Showing posts with label 202301E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202301E. Show all posts

Poetry: Laksmisree Banerjee

Laksmisree Banerjee
DEAR WOMAN

Dear Woman,
we hang from the boughs of
the same tree of un-tasted succulence
along zig-zag tracks of unknown tangles
as the bride-calling Bird
awakens me mellifluously
in my bridal attire and bower
entangled in the breeze of 
fully unfulfilled dreams ---

enmeshed in the strains of 
long-lasting lost desires
of dense forests
long before we knew each other 
as sisters in no man’s land
or perhaps long before
we danced hand in hand in no woman’s land,
brewing in interludes of scorching coffee breaks
myself already poisoned by 
the fruit of knowledge
still clinging to our age-old Elysium
beyond its gates of banishment ---

the golden clouds have long ago
melted into the delirium
of the darkness of nocturnal trees,
much before you ripened into

the fallen mango 
splattered on ground                                                          
its putrid juice of unrequited love
I lived through this long story of survival
much before you my dear sister,
I knew the silken reverie
we have always woven
to play our roles wrapped around
in our dead silk worms
still emitting glow in living deaths ---

I hemmed into my life of
history’s blank pages with
bitter sweetness
a frolicsome masquerade,
now flooding across with
cascades of tearful amnesia
perhaps much before you,
perhaps much later than her ---

but now, like you, I have found myself,
lived in alien lands as my own,
sprouting with new leaves
in painful transplantation,
geo-spaces and temporality,
rivers, rocks and seas
now bland in the sameness
of dark and light,
dear sister we are very much alike

in our vain equipoise of    
a suave, customary compromise ---                                      
yes we are now united and ignited
in self-discovery of our own paradise regained                                 
in our belligerent making,
in eons of undeterred womanhood
sculpted in artistry through hammer and anvil,
as wisely beautiful as the singing river
breaking its way through stones into the sea,
drenched in dreams yet not soggy ---

you and I the sturdy, all-encompassing banyan tree
not seeking but giving shade
as strong as the earth
as omniscient as the ether
as inflamed as the fire
as inspired as the wind
as amorous as desire
as fierce as the hurricane
as soft as blooming love
as liberal as the sky ---

We celebrate here and now
our womanhood timeless,
our hot-springs welling out
of the flinty no man’s land,
our greenery peeping out of crevices
of jagged elemental rocks,

we have made our quilts, woven our yarns
to clothe the dark secrets of the world ---

Now we stand together
bare, unfurled
at the still point of history ---
***


FOR MY DAUGHTER

I made a doll of the passing day
to gift it to my girl the other day ---

I made her braids with the tangled green
of dense embracing rain forests ---

I made the lilting streams wrap around her
liquid feminine beauty of allurement ---

I made the moonlight her satin golden skin
I made the candy floss clouds her bright smile ---

I made the rainbow her glistening raiment
I made the starry skies her sequined veil ---

I made the blossoming garden her coronet of flowers
I made the empyrean her illimitable world of dreams ---

I made the sun glow to bedeck her fairy forehead
At last I gave this doll to my blissful girl
To make our instant of love Eternity.
***


GUNS IN GARDENS

Ah can you not hear the hoarse cries of 
the approaching torpedo?
The suppressed grunting of the angry thunder?
The incinerating rage of the lightning 
in blossoming gardens?
Can you not see the outstretched arms
of wailing green branches
Reaching out to the school-bagged, uniformed children
Walking side by side for their morning 
prayers in classrooms?
Those that you push into battle gear
with hazardous guns
Those that wallow in fury
of uncontrolled angst
You convert schools into war zones
splattered with soft cherry blood
Lobbies steeped in crime and greed
for arming children with guns of death
Rather than books of life?
O you creed of super-powerdom
May you become one of peace and love
To sustain the whiteness of your doves ---

Inhuman hate-clad hubris in loose strings
Spectral terror of the darkest purple clouds
Floating above in aimless dislocation

