year that was---and bidding welcome to the new year that will be upon us soon; commemorating the cycle of old endings and new beginnings everywhere: the old is discarded; new, embraced happily; erasure and addition.

2019, in retrospect, was like every other year---mixed bag; good and bad; angry and peaceful; disappointing and delightful; euphoric and painful; stressing and calming.

Public protests.
Brexit.
Impeachment debate.
Hong Kong.
Chile.
India.
France.
Syria.
Turkey.
USA.

The news channels were busy with breaking news. The list grew.

Ordinary citizens threading their ways home or office in the midst of turmoil, tragedy and sanguine optimism for a better world…and the basic human hope that the it will also pass, the bad patch.

Same dualism, feelings this time also, attending the exit and entry of 365- days of the calendar.

A tiresome routine at the year-end for humanity; a welcome ritual that makes life more interesting, fun and human; in a rushed daily existence of schedules, long commutes, meeting deadlines and delivering goals, and, increasing revenue targets and profits, for the capital.

So, Goodbye, dear old, tumultuous 2019!

Welcome, dear young New Year---2020!

Let us pray for peace, harmony, wellbeing and positive changes of everyone.
.
We congratulate the winners of the Setu Awards for Excellence---2019.

They richly deserve recognition for their dedicated services to the field of arts. Our humble tokens for these stalwarts, as appreciation of their overall contributions to the domain of fine writing and visual arts, done in their individual signature styles.

Here is the formal list of the winners of both Hindi and English sections for their remarkable achievements:


Setu Award for Excellence---2019

  • Sonia Taneja (USA)
  • Mukta Singh Zocchi (USA)
  • Tamaso Lonsdale (Australia)
  • Jaydeep Sharangi (India)


Setu Special Award for Excellence---2019

  • Tahir Aslam Gora ( Canada)
  • Robert Maddox-Harle (Australia)
  • Chandra Mohan Bhandari (India)

The Setu global family feels proud in honouring these great talents and wishes them more honours in the coming months and years, health and longevity.

Most of the winners have been our valued contributors and some guest or regular editors as well.

Their guidance and help have helped evolve the journal from Pittsburgh and support deeply appreciated.

It is also a thrilling moment for us here at Setu!

A moment worth cherishing, savouring and preserving.

And inspiring for others.
.
A list of forthcoming special editions for the upcoming year of 2020 is also given in this issue for information.

The respective guest-editors are going to make open calls for these themed editions. You are welcome to participate by following the guidelines strictly in these projects curated by the reputed authors, critics and poets from across the world.

The idea is to provide more platforms for a wider engagement with the artistic community and to promote the best of the talents.
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We again thank the editors, readers and contributors, for their sustained and loving support to this Duotrope-listed, bilingual, monthly, peer-reviewed journal with more than a million views so far.

The present issue comes with more exciting content and features.

Keep on visiting us, dear family!

Happy and Prosperous New Year to all!


Best wishes,
Sunil Sharma,
Editor, Setu (English)

Mumbai Metro Area, Maharashtra (India)

December 31, 2019

рдЕрдиुрдХ्рд░рдордгिрдХा, рджिрд╕рдо्рдмрд░ 2019

рд╕ेрддु рд╡рд░्рд╖ 4, рдЕंрдХ 7, рджिрд╕рдо्рдмрд░ 2019

рд╕рдо्рдкाрджрдХीрдп

рдХрдеा рд╕ाрд╣िрдд्рдп

рд╕ाрдХ्рд╖ाрдд्рдХाрд░

рд╕рдоीрдХ्рд╖ा

рд╕्рдеाрдпी рд╕्рддрдо्рдн

рдЖрд▓ेрдЦ, рд╡िрдорд░्рд╢, рд╡ рд╢ोрдз

рдХाрд╡्рдп-рдЧीрдд-рдкрдж्рдп

рдзрд░ोрд╣рд░

рд╕ाрд╣िрдд्рдп рд╕рдоाрдЪाрд░



Ps-Fs :: Sunil Sharma
Paco's Atlas And Other Poems
By John Thieme
India as an IT Superpower
Anurag Sharma
рдЕрдиुрд░ाрдЧी рдорди рдХрдеा рд╕ंрдЧ्рд░рд╣ :: рд▓ेрдЦрдХ: рдЕрдиुрд░ाрдЧ рд╢рд░्рдоा
рдЖрдЧ рд╕े рдЕंрддрд░िрдХ्рд╖ рддрдХ :: рдЕреЫीреЫ рд░ाрдп
Basic Hindi 2 Workbook :: Sonia Taneja

рдХुрдЫ рдФрд░ рд╕ुंрджрд░, рд░ोрдЪрдХ, рдЙрдкрдпोрдЧी, рдд्рд░ुрдЯिрд╣ीрди рдкुрд╕्рддрдХें рд╢ीрдШ्рд░ рдЖ рд░рд╣ी рд╣ैं
More books coming soon

Carl Scharwath

Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography (His photography was featured on the cover of 6 literary journals.) Two poetry books 'Journey To Become Forgotten' (Kind of a Hurricane Press), and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) have been published. His first photography book was recently published by Praxis. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2nd  degree black-belt in Taekwondo.

Amita Ray

Amita Ray, former associate professor in English and Vice-Principal of a college resides in Kolkata, West Bengal. An academic of varied interests she is a translator, short story writer and has a passion for writing poems. Her short stories have been published in The Sunday Statesman, Cafe Dissensus, The Kolkata Review and Get Bengal. Her poems have featured in anthologies and e zines. She translated Abanindranath Tagore's KHIRER PUTUL into English published in 2018.

Tahir Aslam Gora

Tahir Gora is an author, journalist and political activist. He is the founder of Canadian Thinkers’ Forum (CTF) and TAG TV Channel. Some of his shows in Urdu-Hindi languages got over 200 million views in South East Asia. He is a fierce critic of Islamists’ Jihadi ideology. He is a co-author of the book, ‘Submission – Threats of Political Islam to Canada and the United States.’His Novel (Urdu/Hindi) ‘Rung Mahal’ portraits dilemma of multiculturalism in the west. He is working on a new novel that is depicting ISI role in terrorism in Afghanistan, Kashmir and around the globe. He is a strong proponent of freedom of speech. He calls himself a Hindu born in Muslim faith and a Canadian Punjabi of Indian heritage born in political Pakistan.

