Showing posts with label Contemplation. Show all posts

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

A Mirage

The trees looked joyous, flaunting their naked splendor.

The sun was having some fun, playing peekaboo,

behind the branches, with leaves none.

That is unbecoming levity, did you say?

Do you believe that sun is making fun

of their impoverished state? Is playing peekaboo wrong?

Playing all sorts of vile, vicious games is wrong.

But definitely not playing peekaboo.

I disagree with your topsy-turvy view.

A little girl peeped from her glass window.

Lo! Her hair like a dash of gold on a lily.

The trees flailed their sinewy arms, heartily cheering,

proud of their brittle charms.

The girl waved to them, and the branches rustled a greeting,

happy at this serendipitous meeting.

Then, like a mirage, she was gone. Had they been conned?

***

2. Songs before the Fall

We will sing songs before the fall.

Before our limbs crumble, tumbling to the ground.

Humbled.

Let the sun play games with us.

Till we manage to create notes of our swan song.

Will you be enchanted by our song?

The song that we sing before the final call?

Till then, we stand tall, pure and pristine.

With no semblance of a leaf, yellow or green.

Or even adorning ourselves with a fig leaf.

But why come to grief? We are proud of what we are.

Proud of what we will become.

Stoically, we stand, waiting for the next stage,

thrumming a leafless song.

Come what may, we stay erect and strong,

not carping or complaining, but just humming along.

***

3. Reset Button

"Can someone click my reset button?

I want a makeover". A petite tree pleaded.

"With grace and lanky elegance, let me be bejeweled

Ah, how I miss my lithe superiority.

Let me once again bask in my leafy luminosity.

Can someone not lift me to a greater aesthetic shape?"

It beseeched, raising its skeletal arms. Higher. Higher.

”See, how the ground is bestrewn with fresh corpses

of leaves, sprigs, and twigs. Soon the sun will scud past

jagged clouds-big and small, making way for the moon,

which will cruise the night in her silver sheen."

Said a mellow-looking tree.

“There are different stages, different ages.

Every age has its own charm, don’t you see? Why be enraged?

Soon, a boisterous breeze removed the crease from the tree’s face.

It was now a picture of choreographic grace.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Shernaz Wadia

Shernaz Wadia

Rumination

Stark trees filigree

the shape of emptiness

a lone figure trying

to fill his desolation

contemplates

the ascetic nakedness

the ineffable elegance

of those nude brown branches

Friendless, splintered,

emotionally crippled

by the craggy terrain of life

he seeks assurance

from the benign glow of the sun

caught in the latticed branches

on this wistful wintry morning

his gaze rises with the bare limbs

extended heavenward

in anticipatory gratitude

for the resurgence of spring

from within themselves.

His wispy spirit gently throbs,

to the cadence of rising hope,

Awash in the warm glow of faith

in these twilight hours of life

he tingles in anticipation

of he knows not what

***

Bio: To Shernaz Wadia from Pune, India, reading and writing, has meant embarking on an inward journey of self-discovery. She hopes that her words will bring peace and light into dark corners.

She has been published in many leading Indian and international e-journals, websites and print anthologies. She forays into haiku, tanka, haibun and tanka prose, some of which have found place in acclaimed journals.

She has published her own book of poems "Whispers of the Soul" and two volumes of "Tapestry Poetry - A Fusion of Two Minds" co-authored with poet Avril Meallem from Israel.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar

Alchemy of contemplation

One pigeon explodes

into the sky and glides by

in a circle. Its flock draws

the formation again and again

until perfection zeroes in,

and they bring it back to our home.

On the flat roof we all, one now,

pirouette in the air

with everything else

as if gravity is a myth.

A fistful of grains settle the situation,

and the alchemy of the summer Sun

turns the seeds into gold.

A sorrow flies in,

and after a spin around

the centre table, almirah,

rocking chair and bookshelf

finds the orifice again.

I shall name the sorrow soon

until then it is a bird.

III

My father goes to buy some chew toys and biscuits for memory.

If it barks at him when he returns without anything in his hands only he hears that.

Only I see him moving, limping,

bending, stretching.

Today the ghost of rain releases

from the dirt's coffin.

I feel up my lungs with it.

My eyes dilute and beam.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Robert Maddox-Harle

Robert Maddox-Harle

The Earth (a formal sonnet)

Do leaves that fall on cold and windy days

Ever think they are destined for an early death?

Yes, they know they’re passing through a phase

As Autumn changes into Winter’s frozen breath.