Rudderless un-reigned juvenile wrath
In the clutches of gun-toting monstrosity
In zones of misplaced machoism
From Texas to California
From Florida to New York
To usurped unloved reckless wrath
As forests and multihued rainbows weep
Shedding blood and tears in mutilation
In a land of unabated guns of annihilation
Shattering ceaselessly tender leaves
Of blooming buds in disarray
Nettled in thorny fogs of unwashed simplicity
Prodded in disenchantment to kill and shatter
Beauty of tumescent new lives ---

Ah the dissolved souls and fainted cries
The muted reverberations die across the ocean
As life becomes a toy of unbridled cruelty
Smothered forever in silence
In the precincts of innocence ---
***


DEAR MY FRIEND

Dear Friend ---
have you ever seen
those mushroom clouds
mirrored in the graphics
of moist eyes?

have you ever seen
blood splattered tomatoes
spilling, spouting in agony
gurgling out of 
puny wrenched bellies
of gunned down
erased innocence?

have you ever seen
those na├пve moths deluded
in cavernous delight, dying
in their vain search for light?

have you ever seen
body-bags of unsuspecting bravery
flung out of hospitals and frontlines
thrown into riverine ashes?

have you ever seen
that dreary, desperate haze
of shattering shells
in bombed towns and villages?

have you ever seen
the musk rose wilted
torn and grounded
stamped dead under
the boots of cannon-cruelty?

have you ever seen
peoples, dogs, rats running
helter skelter
scrambling for life and shelter
in misty fields of smoking uranium 
alive still in death?

have you ever seen
that dying child gasping
in the lap of a dying mother
begging for life in the detritus
for the alms and arms
of some unknown god?

have you ever seen
a burnt body, a burnt mind
a scorched young soul
in the embrace of 
a wailing woman in wilderness?

No my dear friend
you have never seen these scenes
even in dreams ---

life has so eluded you
that you still breathe in masked sheen
in lounges, parlours, conditioned salons
drawing rooms of endless babble
and gibberish, glitzy gossip
as life passes you by covertly
with padded paws
as love leaves you forever in the lurch
and fervent humanity slips away
in all its scented miasma
through the ornate hour glass

in evasion and treachery
in the gaudy darkness you chose
till the last explosion!
***

On the Sublime, Republic Day and Spring

Sunil Sharma

And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.

 

---William Wordsworth

 

 

Happy-2023 to the Setu family!

Welcome to the January edition!

A month when winter peaks to decline slowly---and herald a change to the spring.

.

 

This month's focus: sublime.

Through the agency of authorship.

 

Executed via the intertwined modes of thoughts, words, images, moods and visuals. 

And the sheer joy of creation out of this complex process!

Whole thing is sublime!

 

Longinus talks of this unique human faculty of creating spiritual value and an artistic unit that intrinsically carries a transcendental quality and loftiness:

 

For our soul is raised out of nature through the truly sublime, sways with high spirits, and is filled with proud joy, as if itself had created what it hears.

 

Production of beauty; of poetry, fresh arrangements of words and images for an audience keen for finding the exalted in the everyday!

 

Titled as: "Poetry on canvaspicturephotopoetry", the open call got a good response. 

 

After going through the criteria of composition, angle, colours and verbal and visual imagery, some 16 creatives got selected for this special section.

 

You will love the wide spectrum of pictorial and linguistic works that primarily deal with the enduring notions of beauty and sublimity in their chosen fields of activities and artistic choices.

 

Another initiative by your favouraite bilingual journal trying to innovate ways of engagement with the artistic in a market economy promoting kitsch and fantasy and superheroes.

 

Some fine content serving the needs for the aesthetic.

.

 

India celebrated her 73th Republic Day on January 26th, a holiday and an exciting event for the Indians across the world.

A vibrant nation marches on, despite the challenges and odds, in the path forward.

The largest democracy thrives and remains committed to the highest ideals of democracy and the guiding republican spirit. 