He is a winner of the Setu Special Award for Excellence (2019).

рдирд╡ рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдоंрдЧрд▓рдордп рд╣ो!

рдЕрдиुрд░ाрдЧ рд╢рд░्рдоा
рдПрдХ рдмाрд░ рдлिрд░ рд╣рдо рд╕рдм рдПрдХ рдирдпे рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдХे рд╕्рд╡ाрдЧрдд рдФрд░ рдПрдХ рдмीрддрддे рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдХो рд╡िрджा рдХрд░рдиे рдХो рддैрдпाрд░ рд╣ैं। рднाрд░рддीрдп рдкрд░рдо्рдкрд░ा рдХा рдЪрдХ्рд░ीрдп рдХाрд▓ рд╣ो рдпा рдЖрдзुрдиिрдХ рдкрд░िрдХрд▓्рдкрдиा рдХा рд░ैрдЦिрдХ рд╕рдордп, рдЕрдЪ्рдЫा рд╣ो рдпा рдмुрд░ा - рджिрди, рд╕рдк्рддाрд╣, рдорд╣ीрдиे, рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдХрд░рдХे рдмीрдд рд╣ी рдЬाрддा рд╣ै। рдЬाрддा рд╣ुрдЖ рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдЬрд╣ाँ рд╣рдоें рдЕрдиुрднрд╡ рдФрд░ рджेрдХрд░ рдкрд░िрдкрдХ्рд╡ рдХрд░рддा рд╣ै, рд╡рд╣ीं рдЖрддा рд╣ुрдЖ рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдЕрд╕ंрдЦ्рдп рд╕рдо्рднाрд╡рдиाрдУं рдХे рдж्рд╡ाрд░ рд╣рдоाрд░े рд╕ाрдордиे рдЦोрд▓рддा рд╣ै।

рдирдпे рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдХे рд▓िрдпे рдирдпे рд╕ंрдХрд▓्рдк рд▓ेрдиे рдХी рд░ीрддि рдк्рд░рдЪрд▓िрдд рд╣ै। рдХुрдЫ рд╕ंрдХрд▓्рдк рд╕ाрде рдЪрд▓рддे рд╣ैं, рдХुрдЫ рдЯूрдЯ рднी рдЬाрддे рд╣ैं। рдЕрдЪ्рдЫे рд╕्рд╡ाрд╕्рде्рдп, рдк्рд░ेрдо рдФрд░ рдЕрдиुрд╢ाрд╕рди рдЬैрд╕े рд╕ंрдХрд▓्рдк рдЬрд╣ाँ рд╕ाрдоाрди्рдп рд╣ैं, рд╡рд╣ीं рд╣рдоाрд░े рд╕ंрдХрд▓्рдк рдкреЭрдиे-рдкреЭाрдиे, рд▓िрдЦрдиे рдЖрджि рд╕े рдЬुреЬे рднी рд╣ो рд╕рдХрддे рд╣ैं। рдЪूंрдХि рдЕрднी рд╣рдо рдПрдХ рд╣िंрджी рдкрдд्рд░िрдХा рдХे рдоाрдз्рдпрдо рд╕े рд╣िंрджी рдоें рд╡ाрд░्рддा рдХрд░ рд░рд╣े рд╣ैं, рд╣рдоाрд░ा рдПрдХ рд╕ंрдХрд▓्рдк рд╣िंрджी рднाрд╖ा рдФрд░ рд╕ाрд╣िрдд्рдп рдХे рд╕ंрд╡рд░्рдзрди рдХा рднी рд╣ो рд╕рдХрддा рд╣ै। рд╣рдо рд╣िंрджी рдоें рд▓िрдЦें, рдкреЭें, рд╣िंрджी рдХी рдкुрд╕्рддрдХें рдФрд░ рдкрдд्рд░-рдкрдд्рд░िрдХाрдПँ рдЦрд░ीрджें, рдЙрди्рд╣ें рдкुрд╕्рддрдХाрд▓рдпों рд╡ рд╕ंрд╕्рдеाрдиों рдоें рдЕрдиुрд╢ंрд╕िрдд рдХрд░ें, рдоिрдд्рд░ों рдФрд░ рдкрд░िрдЬрдиों рдХो рдЙрдкрд╣ाрд░ рдоें рджें, рдРрд╕े рд╢ुрдн рд╕ंрдХрд▓्рдк рд╣िंрджी рдХे рдк्рд░рддि рд╣рдоाрд░े рдк्рд░ेрдо рдХो рд╕ुрджृреЭ рдХрд░ेंрдЧे।

рд╕ेрддु рдХी рд╡рд░्рд╖ांрдд рдкрд░рдо्рдкрд░ा рдХो рдЬाрд░ी рд░рдЦрддे рд╣ुрдП рд╕рди 2019 рдХे рд╕ेрддु рд╕рдо्рдоाрди рдХी рдШोрд╖рдгा рдХी рдЬा рдЪुрдХी рд╣ै। рд╡िрд╢्рд╡ рднрд░ рд╕े рдЪुрдиे рд╣ुрдП рд╕ाрдд рд╡िрдЬेрддाрдУं рдХे рдиाрдо рдиिрдо्рдирд▓िрдЦिрдд рд╣ैं -
рдПрдХ рдмाрд░ рдкुрдиः рд╕рднी рд╡िрдЬेрддाрдУं рдХो рд╣ाрд░्рджिрдХ рдмрдзाрдИ рдФрд░ рдЖрдк рд╕рднी рдХो рдирд╡рд╡рд░्рд╖ рдХी рдоंрдЧрд▓рдХाрдордиाрдПँ। 