Both young and old must respect this yearly cycle

Even if their inventions and shelters intervene,

No good calling nature an annoying trifle

When all that is and has been can be seen.

Tread lightly on this green earth so delicate

No place for careless trash and hasty burn,

Every vile pollution and chemical distillate

Poisons little insects which ever way they turn.

Careless humans transcend your old foolish ways

And sing sweetly for the remainder of your days.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Toolika Rani

Toolika Rani

A Quiet Revolution

Everything begins in the soil

most of the times buried in the deep caverns of the earth-

Invisible.

And even when it sprouts tiny leaves-

a sign of life,

boundaries arise-

“Spread your arms not too far”.

But rise will it which is meant to rise.

There is always a way to realise

what's hidden within-

the surging, irrepressible flow of life.

Leaf by leaf, and twig by twig

its tiny head grows surprisingly big,

big enough to peep beyond the dead, wooden railings

surrounding it on all the sides.

What a way to deride

that seeks to bind

The expandible!

And one fine day it looks into the sky.

From its high perch now

the cages that were built

now seem futile;

futile as their strength was the strength of the dead

fated to be denied the illegitimate, immoral power

to restrict the growth of the fertile.

The fertile mind that innovates!

That survives!

Even in the wintery times

the branches bare and skeletine

hold a promise to revive

the spirit of spring

the will to bring

a lofty profile

on the lonely sky.

***

Poet’s profile: Squadron Leader (Dr) Toolika Rani is an ex-Indian Air Force Officer, Mountaineer (Everest Climber), Motivational Speaker (twice TEDx), Bi-lingual poet, Author, Assistant Professor of History, and was the G-20 Brand Ambassador of U.P. Government. Author of eight books i.e Beyond That Wall: Redemption on Everest, Sherpas of Solukhumbu, three English poetry books, The Song of the Sky, A Wild Flower, and Thus Sang the Bluebirds and two Hindi poetry books, Dayron ke Bahar and Hasratein. Edited an Anthology on Himalaya, The Mountain was Abuzz, displayed at the Kathmandu Mountain Film Festival 2024.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Gopal Lahiri

Gopal Lahiri

Solitude

I look at trees instead of woods and maze

of groves in the forest,

I’m asking butterflies the new way to

know the see-through pebbles

of a timeworn and speaking lake.

I read a hundred narratives where you see

what I am seeing in my solitude.

How the expanses light up, how the boats

are the most beautiful shapes

you have ever seen.

How the daises at your palms

begin cleansing a fragrance,

so different from and winsome

than any of you ever stand upon

under the luminous sky.

***

In the Wild

Here I fix my eyes on raindrops embroidering

the narrow forest path; in my pocket a few bird

songs are sealed in an envelope.

How blue is the sky, how blue is the bird,

Each leaf the same green and the ants hurrying,

when there is no wind, I stare down them.

And when the wind stars blowing, not thinking

of me, just passes by ignoring my presence,

touching the ants, the grass, the fallen leaves,

I close my eyes before the wild flowers hustle

down under the large Banyan tree

I remember the old saying- the singular , the eternal.

How tiny, how miniscule everything is now,

even me, my eyes, even my imagination.

***

Saputara*

Standing near the Purna river I think about

dreamy eyes of four horned antelope, forgetting

forlorn skies, forests, countries, cries,

the twilight catches all song lyrics and blow them.

I touch the sandy soil of the riverbed, wash my

both hands in calm water, the leafbirds and

bee-eaters gossip and giggle under shade trees

at the foothill of the Westerns Ghat.

I still stare at the spot, searching twinkling shadows

of my father who come into my dream

The grass is wet with evening dew and

there is hardly any time to think about.

Before falling asleep, I think that maybe something

will come, the blue air, the few leaves from any

old tree; come closer and greet me with both hands

I can reach out to them in all day and night.

…

*Saputara is in Gujarat, located in the western part of India

***

Bio: Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, and translator with 31 books published, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His works are published across more than 150 journals and anthologies globally His poems are translated in 18 languages and published in 17 countries. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. He has received Setu Excellence Award, Pittsburgh, US, in poetry in 2020. He has been conferred First Jayanta Mahapatra National Award on literature in 2024 for his significant contribution in Indian English Writing. First Prize Winner in Poetry Contest organised by 43rd World Congress of Poets in 2024.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Crimson Testament

I — Prism of perfumed passion,

Laid to rest in sepia folds of time,

Cradled within a tome of tender verse

I am memory made petal,

A sweet whisper of lovers two,

Their breath and bond caught in crimson silk.