The Constitution as the supreme framework, finer principles of governance; pluralism, secularism and tolerance, as the defining virtues continue to guide the most populous nation towards further social and technological progress.

Our very best wishes for the country and the diaspora for this milestone!

.

January also marks the various agrarian festivals that signal the arrival of  the Spring.

 

The celebration of seasons and remaining alive inside and outside the being---that is the message of the Vasant (Spring).

May Vasant touch every soul and mind with the vernal showers!

 

Some other interesting features---critical peer readings by eminent writers; an author interview; a serial novel and cool works of poetry and prose in the general section--- make the issue a collector's item.

 

Read on, please!

 

Thanks to the contributors and you for the continued support.

 

With very best wishes,

Sunil Sharma

Editor, Setu (English)
Toronto, Canada

Contents, January 2023


Setu

Volume 7; Issue 8; January 2023


Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Poetry

Exclusive: Peer Critical Analysis

Author Interview

Essay of the Month

Author of the Month

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings

Special Edition: Poetry on Canvas/Picture/Photopoetry

Photopoetry: Eavonka Ettinger

Eavonka Ettinger





Bio: Eavonka Ettinger arrived at haiku after a journey through theatre, film, spoken word poetry, and teaching. She is grateful to her writing community for inspiration and growth. A few places her work has appeared are THF's Haiku Dialogue, Poetry Pea, Failed Haiku, Akitsu Quarterly, and Cold Moon Journal. She lives in Long Beach, CA with her husband and cat.
 

Fiction: Noni

Tejaswinee Roychowdhury

 by Tejaswinee Roychowdhury

 

Noni sits on the porch eating oranges.

Noni, how did you escape death?

She holds up an orange peel, folds it hard, and says, “I squirted this in his eyes.”

She says she’s been escaping death since she was little. Hiding behind curtains when her father broke furniture. Breaking falls on soft grass. Balancing on planks over rivers carrying crocodiles. Dancing on tiptoes around hypnotised cobras.

“The trick is to best him,” she trails off, her dancing eyes scanning patchy noon skies.

Noni, what are you looking for?

“Bees.”

She says they’ll fly in with a great big buzz and muffle the sound of my mum and dad screaming at each other. She says she invited the bees from the hives in the cemetery because she’s run out of stories.

I wish she didn’t invite the bees. Her stories were more than a mere protective cocoon. The story where a dog was cursed never to bark. The story where the ghost of an unwed woman sat atop the branches of a sandpaper tree looking for lovers. The story where a mama bear searched for her cub in magical Himalayan woods. Her stories were home on a sultry afternoon.

“If you like stories so much, you can write your own.”

But I don’t know how to write stories. Even if I did learn, I wouldn’t know how to escape into their folds for they’d be stories without mystery, stories I knew the endings to. And they’d be boring. Unlike Noni, I knew nothing about ghosts or fairy magic. She could spin fantasies out of candy floss.

Fireflies, for instance. For a whole year, I was convinced if I touched them, I’d be siphoned off into another world where mushrooms grew as tall as banyan trees and heroic witches carried poisonous poppy seeds into their annual war against the evil queen for hiking milk prices on Christmas.

Perhaps, I can regurgitate Noni’s stories till I grow sick of them. It’s a plan.

Noni, did you miss me?

“Foolish girl,” she says. “There’s nothing about you I wouldn’t miss.”

She says she missed ink stains on my little palms, the way I tongue around my full mouth to fish out sly bones of the steam-cooked hilsa, and my head on her lap while she combed for lice that were never there.

Will you now stay?

Quiet hangs in the evening air that smells of mum’s eggplant-besan fries.

Noni, how did you escape death again?

“I didn’t,” she says, her eyes suddenly hollow like caves.

She did though. And she will stay. I buried the sandal she’d lost behind the wild hibiscus that grew on unclaimed land. It tethers Noni to the backyard of our house.