рдЖрдкрдХा

Setu December 2019

Setu

Volume 4 Issue 7 December 2019


Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Poetry

Fiction / Flash Fiction

Creative Non-Fiction

Serialized Novel

Author of the Month

Photo Essay

Nouveau Essay

Critical Concerns

Interactions: Cultural, Literary

Book review

European poetry curated by Agron Shele

Debut of a Young Critic


Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Zebras Painted like Prisons

Women should not have to guess
and men should not have to guess,
this is not a bloody gameshow far as I know
which is why I study my breathing down to that
uncomfortable laboured inhale from out in exospace,
zebras painted like prisons where the food is bought in
and the shanks homemade,  enough guards working
for other interests so that the uniform becomes mere
costume, decorative in the drug smuggling sense,
murder-for-hire, my hair turning white as the December
snow with questions; your car is in the shop       
because it has seen better days, we will all be there
soon enough which is why I insist on the dry land
of definite inspiration and this smile I harbour on my face
so far from the law that we can all be bandits.
***

Eagle Eyes

I quit the gene pool a long time ago
and took my eagle eyes with me,
those tight brown curls my mother said
were wasted on a boy,
she was always such a charmer
dipping red roses in battery acid,
I can grace the padded luncheonette
when hungry, watch people fly flags like
particular planes which makes the sudden drop
in altitude a group stupidity, that way everyone stands
and claps at the end of shows because they think they have to
and this is why I play hooky in the genealogical sense,
rack ‘em up in darkened pool halls named after leathery grifters
no one can remember; never for money, I’ve
never had any of that, just these eyes and that hair
and enough confusion to start asking questions.
***

New Shirt

Nothing with those unexplained stains
you can’t get out
or that army of wrinkles you wear around
like the elderly on foot patrol,
your last three favourite shirts all “borrowed”
by angry exes that stayed the night
and left with half your wardrobe,
each new one warning you about the last
and never about them so that you were so busy
building off ramps that you forgot all about the freeway
and now you are at the store again
trying to fit into something that does not account
for your new belly or how the money is made
now that the banks have all gone so virtual
that you never really had your
money anyways.
***

Not a Baby

We leave the hairdressers
and my wife asks about the boots
on the mat by the door.

The new hairdresser says where she got them.
That she is embarrassed because they are real seal fur.
Even though you can tell she paid top dollar
and is proud of them and wants to brag.

The other hairdresser does not seem to like her.
She chimes in and says that they’re baby seal.

Why do you always say baby seal?
That sounds so horrible!
the first hairdresser
says.

Well their dark, so their probably an adult,
my wife says trying to make
things better.

I don’t say anything.
Waiting by the door to leave.

We walk over to the liquor store
and my wife plays with my hair.
Says I look like Jim Bob Duggar.

I tell her I’d rather be the clubbed baby seal
than Jim Bob Duggar.

Not a baby,
she laughs.

I can tell she totally wants
those boots.
***

He Had a Full Pension Coming

A 187 came over the radio.
Dan did not answer those anymore.
He waited for some petty theft.
21 years on the force and he planned to see 22.

Dan didn’t work with a partner anymore.
They were always young and eager and wanting to do something.
Just out of the academy and wanting to change the world.
Dan knew things wouldn’t change, he didn’t want them to.
He had a full pension coming and a girlfriend who could cook
the pants off a mannequin.

He never understood those guys from SWAT.
Wanting to be first through the door.
Dan didn’t even walk up on doors now.
You could never tell what was on the other side.

And he banked overtime in low crime areas.
Let traffic violations slide if they looked dangerous.
Took his vacation whenever a fresh gang war broke out.

There was a beach somewhere with his name on it.
He would write it in the sand with a stick before befriending
the nice young man working the tiki bar by the pool in the shape

of a dolphin.

Poetry: Carl Scharwath

Artist: Carl Scharwath

Artist Statement:
I use photography as a means of self-expression. The most important quality of a photograph, as in all of art, is to evoke an emotional response. I prefer to capture surrealistic moments when I can, the play of light and colors and unusual situations as they unfold. As a passionate runner, being aware of my surroundings tends to produce some surprise scenes instead of forcing an image of time with my camera. Currently I have been concentrating on collaborations with other poets who interpret my photos with their powerful words creating an art form that compliments each other.

Black Starlight

Dreaming-
I shall embrace through collapsing cities
her sweet madness- beautiful as snow
that by starlight star which is melting
away!

Withering-
her pale flowerlike cheek slipping  of worlds
on a journey, down the lingering black river
To the evening zephyr in each soft corner
Studded.

Black -
where heaven is sleeping, streaked by the
heavy waves embroidered with black moss
her great veils rising mount in my soul yet
endless.
***


Isolated

A curtain, shroud-like
Sheds dust falling gently
Like an early morning snowfall
To disappear on the dingy floor.

The man looks around
The walls peeling and stained
Seem to compliment his
Old and almost useless furniture.

Living alone, the room seems
To wrap itself around him
Tighter and tighter until
Anxiety and solitude are the new daybreak.
***


Night Cemetery Vision

Moonlight bathes headstones
In elongated shadows,
Casting a cynical glow.

Perfectly aligned mercenaries
Long ago legions,
Covenants to life’s carnage.

Brittle cement markers
Forgotten names etched and
Adorned in plastic flowers.

