Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Canvas of Endurance

I might appear a fragment, a form undone

No limbs to gesture, no voice to claim grace,

Frayed at the edges, the colors run,

Yet, within my silence, a sacred space.

I never begged to be beautiful, pristine,

Not a portrait hung in opulent halls.

I was carved in chaos, in-between,

A relic that rose though time withdraws.

Cracks map my face like rivers of gold,

Each one a wound, but also a seam.

Kintsugi of spirit—resilience retold,

Restitching loss into the fabric of dream.

No tempest could tear the core of me,

No careless eye could erase my frame.

I am a memory that refuses to flee,

An unfinished psalm, not seeking fame.

Breath may falter, and flesh decay,

But the soul—like Lear in storm—will cry

Not for pity, but for a rightful way

To live with truth, not the mask or lie.

I have wandered through forgotten frames,

In galleries where ghosts once wept.

I’ve heard the hush of unspoken names,

Where light on ruin silently crept.

Still, I stand, though bruised and bent,

A lighthouse etched on night’s own skin.

Each scar—a syllable, each tear—intent,

Marking the place where I begin.

Who dares destroy the will to rise,

The hunger to hope, to still implore?

Even Icarus, scorched by skies,

Dreamed of wings that could soar once more.

I hold no symmetry, nor gilded guise,

Yet in my shape, truth dares to dwell.

The canvas flawed, the frame unwise

Yet within, a universe rebels.

So, mark me not for what I lack

The missing brush, the faded hue

But for the will that won’t turn back,

For the art that keeps breaking through.

***

Crown of Clay

Ah, what a pitiful plight I parade

Once poised to reign, now razed in regret.

My mind, a maze of murmuring greed,

Spun its schemes to scrape the skins of need.

I dreamed not of love, nor of lore,

But thrones carved from the ribs of the poor.

Each coin, a conquest, each breath, a bargain

I bartered souls for a fleeting dominion.

With fingers forked like serpent tongues,

I pricked their peace with thorn-tipped wrongs.

A hound, I howled in hunger for more,

Draining dreams from every door.

My veins, once veins of velvet pride,

Ran red with ruin I could not hide.

Empires rose beneath my tread

Built on backs, and broken bread.

But now, behold—I stand alone,

A shadow beneath a shattered throne.

No sceptre now, no silken lie

Only the silence of a stifled cry.

I see Ozymandias in the mirror’s glare

His crown cracked, his kingdom air.

Time’s tide took all I claimed,

Etched in sand, my sins unnamed.

A lesson etched in blood and dust

No gold survives the grave’s rust.

The guillotine waits—its whisper near

Not of death, but of truth severe

Let me rebuild with bruised hands,

Sow light across these scorched lands.

Not for glory, not to reign

But to cleanse the crimson from my name.

***

The Thorns of Thistle Time

Oh, what a thorn-throttled time I tread

The sky once sapphire now sags with dread.

Where went the breeze that once kissed my brow?

Where sings the sun that bathed me—then, not now?

Love, once a lullaby, lost in the din,

Now silence stalks my soul within.

I watch the world, a wheel without wonder,

Its heart a hollow drumbeat of thunder.

My God! What ghostly guise is this age?

No kindness kindles, no wisdom sage.

Humanity’s halo, tarnished and torn,

Wanders weeping, weary, and worn.

I pass unnoticed—scant steps, no glance,

Wrapped in rags of a fading trance.

Misery, my sister, holds my hand,

Leads me limping through loveless land.

Why, I ask, do I wear such woe?

My worth—whittled, a whisper in snow.

Yet even Pandora, with palms unfurled,

Left Hope cradled in a cracked world.

I gather my grief like scattered glass,

Each shard a story, a soul’s bypass.

I knead my ache into mortal clay,

To mold a dawn from this decay.

O Courage—come, with calloused grace,

Cloak me in fire, let me face

This frozen fate with fearless flame,

Let scars be stars that spell my name.

For I may be fractured, but not yet done—

My ruin, a relic kissed by the sun.

I rise again—not crowned, not clean,

But burning brighter through what’s been seen.

***

Bio: Dr. Ritu Kamra Kumar, Retd. Officiating Principal and Associate Professor of English at MLN College, Yamuna Nagar, is an acclaimed academician, poet, and writer. With over 400 contributions to leading national newspapers and magazines, she has published 70+ research papers in reputed national and international journals and edited books. A noted resource person and speaker, she has led workshops and panel discussions nationwide, including at the Delhi Book Fair 2024. Honored by the District Administration and featured as an Empowered Woman by The Hindustan Times, she is a recipient of the Indian Woman Achiever Award and authored eight acclaimed books. 

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Setu, June 2025