Fiction: Cotton Candy Politics

Tejaswinee Roychowdhury

 by Tejaswinee Roychowdhury

 

Mohua boarded the crowded local and grimaced.

She had snapped at Amit, “I am ladies, so I will sell in the ladies’ compartment. You are gents, you go sell in gents’ compartment.” Amit had grinned baring his betel-leaf-stained uneven teeth and with a forty-five-degree nod to his right said, “Hyan, didibhai. From next time, ekdom gents’ compartment!” He then put his free hand to his chest and declared, “Whatever you say, didibhai, I listen.” Yet, there he was the very next day, selling plastic-wrapped cotton candies to the ladies.

It was a question of access to customers. Amit would always board the Bandel-bound locals from Howrah while Mohua would board them from Hindmotor. By the time she did, a large chunk of her potential customers would be lost, and even though Amit would always hop off the train at Srirampur and run towards another local, Mohua with her polio-affected leg had no choice but to stay in the train until Hooghly where the crowd would be thinned enough for her to unboard safely with her large woven plastic bag. However, for Amit too, it was about access to customers. He had discovered that it was typical of women travelling in the ladies’ compartments to buy one or two packets of cotton candy. In the general compartments, which both Mohua and Amit would refer to as ‘gents’ compartment’, lone men and men with their wives tended to ignore cotton candies unless they were travelling with a child, which although seems usual, is not, particularly on weekday evenings.

Mohua understood why Amit boarded the ladies’ compartments, but his customer issue was not her problem. She let out a cry, “E-special offer! Didira, bonera, buy two get one free! Three ten-rupee cotton candy packets at twenty rupees only!”

Amit, who was selling them ten-rupees a piece glared at her for a split second and bellowed, “Special cotton candy! Made from special healthy sugar of 100 rupees per kg! No fat, no diabetes! Sugar patients can enjoy too! Buy special cotton candy at ten rupees only!”

The two cotton candy sellers yelled their offers over and over, their wits and voices overlapping, caught in a fight for subsistence and space. Well-dressed and not-so-well-dressed women returning from offices and universities sniggered. Women squatting on the train’s floors by the door, having toiled all day, laughed and slapped each other on the arm. Few women continued to sleep, and one woman with French-manicured acrylic nails streamed the #hilarious cotton candy rivalry to her 317 followers on Instagram.

The local sped past electric poles, trees, and houses with windows for eyes.


Three Poems by R P Singh

R. P. Singh
And so wafts a theme

And so wafts a  theme
in mud sometimes, 
and across the clouds so.
So springs a thought 
in winter, spring and snow.

Saw letters taking shape 
when seldom any escape; 
in midnights, at dawns, 
bright daybreak, and yes 
over the yawning afternoons.

Letters move so fast, 
smiling, winking lot, 
letters resist to move, 
stuck in whacky groove.
Letters in efforts, letters stuck.

Letters turn the shape...
Yes, for themes there 
effortlessly no escape.
Themes smile, get agile,
letters mark their wand.

And so wafts a theme;
In thoughts of land 
in thoughts of barn, 
in thoughts of traps
how thoughts see yarns! 

So wafts a theme;
in muddy streets;
dreams that bring
for a fairy retreat -
so soulful life's treat! 

Letters whisper so often 
in the maker's ears,
and they pinch, if out of gear.
Letters charge the self, 
letters, and control.

And so wafts the  themes, 
Life goes on...
***


Million hunches for a dream

Million hunches for a dream
I so often plan, 
though in thought it entails 
just a shaky yarn!


No responses float ever, 
yes quite  eager shows want, 
And  menacing affluence 
when a drop in want.

I sang for supper, waited there, 
Many yearnings loom a far,
as dragon flies they approach,
YET not a single water drop.
***


Bird awake

Bird awake the long night through,
no injustice they ever thought, 
who knows owl's petty eyeballs 
shrieking through the petals of dark.


Birds in quivering flake to see 
thoughts so freaking and umpteen
some vermin come, flies come 
offering a rally for a relook, to see.