Resurrected in moments,
Dream state paralysis-
Are you remembered tonight?
***


NATALITY

Every baby is born to greatness
there is a stainless beauty
installed in a clean heart
love and tolerance
wired into the soul

The Latin Vulgate
an icon of purpose
imbues and cicerones
the steady hand
of a mother and father

Lost in luminescent daylight
and memories of thermal water
to what end
humanity awaits
its glorious creation

Poetry: Sangeeta Gupta

Sangeeta Gupta

IF LOVE CAN HEAL YOU

If love can heal you
I send all of mine
You are precious
take a part of my life
though I am a ocean of pain myself
my heart and soul are pure love
You stay there and rest
all my poems are
prayers for you
they belong to you
they shall heal you indeed
you are loved deeply
Cared and blessed
in whatever I do
or not do
soul to soul conversations
happen with every breath
If love can heal you
I send all of mine.
***


YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT


You always say that
I am amazing with words
though I often feel
Words are not enough
when it comes to express
my passion, raw and intense
the pain of knowing that
you are not mine
So so far away
from my mortal reach
I can't see you
I can't hug you
I can't hold you in my arms
I can't whisper in your ears
that all will be fine soonest
how can words express
how much I long to hold your hands
how I crave for your cosy smile
and that light in your eyes
all I have to offer are these words
all wrapped in love
of thousand of lifetimes
I fail to express all and enough
I brush away failure every time
When you say
I am amazing with words.
***


I OFTEN HEAR


I often hear
what you could never say
I understand the unsaid
I walk into your silence
I love the layers of your thoughts
Which are hidden thoughtfully
from me with so much care
Love is beautiful when expressed
Oh It is magical when not expressed
your lit up eyes say more than you can
Words don't come to your rescue
they are only mine
and when you touch my soul
in your thoughts
almost immediately
my soul is moist with morning dew
I smile to myself then
Your secrets are revealed after all
I often hear
what you could never say
I understand the unsaid
I walk into your silence.
***


Between your hope


Between your hope
of touching my soul
with your telepathic thoughts
and my ocean of words
filled with passion
We float together
In our shared dreams
words fail me as you stun me
with your enigmatic smile
Speechless yet so comfortable
where silence is an eternal poem
we float together
in our shared dreams
we understand each other
as twin souls
this understanding is born
out of our conversations of
thousands of lifetime
where we were inseparable
In this life our journey
on earth is far away,
there are oceans and
mountains in between
we met each other
by accident
and realised how far away
we are born
not meant to be together in this life
Yet we float together
in our shared dreams
we understand each other
as twin souls.

What short story means to me (K. S. Subramanian and B. S. Tyagi)

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

From my experience I have found that the main aim of a short story must be to connect with the reader, knowing his propensity for fast pace, easy and pleasant reading and keeping attention in place.  In our times it is hardly possible for anyone to spend even half an hour on a literary piece with his busy schedule unless he is literarily inclined.  Since the reader is the primary target audience it is inevitable to respect his needs and encourage his literary drive.  These days there is a perceptible change in the audience too who are gravitating to new literature partly due to untapped interest in creative writing and compulsive environment.

A short story can be personal dealing with an event or emotional sequence which affects his personality.  It could be a cathartic experience for himself too, a kind of therapy.  It is one way of unwinding oneself.  But I feel it need not be always personal, and he can branch out into other interesting events or happenings around.  Though there is no inherent pressure on him to convey a ethical message or of protest/resentment he can let his particular work speak for itself.  I feel any such message can emerge unobtrusively or be subtle.

I am personally apathetic to graphic details in a story. It militates against the essence of creativity and could be an affront to sensibility. A short story’s scope is wide, can deal with a wide variety of happenings including some historical or mythical characters if the writer is attracted to a specific streak of the personality.  Through unraveling that streak the writer can either elevate or downgrade the personality depending on the make up of the character.

Be it characters from history/mythology/social environment they cannot come out alive, I feel, unless sufficient research and focus has been put into it. Many illustrious novelists like Amish Tripathy have done phenomenal research to do trilogies which keep readers pegged. This yardstick applies to all literary characters who have become cherished icons in literature.

I wrote a short story Ghatotkach’s mace in Setu which was a learning exercise to enhance the character’s moral strength.

It is difficult to be precise about the language because it entirely dependent on the theme, nature of the circumstances and characters at play.  Suffice it to say that it should be racy, poignant where necessary and carry the reader to the end. However the language changes with eras in its idioms and nuances and even within the eras diction varies one section of people to the other. To be true to the times I think one must be conversant with local slang spoken then.  I would wish to cite Michael Crichton’s Great Train Robbery, a superb fiction which was also made into a thriller. His handling of the local dialect was amazingly authentic.


So in a modern setting one has to settle for the local idiom and even slang when building the theme of his story.  But if it is in a historical or mythical setting the language has to be courtlier and more classical typical of the expressions of the age, I suppose.


Traditionally it is known that a short story has a beginning, middle and end as much as a novel.  Many think it is old school of thought without realizing that most of the contemporary novels and novelists stick to this format. Even Frederick Forsyth’s thrillers and of his contemporaries have this format in the background. They are adept at making it lurk while building up the plot to its climax with amazing and enormous details thrown in between that the reader realizes it only when he reflects on the novel. This can be found in biographies/autobiographies too.

The environment does inspire any writer.   No writer can say or claim that he is a hermit dwelling in an ivory tower and writing from there. The environment need not be present in every story of his but is an invisible factor.

A short story can be a collage of events but designed to an ending. I have always admired the adroitness with which the classical American writer O Henry used to build his stories to an unimaginable climax without ever letting the reader feel that it is contrived. For example, let me cite The Gift of the Magi or the Passing of Black Eagle. There are many illustrious short fiction writers in various languages globally and O Henry will rank right there in the top echelons.  Surprise endings are often the key to the impact of a story.

Facts do matter especially when one is dealing with an event or sequence where history, medicine or science is a dominant element. Science fiction falls in this category and anyone attempting it will fail inevitably unless he has a solid grounding on facts.  Facts also have a special bearing when the theme has something to do with medicine or any other branch of knowledge.  Otherwise it can be contested.

Indian English writing has ranked with the best since its birth. However the classical poets and novelists have been confined to the curriculum in a way though their stellar contributions have been much acknowledged.

There are a lot of contemporary writers who are still in the shadow except for the limited visibility available through social media and internet.  In this context the visibility factor has certainly improved with highly motivated and enthusiastic web domains promoting literature to wider audience. But self-published writers are unable to break even notwithstanding the presence of some publications committed to promoting literature.  Either the cost is a deterrent or the marketing reach. On mass media it is still an uphill task to get one’s work reviewed or even catalogued in the weekly release of books’ list. It is like shooting a wild arrow in the darkness or finding one’s way in an untenanted land.

