Laksmisree Banerjee |
** ISSN 2475-1359 **
* Bilingual monthly journal published from Pittsburgh, USA :: рдкिрдЯ्рд╕рдмрд░्рдЧ рдЕрдоेрд░िрдХा рд╕े рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рдж्рд╡ैрднाрд╖िрдХ рдоाрд╕िрдХ *
Poetry: Laksmisree Banerjee
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 canvas/ picture/ photopoetry", 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
Toronto, Canada
Contents, January 2023
SetuVolume 7; Issue 8; January 2023Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetryExclusive: Peer Critical Analysis
Author InterviewEssay of the MonthAuthor of the MonthShort FictionSerial NovelArt NewsSetu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings
Special Edition: Poetry on Canvas/Picture/Photopoetry |
Photopoetry: Eavonka Ettinger
Fiction: Noni
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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
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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 |
Three Poems: Sanjukta Dasgupta
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Sanjukta Dasgupta |
Visual Poetry: Nivedita Roy
One Day She Discovered
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Nivedita Roy |
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
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Snigdha Agrawal |
not all paths
end here
reassurances
brighten
what is an image?
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
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Hema Ravi |
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Symbiotic relationship Crow and Buffalo at Adyar Estuary Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi |
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Spotted Owl in Gandhi Nagar, Chennai Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi |
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Crow Feeding young cuckoo in Gandhi Nagar, Chennai Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi |
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Pair of Shikaras near Adyar River, Chennai Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi |
![]() |
Striated Heron at Adyar Estuary Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi |
HARMONY: Boudhayan Mukherjee
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Boudhayan Mukherjee |
Poetry: Vasiliki Petroudi
![]() |
Vasiliki Petroudi |
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.