Ghostly vermin sings a song, 
so many plundering to entail,
flies in new shapes appear 
hoodwink owl's image to clear.
*** 

Three Poems: Sanjukta Dasgupta

Sanjukta Dasgupta
A HOME FAR AWAY

Home is where the heart is
As I dig in the alien soil
And plant my roots deep down
The surprised soil stirs and asks
Whether my roots can cling deep
As much as it had done
 In the now far away home
Uprooting and re-rooting
Of eager roots 

Home is where the heart is
The river breeze of the Thames 
Mingles with the breeze of the Ganges
Singing a dulcet duet 
Of finding a home everywhere
Monsoon music recedes 
As alluring Fall colours enchant

Among palm trees and pine trees
Among daffodils and the water lilies
Among strawberries and mangoes
Among the twinkling stars
Among the meadows, castles and lakes
Among the busy streets
The snowy mountains
The surging seas encircling
Many homes and the many worlds
In the one universe.  
***


DEPARTURE 

Now the departure lounge
Is so overcrowded
The exit gate stands firm
None can re-arrive and enter

Every day
Every night
Every morning
Every evening
Someone departs
A loved one
An unknown one
Many old 
Some young 
Departure at this gate
The only constant. 

Looking ahead
The void rises 
Directionless 
Rudderless 
The weary boat
Plunges deep
Into the arms 
Of the waiting sea
Never to turn 
Or return. 
***


FALL

Now
It’s all about falling 
Falling down 
 Falling snow 
In falling hair
 Falling teeth
Falling 
Failing 
Falling 
Like the
Niagara
Uncontrolled

Now 
It is all about failing
Failing memory
Failing vision
Failing to hear
Failing to express 


Now 
It is all about drying 
No tears in eyes
Till medicinal teardrops 
Are squeezed into dry eyes
The smooth skin  a crisscross maze
Like fine embroidery spreading finely
From forehead to a face that could not 
Launch a single ship 

The skin droops from the flesh and joints
Like an oversized overcoat 
The wobbly arms like marshmallows
Have a lively quiver of their own 
The swan throat a tortoise neck now
 Countless rings of recorded time 

The dimmed blurred eyes
The unsteady feet
Hearing aid in ancient ears
Fumbling and stumbling towards
The eager and excited exit door 
That opens like the loving embrace
Of gentle maternal arms
Lulls into everlasting rest 
The tired old one
After a roller coaster career graph
Of spasmodic hurdles and elusive joy
***

Five Haiga by Jerome Berglund

Jerome Berglund







Visual Poetry: Nivedita Roy

One Day She Discovered

Visual poetry, written and recited by Nivedita Roy complemented by snapshots clicked by her in Bahrain, Sattal, Lucknow and Ranikhet



Nivedita Roy
Bio: Nivedita Roy is a teacher by profession, bilingual poetess and author. She resides in the Kingdom of Bahrain and belongs to Lucknow. She is the recipient of Independence Day Literary Honours 2021 and 2022, Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Certificate of Literary Appreciation 2022 awards by Motivational Strips and Gujarat Sahitya Academy. She is the recipient of many other prestigious awards from literary forums.

She is the author of two solo poetry books in English and Hindi. She has co-authored 20 national and international anthologies in English and Hindi. She is the Moderator for the Bahrain office of Motivational strips. She is one of the editors for the ezine Brahmand: Voice of the cosmos. He poems and articles are often published in national and international ezines, newspapers and journals.

ENDINGS (Haibun): Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal
Through the labyrinth of life, climbed, fell, and injured me. Undeterred made many more attempts.  Giving up, was never an option.  Writers are made of sterner stuff they say and with that dogged persistence forged ahead to reach the pinnacle, focusing on the ornate gates.  Life's white moments stand in sharp contrast to episodes of barren stages.  Saffron monoliths like shaved heads of the saints waiting to welcome the lost me, under the blue umbrella of kindness.  An indulgent waning moon, says "Atta girl...never mind if there are no stars on your lapels.  You did what you like best and lived it till the end as one inglorious, albeit with a heart loaded with happiness.  How many can reach that status".


      not all paths end here
      reassurances brighten
      what is an image?