But things will change or are changing…

Mechanism of Poetry

K. S. Subramanian and B. S. Tyagi

B S Tyagi

My personal experience of poetry writing leads me to believe that poetry should be natural, spontaneous and fluent as only then it can enable humans to realize inherent beauty and freshness. It should ring the echo of truth and beauty which can transport a person into the other world forgetting worldly ‘fret and fever’ for a while. It has capacity to lift a person into ‘a world quite different from that of prose or everyday life’. A simple and natural verse can touch magically a person’s soul with its all soothing effect. To me poetry is a pristine source of love, peace and joy as it springs forth from heart. It knows no boundaries; hence all-embracing. Its inspiring force urges me to search for truth through nature and its beauty. Besides, poetry has its own way to interpret life with its all facts, and experiences which dominate worldly life. It relates human feelings and passions which matter most in day to day life. And above all, it purges human mind of negativity which is the need of today’s times as our conscious mind knows it well that negative feelings such as anger, fear, greed, lust, jealousy etc. are not acceptable to society. If these feelings are suppressed, internal system looks for ways to manifest as destructive images, feelings, thoughts and behavior. Poetry can purify mind and keeps the whole being calm. In Indian context the majority of people believe in spirituality; poetry with spiritual touch interest men and women. They enjoy much such poetry. Man, if imbibes its beauty, can stay in harmony with nature and realize it presence all over the universe. In fact, poetry educates the readers to look at life from the poet’s insight. Hence, it is rewarding in a number of ways.
Next, pleasure is the chief function of poetry so it must have rhythm; it lends grace and aesthetic beauty to the poem and the reader feels great pleasure while reading a poem. Its music is an arresting element of poetry which makes the reader’s heart throb with joy. It renders the subject easy and the reader easily identifies himself with poet. A poem may be in free verse but it should have music of language. Its rhythm leads poetry to perfection and aesthetic beauty. It makes poetry more natural and spontaneous in its expression. A poet should be aware of this essential element as it can make the expression rich and palpable.

 The reader grasps the subject quite easily and feels closeness with the poet. It contains solid joy of heart. Rhythm enables poetry to carry out ‘exalted mood of passion and imaginative ecstasy’ which leaves an everlasting impression on the mind of the reader. It keeps awake all senses of the reader; that’s why he enjoys poem in depth. An image created through rhythm helps the reader to retain it longer. In fact, a poet adopts the form of poetry that suits his taste and temperament.

So long as Haiku is concerned it ‘revolves around the Japanese aesthetic concept known as ‘ma’ (pronounced as ‘mah’), which is all about showing the ‘void’ around things…not to clutter up the spaces; to give breathing and dreaming spaces between images and words – in short, to leave space for the reader to step in.’ Vivid imagery is a significant aspect of Haiku. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, it is an “unrhymed poetic form consisting of 17 syllables arranged in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively.” A poet needs to discipline himself as he has to say a lot within these words. On the other hand a reader should be alert all the time to grasp it wholly as it has space for him. Anyway, it is an interesting form of poetry and a reader trained in this form enjoys it much like other forms of poetry. Many Indian poets have composed Haikus such as Kala Ramesh, Rajiv Lather, Paresh Tiwari, Gautam Nadkarni, Johannes Manjrekar, Madhuri Pillai, Pravat Kumar Padhy, Shloka Shankar etc. They are successful poets of Haikus.

There are many Indian poets who have contributed a lot to the English literature over the years. Their work has been greatly appreciated all over the world. Among these classical poets are - Rabindra Nath Tagore, Sri Aurbindo, Sarojini Naidu, Harindranath Chattopadhyaya, Kamaladevi Chattopadhyaya, Virendranath Chattopadhaya, Jayanta Mahapatra, Keki N Daruwalla, Gieve Patel, Kamala Das, A K mehrotra et al. They are timeless poets. Their work has inspired many poets to write on Indian theme. Besides, there are other modern poets like Nissim Ezekiel, Arun Kalatkar, Dilip Chitre, R Parthasarathy etc. Their poetry is marked with typical Indianness.They have written passionately about the issues that matter most in our society. Many modern poets after independence have sought inspiration from them. Their contribution has enriched Anglo-English poetry. Students working on Anglo-English poetry often refer frequently to these poets while discussing the trends prevailing in post-independence English poetry.

The English poetry in India has faced the problem of wide readership for certain reasons. Generally, poets writing in English do not have readers in large number as people in general lack interest in poetry. Secondly, language is a barrier as mostly people are not well versed in English. They do not understand poem until it is explained to them. To understand a good poem a reader needs maturity, command of language, and knowledge of context. So, poetry books have a poor market. Their takers are very few. But as education is spreading and internet is available to all, the number of poetry readers is increasing by and by. Moreover, many young boys and girls are writing in English, they propagate their work on social media. It has made people aware of poetry being written in English. Self-publication has also helped poetry to reach the large number of readers. Many national and international anthologies are published every year and readers read the poems with great interest.
A vernacular has played a vital role in enhancing English literature. If we talk about Indian literature, many great volumes of poetry have been written in vernacular. Indian literature has produced a body of work in poetry in a variety of vernacular languages including Sanskrit, Prakrit, Pali, Bengali, Behari, Tamil, etc. Though vernacular is contrasted with ‘high-prestige’ forms of language, it has given a rich expression to culture, cults, customs, philosophy, and great traditions of spirituality prevailing in society at that time. Many modern poets have used vernacular in their work and preserved many precious traditions of that territory or region. Many beautiful folk-songs are found in vernacular. When their work is translated into English or other language, it is welcomed by a large number of people. Briefly, speaking, a vernacular has enriched English literature and given expression to many lofty ideas.