Shakti stands on one leg inside the cave temple, eyes questioning. Who are these self-appointed saints, saffron-clad, dictating the 'Dos' and 'Don'ts' for women?  A cover-up for escapades by men!  Hush! girl...return to base.  You have unfinished tasks, and biases to erase.  Go down the way you came and meet headlong your fate.

    I step to the edge
    look to fight another day
    A hot sun chases
***



BIO: Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is Bengali born, raised and educated in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to the eastern and western cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds.  With more than two decades of experience working in the corporate sector, her outlook on life is balanced, which reflects in her writings. A versatile writer, she writes all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, travelogues, and hotel/restaurant reviews on TripAdvisor, under the pen name ‘puchka’.  A published author of three books, the latest titled MINDS UNPLUGGED Lockdown Stories and Rhymes for The Six to Sixteen, is available worldwide on Amazon. Amazon.com Flipkart, and other global platforms.  An intrepid traveller, her travel diaries can be accessed in word press blog: randomramblings52.  She lives in Bangalore (Karnataka), India.


THROUGH THE LENSMAN’S EYES

Hema Ravi
Life in this metropolis on the Coromandel Coast is exhilarating in its own way. Chennai (formerly Madras) is well-known for its education, culture, cuisine, art, temples and more.  Live in Rome as the Romans do! In contrast, live in Chennai, as you would like to, without stepping into squabbles or political controversies. And the “right to swing your arms ends just where the other man’s nose begins!” There are innumerable hobbies one can pursue in this wonderful city that range from temple visits to photography.

 
Green Bee Eater with its catch,
Adyar Estuary Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi
Post retirement, my better half got hooked to an exciting hobby – Photography; nature and bird photography in particular. As an energetic writer, his candid shots offer me greater incentive to write. 
The city with its tropical wet and dry climate is home for a variety of birds. The green environs of  the Theosophical Society, the IIT, Madras, Adyar Poonga (Park), Adyar Estuary (all, in close proximity to the salubrious neighborhood where we live!) boast of at least 200 species, which include resident and migratory birds.

Symbiotic relationship Crow and Buffalo at
Adyar Estuary Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi
Alarm bells do ring about loss of habitat due to urbanization, and one is not certain if these avian creatures will remain or go into oblivion. My thoughts race to the spotted owl family in the hollow of a large tree that disappeared about six months ago. The tree with its wide-spread branches had been their abode for several years; children and passersby used to watch them without disturbing them. Sometime last year, cleanup operations and planting of saplings began, which probably was the death’s knell for these nocturnal creatures. No one really knows, but it is quite likely that they could not find their prey in the altered locale. (Sigh!)

Spotted Owl in Gandhi Nagar, Chennai
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi
There are several insightful and inspiring takeaways from the lives of these winged creatures. The jungle crow, for instance, nursing the cuckoo fledgling along with its own brood. I recall reading a viewpoint expressed by the German ornithologist Johann Bechstein who proposed that the crows were ‘beside themselves for joy’ and it was ‘an honor’ to care for it.  By ‘natural selection’ it goes against the idea of ‘self-interest,’ nevertheless, watching the crow feeding the young parasite intrigues the rational thinker.
 

Crow Feeding young cuckoo in Gandhi Nagar, Chennai
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

Many an interesting story unfolds in these environs, and it is a moment of pride and satisfaction to capture on lens the shikra, the striated heron, the elusive grey-bellied cuckoo or the garden-lizard sunbathing on the river bank. They too are quite interesting. Again, I am told that these creatures bring along a ‘hidden-perk’ – they ‘carry an enzyme that purges deer ticks,’ which cause ‘Lyme Disease.’ Just as the owls keep the rodent-population in control. 