Translation of poetry is an uphill task. Many a time, it has been observed that translator feels unable to translate that bluntness and temperament of the original language. Many words or expressions cannot be put in another language with the same ease and sharpness. Words that can express that particular emotion, are missing in that language. Here translator feels helpless though he tries his best to put that expression in words or phrases but it lacks that original force. But an intelligent reader can grasp that expression. Sometimes the translator has to use that particular word as it is with explanation or a phrase near to it. Even then a seasoned translator is successful in translating work of poetry to a great extent. A number of translated works are published all over world. Many works in translation have been recognized and awarded. All Noble Laureates and award winning poets and authors come to us through translation and the readers showed their full appreciation. Hence, translation has become a great means of communication across the world.

Last but not least, poetry is essentially subjective somewhere in depth while dealing environment. Even the great poets have given touch of their experience to the environment and situation. Though the poet tries to write objectively, unknowingly his personal experience soaked in his culture and environment in which he has been bred and brought up comes in his poetry. So, it is very difficult to escape from subjectivity. But in the tint of subjectivity poetry does not lose the luster of objectivity and it captures reader’s imagination and he enjoys it wholly. Nothing hinders poetry from providing pleasure.

Sangeeta Gupta

Sangeeta Gupta, an acclaimed artist, poet and film maker, recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax, is working as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts currently.

She has to her credit 35 solo exhibitions of paintings, and 20 published books including twelve anthologies of poems. She has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films.

Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography.

“I know” a poem by Sangeeta Gupta was adjudged as one of the highly commended poems for October 2019 by Destiny Poets International Community of Poets (ICOP), Wakefield, UK.

Studio: A-1/232, Safdarjung Enclave, New Delhi- 110029
Phone: +91 981 003 1694   
Email: sangeetaguptaart@gmail.com
Website: www.artsangeetagupta.com

Fiction: Letting go

Rana Preet Gill

Rana Preet Gill

I only gazed at him, once before marriage, through the grimy screen of a computer. I could only acquire some hazy resemblance to a picture of a man I had been shown, on a video conferencing. That day I was surrounded by a gaggle of my cousins, uncles and aunts who laid siege to the office of the travel agent who had patched up this alliance at the insistence of my mother. It felt strange, awkward to chat with my would-be husband in front of so many prying eyes. The travel agent kept on giving me salacious glances, all the while, standing in one corner. I was sweating profusely in the dingy room that was becoming unbearable to sit in with the presence of multitudes of relatives, ever ready to claim their share of the pie. That I was going to be a passport for the rest of my family members to move to Canada was no secret. That I was going to be used as a ladder by the creepy crawlies of the family, who always needed something to hold on to, was a disgusting thought. Why me? Why not the little sister Satti?

On the way back home mom was ebullient with the success of the video conferencing, of the meeting that was successfully negotiated between two parties sitting in opposite parts of the country. Yes, this was an alliance they were patching up for their own sordid reasons. Satti was to be sacrificed at the same altar but she had already conveyed her idea of love and marriage that included dating someone and knowing him thoroughly before tying the knot. No one opposed her, no one suggested her to fall in accordance with their wishes. They only needed one girl from the family to move abroad. They only needed one sacrifice and I was the chosen one.

The groom arrived a day before the wedding. I did not even get a chance to meet him or see him properly. At the pheras in front of the Guru Granth Sahib, our holy book, I was bedecked in the chosen finery and asked to lower my head, my sensibilities in front of the Guru. While I sat with my would be husband I looked at his hands which held on to the ceremonial sword with an elan. They looked aged and gnarled indicating a life of hard work. I looked at my gentle hennaed hands and wondered if this was going to my fate. I dare not look at his face. I did not want to know if it looked as extinguished as his hands! Not now! Not in front of the Guru who was watching my actions and must be berating me for finding faults with my groom on the day of the marriage.

When he came into my room, that night, his breath stank of cheap country liquor. I shut my eyes tight for I did not want to see him, face this reality that I have been married to a middle-aged man. A man, who might be a little less aged than my father, a man who was not swathed in the luxury of youth, a man who will always exercise his superiority on me, a man before whom I will always have to act deferential as a bride, as a woman and as a human. That night passed in blur. There were no sweet nothings, no introductions, not even gentle kisses on the nape of the neck as I imagined love must be like. It must have been the love he was accustomed to. A few violent thrusts and a searing pain inside me. He lay spent on one side and I walked out of my room for a whiff of fresh air.

He took me for a honeymoon but rarely exchanged a word with me. He was always on the phone laughing, chatting, conversing with someone. I had a nagging suspicion that it was a woman on the other side. He would seek me a few times in a day. His only conversations initiated with my body, he never touched my soul. After a few months of merry making he left me with my parents. I waited for months but he never came back. Perhaps he got all his answers and now there was nothing much to seek for!

The reconstruction of a life that recommenced after my marriage, which was termed as a sham by many, was painful. That I was a Holiday bride, that he only came to seek me out for timely comfort made me angry and bitter. I felt resentful towards my family who led me towards this unholy alliance for their own selfish reasons. My mother, who would not stop exaggerating about her son-in-law would cast her eyes down in shame. She must have been disillusioned by this terrible blow of fate towards her foreign destination plans for the entire brood.

 I held on to this grudge against my mother for a long time. I lived in the same home but I stopped communicating with her which pained her to no extent. Most of my anger was only reserved for her because it was my mother who was supposed to be my protector. My childhood bears subtle imprints of existence of my father, who worked in the Gulf, throughout his youth. It was all about mother taking in charge of me and little Satti. It was she who donned the mantle of the man of the house in the long absences of my father. And though she rarely travelled to these countries where my father was employed as a mason she did acquire those grandiose and shiny dreams of settling abroad.

She walked in the home like a zombie now. I have put up a fight against my absconder husband by joining a forum which routinely fights such cases. I go and meet the officials, and political leaders, along with other debased women. We are united in this fight against men who lure people like my mother to marry their faceless, indeterminate daughters to them. I do not tell my mother anything about the goings on. I am just so angry with her for letting all this happen to me.

“Mothers are the saviors, protectors of their daughters. They do not rush them into hell just because they see it decked with flowers and promises.” I shouted at her one fine day. She collapsed in the middle of the courtyard whereas I rushed outside. She had a mild heart attack that day. I came back to find her in a hospital room. She looked frail and withered like the crumbled wall that had battered intense storms but was merely able to hold on to itself by a timid push. The doctors told me that her heart was failing her. That she had been under tremendous depression and this stress has made her vulnerable. A little more trauma would debilitate her condition and may even wipe out the essence of life from her. Something broke inside me. My wails echoed in the hospital corridors and I had a hard time composing myself. The hurt, regret and the bitterness which had scalded me and her, melted down with long gusts of tears.

It has been years now. I did not choose to marry a second time. It is painful even to think of getting into the embrace of a man. I fear my own father some days. He realizes it and disappears in the shadows of the house to let me be. Satti got married in the neighboring village and is living her dream life. When she comes home with her kids, I play a second mother to them. I give him all I can ever give to a child who will never be mine in entirety.


 The anger inside me was enough to keep the flame of self-immolation burning bright but it singed my loved ones more than it did me. I had to learn to let it go. I had to forgive and move on. It was the only choice I had to exercise to save my mother. I know things will never be same but I am taking baby steps towards making a new life in ways that matter to me. And I hug my mother tight every night to let her know that I love her more than ever. The warmth of her body seeps into the corners which are still coated with resentment. As I keep on holding her, the sun seems to shine inside me in the dearth of night and all the anger dissipates in the vicissitudes of unspoken pleas. Every night a little of hurt, let’s go of itself. 

Bound For Other Shores: An Exploration into the poetry of Sanjeev Sethi

Sutanuka Ghosh Roy

Sutanuka Ghosh Roy


‘Magician of Words’, ‘Urban Poet’, ‘Poet of a new Genre’. Any three of these epithets together can identify Sanjeev Sethi, the writer who wins the heart of his readers through a magic weave of words. In November 2019 he jointly won the Full Fat Competition-Deux (2019) organised by Hedgehog Poetry Press UK for his poetry book, Wrappings in Bespoke. The book will be released in 2020. His work also includes well-received volumes, Suddenly For Someone, Nine Summers Later, This Summer and That Summer, (Bloomsbury). His poems have found a home in The London Magazine, The Sunday Tribune, The Fortnightly Review, 3:AM Magazine, London Grip, Morphrog 14, The Poetry Village, The Cabinet of Heed, Talking Poetry, Hamilton Stone Review, Peacock Journal, Packingtown Review, The Sandy River Review, Poydras Review, The Ofi Press Literary Magazine, Postcolonial Text, Transnational Literature, and Otoliths..

His poetry is sometimes lyrical, sometimes strident record of a poet’s slide from a lyrical to a personal identity laced with black humour (albeit philosophical) to an urban poet with metro-centric faith. It is also a record of a journey from his childhood to a mature poetic persona. And seeping, leaking, lurching through every page is his intrepid poetry. He is but a visionary in whom is melded a fearless poetical imagination and an instinctive understanding of the underbelly of a monstrously threatened urban landscape, who wields a pen that races ahead—even of him—most of the time.

Two of his poetry books begin with “Summer”. This speaks of the sunny side in the poet. “Summer” came from the Old English name for that time of year, sumor. This, in turn, came from the Proto-Indo-European root sam (sam seems to be a variant of the Proto-Indo-European sem, meaning “together/one”). Summer in India speaks of hardships, parched lands, parched tongues, parched minds. Only the very doughty can withstand it; and the incandescent Sethi glares among them, having two ‘summers’ in the title of the books –Nine Summers Later(1997) and This Summer and That Summer(2015).The poet it seems, has a way and will to curve and darn any summer to his liking. Summer speaks in his poems with a different connotation which is as inevitable and necessary, and as disruptive and difficult to accept, for anyone who wishes to float on a sense of well-being about the development of his poetic self into a ‘global’ presence through the so-called poetic persona. He thus writes,
Sanjeev Sethi

Anonymity has its advantages.
One can continue
To be on the coast:
Seeing, Savouring. Sharing.
When the spotlight
is on you, one is compelled
by either choice or circumstance
to maintain the status quo. (‘Anonymity’, Nine Summers Later, 13).
Sethi’s wealth of ideas and argument continually challenge the moribund state of the claustrophobic urbanscape which has been crumbling in modern times, His rhetoric is grounded in research. In “Death In A Metropolis” he speaks with his signature style dark humour,
Corpses carve a logo
a philosophy
Have you ever lived
close to a burning ghat?
I have. And noticed
there is a corpse each day.
Sometimes, there is more than one dead march,
crawling through the lanes and bylanes,
recording each dead person’s
last signature  on the street. (Nine Summers Later, 20)
But does Sethi provide solutions to escape the moribund state of things in a city? Mostly not, Sethi asks questions that chew our brains, and he can do that in a language that exhilarates and chokes at once.

My eyes are calloused with the curse
of not being able to get your glimpse.
My irises are templates of yearning
I have decided to be in control-
like how the handbooks,
expect of us, when we seek oneness.
I will be earnest about my etiquettes,
Follow the grammar of successful regimes.

Please vote me in. (“Suffrage”, This Summer and That Summer15).
Sethi thus creates a hurly-burly and when the hurly-burly’s done, he returns (us) to the sense of who is and what he possesses---a magician of words, and an imagination that leaps and soars with a poetic imagination.

In my world
There is no valley,
No rivulet nearby.
Mind is the landscape. (‘Metropolis’, This Summer and That Summer, 19).

He allows himself to be railroaded into offering prosaic, factual precision when maybe what we need is a civic howl, or the transformative power and real precision of poetry. At their best moments, his verses sound  that civic howl and touch, however fleetingly, the power and precision of poetry.

There is some comfort
in speaking negatively
about one’s strength,
The wealthy often say:
“I am broke”.
The good f**kers:
“I can’t get it up, man!” (‘Philosophy’,This Summer and That Summer, 41).
His poems are astonishing in it’s rapidity of pace as well as its casual refusal to follow convention.
In hush of the gloaming hours when I wish to be myself
and cannot, I cry. This sob is another sort. Skin ruddles
when my salve is another’s snack. (‘Afterlight’, This Summer and That Summer, 8).