Garden Lizard at Gandhi Nagar, Adyar
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

 
Pair of Shikaras near Adyar River, Chennai
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

Each day, a new tale unfolds, more so, in the breeding season. A great learning awaits the avid watcher to observe them build nests, raise their young, and fly off without ‘holding-on’ to anything. Watching male-birds as ‘bread-winners,’ even among the shikras is a humbling experience. 

Grey Bellied Cuckoo at Adyar Estuary
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

Who ever thought that humans alone cared for their young ones.  Day after day, watching these winged creatures is a humbling experience for the materialistic adult.  
 
Striated Heron at Adyar Estuary Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi


Introducing ‘birding’ would prove to be beneficial to inculcate in children the qualities of empathy, tolerance and acceptance.

HARMONY: Boudhayan Mukherjee

Boudhayan Mukherjee
Nestled amidst the verdant slope of formidable Pareshnath hill
The Topchanchi lake below
A place often frequented by us, the De Nobili Boys
Draped in their usual khakee n white school uniforms
With the overwhelming frame of Father Dietrich in high boots leading our pack

Standing at the crest, the marble white temple of the Jains
The German jesuit also bended in prostration before the holy shrine.
His caressing voice still echoes
as he used to say to the priest 
Pointing at us 
"Please forgive my langoor kids"
While we were busy watching the innumerable monkeys flocking the trees like a pearl string.

Clouds shrouded the temple spire
As father climbed down the crag with all of us following him
The old saint waited a while and touched his holy cross on the temple pillars
It was always easier to descend than climbing up

How alluring it looked from the top
Limpid flowed the lake waters infinitely placid 
The shooting of a movie was going on
The Bengali romantic film Sankhabela starred by Uttam and Madhabi
Embracing each other in a love scene on a narrow boat in full turmoil
We were not allowed to see at the theatre later.
***

Bio: Boudhayan Mukherjee, a bilingual poet, author and translator started as student editor and literary secretary of Tagore's Visva Bharati University. Has been published extensively in journals and newspapers since the mid seventies. First book of verse “Black Milk” followed by five poetry anthologies, a collection of short-stories and books of translations, Has represented Sahitya Akademi, the prime literary institution of India, at various poetry readings and taught Creative Writing in English Indira Gandhi National Open University. A founder member and poetry co-coordinator of Srijan, one of the most renowned literary platforms of Kolkata. Editor of several literary magazines, he has been recently awarded the Swaymagata Literary Prize [2021].

Poetry: Vasiliki Petroudi

Vasiliki Petroudi
Power of Words

How can you handle void
if you blabber?
You need to hark and be silent
to grasp the Sublime of Nothingness
Vacuum is not soundless
Is overfilled with echoes of
nowts and naughts
But still…
These aughts are enormous
The slightest move
and they collapse
will fall on you and crash you
That's why you need to
stay still and quiet
And when the time is right
drill vacuity with your
brightest thoughts
***

Athens (Greece)

Poetry: Yogesh Patel

Yogesh Patel

Ahoy! The avulsion

 

When I parachute into

Grey and cold backdrop of lone canvas

An autumn leaf of a photo'd fire

Do not find it as my fall

I may not create any choreographed

3d gyro fluff

In a dreaming blue sky

Or buzz like a whirligig beetle

Or zigzag like a balloon

Rudely passing its wind mid-air

-to laugh at me as you do-

I do not have any fuss to make

With any baggage left

 

Time is a disjointed game

Just as I wake up past midnight and think

It’s time for the after-dinner evening walk

A reality to nowhere

Until a gentle hand finds me

 

I will gently settle down

With my leaf miners for you to read

Hiding the unseen stars in its tangles

With love dreamt and lost

Covering any path

As a blackening passage

Waiting for the terpsichorean downpour

To wash me away for another day

***

 

 

A park-bench plaque

Why must it revere or pine for
someone I don't know?    Who was he?

Bring a brolly.       Meet droppings…

I used to sit here:             now a name plaque.