Some of Sethi’s poems are interior monologues that modulate into stream-of-consciousness, almost surreal changes of points of view and sudden introductions of sharply critical commentary, images that bloom and fade, dreams that get mixed up with moods and action-holds the reader in a relentless grip. Sethi seems to be pushing the possibilities of poetry past their bounds, beyond narration.

I have accepted incarcerations in my mind
as injunctions of a worthy gravel. I have briefed
myself to breathe crisp air but tendrils of uncertain
brumal exhalations twine with my today. It pushes
me to believe we are a sum total of our cantles. I wonder
why we assign significance to some sections? (‘Winters’, This Summer and That Summer, 42).

Sethi experiments with modernist techniques—assonances meddled with unexpected alliterations although the imaginative affinities are sometimes uncanny.Multifarious contours are explored in the context of writing poetry and interplay with the form.  However his poems are not an easy read. The vocabulary is too elitist, the humour is too dark. However pairing up an unparalleled vocabulary with dark humour can conjure up a magic that breathes life into poetry where words fall short.

Grief, like one’s private parts,
is best shared with a few.
Emotional Aids is just as bad.
Let us not consider
a heart-to-heart chat.
Even if they do,
would I, if I care,
Want to hear it? (“A Statement”, Nine Summers Later, 48.)


Sethi’s poetry thus presents another language,  it is a mark of both his courage and his interest in poetry. His poetry is set apart by its unique use of a language that triumphantly restores the poet’s voice, and memory. His language is bound for other shores. As one reads his poetry from Suddenly For Someone, Nine Summers Later, and comes to This Summer and That Summer they briefly bring into mind an established senior but, pronouncedly, a younger contemporary who’s been wandering in this denuded terrain in his art for a few years now. But that terrain is not the private kingdom of just the poet himself, it has come to inhabit the consciousness of many creative minds for the human situation itself is perceived as inhuman, besieged with acts of unkindness, lack of sympathy, modern chaotic life and progress that sacrifices human wholeness to blind, mechanistic operations often under the control of a super-state. Sethi thus writes,

Seasoned advocates of statecraft
with fluent tones and fixed turns.
They can be quiet or clamorous.(“Panelists”, This Summer and That Summer, 37).
In a poem he calls“Fingerprint”, he writes,
Wind on edge of an embankment
has the urge to swallow me up.
The celestial sphere sutures me to its stole,
Will this improve with the lee of another?
In the evenness of my energy, ideas interface
without an additional channel unsettling me.
In this home throbs an unusual tune.(This Summer and That Summer, 53).

The poet’s creative eye is thus alert at all times. He emerges as a commanding presence of immense charm, grace, wit and power. A few lines with a Sethisque blend of tones with short, quick strokes have a poetic appeal.

For insects, various repellents
are available.
But is there a pesticide
for the past? (“Nocturnal Activity”,This Summer and That Summer, 3).
An urban poet Sethi has turned out some noticeable cityscapes with flat tidy lines. They also form important connections between his poetic entries that describe the musings separated by time and space. In fact, his treatment of space within the modern city (Mumbai) reveals a sharp eye.
Pigeons have no tenancy laws.
She placed her squabs on my sill.
…Soon I decided-to be kind to myself,
I had to be cruel.
I opted to evict them.
But there are no courts for this.
No legal machinery. (This Summer and That Summer,  1).
This knowledge of the urban cityscape has remained central to his poetry designs that have been instrumental in shaping the discourse of ‘modern urban Indian English poetry’. The concept of space is invaluable when it comes to fleshing out his reclusive self, it adds to his oeuvre. Pigeon is presented as a metaphor for the growth and maturity of theurban poet.It speaks of the emergence of a complete performer, a consummate poet. The strength of Sethi’s text sparkles intermittently.
Watchfully divinity unwraps its bounties and
blows
Like a bystander at another’s setback I calm
Myself.
When legacy of loss is your fiefdom, fist
pumps are
alien. Possibilities beckon me to the tarmac
Symbols
of the universe warn and warm me in
strange but
wonted territories, some offshore.  (“Explorations”, Wrappings in Bespoke, to be published in 2020 by Hedgehog Poetry Press).
His poetry embodies the power, dynamism and grace of self-awareness with controlled sentimentality. In “Apophasis he writes,
Vaunts of venery are not
woven into my vocabulary,
Am I being a bluenose?
Who can ever control
swirls of a comber?
Weighed in with self-denial
and not swagger. (This Summer And That Summer, 38).
His poetry is at times welded with its layered stories, which are intensely personal, dark and painful like the poem“Sunny Chacha”. The poet crafts his pain in a way that his readers are pained, the language is terse,
You were gentle. “Beta, don’t worry. You are the son
I never had. We are a family”.
Perhaps, saying it more to yourself, than me.
“I’m not used to families,” I cried. (This Summer And That Summer, 6)
The poem ends up providing readers with valuable insight into the poet’s formative years and how his  experiences went on to inform his aesthetics of poetry. The poet is diverse, often uses conventional themes like spirituality ( I run from myself, winded I return, debunking/the illusion, (“Stour”, This Summer And That Summer, 48) and unconventional themes like urban estrangement that are still relevant and pulsating with poetic  imagination.
In a private hell with no public face
I am capable of making love to myself. (“Fingerprint”, This Summer and That Summer,53).
Ideologically, ‘introspection’ may be said to be Sethi’s avowed response to the world in these perilous times. His flamboyant rhetoric is girded by intense vocabulary that holds the rest of the edifice of his poetry together. His poetic wardrobe mirrors his own poetic persona. He strikes and shifts the ground we stand upon: Sethi’s prowess is in the poetical.

Works Cited:
Sethi, Sanjeev. Nine Summers Later. Har-Anand  Publications Pvt. Ltd. New Delhi. India.1997. Print.
Sethi, Sanjeev. This Summer and That Summer. Bloomsbury. 2015. India. Print.