Watching comings and goings.

 

It’s a wait

for the next unknown bum.

***

 

 

Deafness

 

Did you hear me in the trees

clapping with leaves

flapping my wings & desperate

to escape from the swarming moths?

We both have endured the induced autumns!

 

Did you hear me heave in the trees

whistling to soothe my wounds

in witch-finger branches stretching out

for help that never came?

Did I miss the sound of drums in the hills?

 

Did you hear me crackle in the fire-    

Tree-felling with no warnings?

Logs now, tree and I are bright as firewood.

But you don’t feel any warmth.

I’ve always known; you’re cold!

 

Did you hear me in the hot tea

you pour into a mug? The gurgling water

should remind you of the first rain

that fell to lock us in its endless

prison of bars I can’t escape!

 

Did you hear me on the canopy

as we walk like strangers in silence

under an umbrella still with us

that we argue over now?

You're still there! I’ve caught a taxi home!

 

Can you hear me now

in a letter getting folded

that never reached you?

The homing pigeon died waiting

at the window always closed...

***

 

 

Undertakers

 

Tagore’s Kabuliwala

sings, ‘mere pyare vatan’

from a black-and-white movie

as a reminder that

out there somewhere

there is a place

I can return to

and throw all names given to me

in a fireplace

to keep warm

 

It is when ambers crack jokes

to fool the undertakers

who followed me home…

***

 

 

myth mongers

 

when you find—the— God

- aham brahm─Бsmi (рдЕрд╣рдо् рдм्рд░рд╣्рдоाрд╕्рдоि) - "i am divine"

doesn’t matter which cast

—the untouchables or Pasmandas of the Ajlaf—

as a zombie lurking in the shadows

no face         no soma      

no light                  no darkness

lost and lonely

reconnecting broken time in dementia

deep in a morgue cabinet as a John Doe

still reigning as a supreme Lord

with no myths to follow

you’ll also discover words that play tricks

-it’s a good business for the brokers

 

then you find gods who roam as rascals and bastards

telling you a great yarn

exploits like yours and mine

allowing you to laugh at them

fuck   piss    and dance

with them    making them one of us

-for laughing at yourself makes you happy-

yes, i like such happy scoundrels

they can also be cowards like us

though they don’t suffer pain as we do

 

hence when you see a roof looming as a charcoal sky

holes in coitus with light           

the ejection of shooting stars you have no time for

gods emerging from them an omnipresence

in their flaming silk sarong

indifferent to human sacrifices creaming in a yagnakunda

ready to accept their souls as offerings

you believe an old man                                                                          /…

who sings myth at the bone-fire

 

a long time ago when tigers were smoking…

you should have seen gods’ faces

when the souls rose in an inferno as Gloriosa Superba

fanning their flame-petals as cobras

with grace but betrayal obvious

in their darting      spooky eyes

readying for a poisonous strike

 

gods above in their golden Pushpak

tumbled and rolled in shame

swearing and cursing

they jostled to save themselves  

 

Garuda                  a humble servant

watching from above

          swept them back to heaven

 

the old man sighs

the God in the mortuary cabinets

in whose name it happens

has nothing to lose

embalmed in an eternal sleep

 

for His case file is not closed yet

by the myth mongers

***

Bio: Yogesh Patel received an MBE for literature by the Late Queen. Patel’s last collection of poems, The Rapids, was published by The London Magazine in 2021. Internationally celebrated, he edits Skylark and runs Skylark Publications UK, as well as a non-profit Word Masala project to promote literature. Honoured with the Freedom of the City of London, he has LP records, films, radio, a children’s book, fiction and non-fiction books, and three poetry collections to his credit. A recipient of many awards, Patel was Poet-of-Honor at New York University in April 2019. Among the many venues he has read in, are the House of Lords and the National Poetry Library. Patel’s poem is also scheduled for the moon aboard a NASA/SpaceX rocket to be archived in a time capsule.