A symbol am I—sublime, eternal,

Of love unspoken yet profoundly felt,

Sensuous and sensitive, beauty bounteous.

In my petulant petals, they found themselves:

Hope, heartache, and hallelujah.

Still, I stir the air

With the elation of lips once brushed,

The tremble of hearts once bold,

The music of moments stolen

By poetic prodigies in twilight's hush.

Ah, their love lingers- faded yet fervent,

A fire folded into parchment.

This, too, is art - weightless, wondrous,

A sonnet pressed in stillness.

A universe resides within my shrivelled form.

I—reddening rhapsody—recount a thousand truths,

Each vein a verse,

Each curve a chronicle.

I cradle the cry and craving of creation,

A blend rare and radiant:

Emotion, intellect, and aesthetic grace.

A bejewelled bride of benign books,

Cloaked in dust,

Yet humming with entranced elixirs

An enchanted essence drawn from souls entwined.

Yes, my fragrance has waned

Only a wisp remains,

A breath on the edge of remembrance.

Yet I endure.

Still. Sacred. Spellbound.

The pious pulse of lovers’ past

Still thrums in my faded hue.

I was a witness. I was a vessel.

And now, I am a poet, too.

***

The Transition

I. Spring Surge

Teenage tempest—angst and fire,

Restless hearts with wild desire.

Dreams ablaze, laughter loud,

Eyes fixed firm beyond the cloud.

Each day a spark, each night a flame,

We raced the wind, dared stars by name.

To rise, to shine—that was our creed,

Ambitions bloomed like garden weed.

In spring’s soft glow, we ran unbound,

With youthful hope and joy profound.

II. Autumn Light

Now time has brushed its mellow hue,

And quiet lives where thunder grew.

No longer drawn to crowded halls,

I walk where golden silence falls.

Applause once echoed in my ear,

But now the stillness draws me near.

The leaves descend, their colors deep,

Like stories trees no longer keep.

Each step I take, a softer sound,

As memory blooms from fertile ground.

III. Winter Wisdom

The years unwind, a gentle stream,

And truth arrives not in a scream.

Ideas rise, then drift away,

Like petals loosed in wind’s ballet.

The shell may fade, but not the flame,

It flickers on without a name.

I do not grieve what I outgrew—

All things transform, and so must you.

The setting sun, the final gate,

Is not the end, but merely fate.

IV. Embrace

Let autumn come with all its grace,

Its falling leaves, its soft embrace.

No fear remains, just open skies,

Where every end is but disguise.

To cross the bar is not to part,

But journey deeper into heart.

And like the phoenix in its flame,

We rise again—reborn in name.

***

I Want to Be Little Again

Let me be little again—

In a brand-new polka-dot frock,

Twirl and twinkle down the lane,

Beaming with pride as I walk.

Let me be little again—

Hide my arms in sweater sleeves,

Pretend they’re lost, then cry and grin,

Spinning tales no one believes.

Let me be little again—

Tiptoe, crouch behind the door,

Startle guests with shrieks of glee,

Then slam it shut and laugh some more.

Let me be little again—

Sail paper boats in monsoon drains,

Launch paper planes with whoops and cheers,

In skirmishes of childhood games.

Let me be little again—

Blow birthday candles, cheeks aglow,

Cycle hands-free, wild and free,

In mother’s arms, swing to and fro.

Let me be little again—

No burdens, no masks to wear,

No hearts to mend, no need to blend,

Just sunshine, giggles, and open air.

Let me be little again—

Eavesdrop as elders talk in hush,

Hiding behind the heavy oak,

In silence, feeling the midnight rush.

I long for that innocent space,

When dreams were drawn in crayon hue—

Back when they’d ask, “What will you be?”

And I, not knowing, simply knew:

I only wish to be little… somehow.

***

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.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Paramita Mukherjee Mullick

Paramita Mukherjee Mullick

The Framed Picture

I dipped my brush in the bottles of paint.

What to draw, my idea was faint.

I looked out of the sliding glass door

A lovely picture came to my eyes’ shore.

Green meadows came into view

The sky was a beautiful blue.

Three leafless trees together stood,

Near the stout and strong fences of wood.

I saw hillocks at the horizon afar.

New happiness doors were ajar.

The mellow soft sun smiled down at me.

It was happy to be there behind a tree.

I washed my paint brush and kept it away

And looked mesmerised at the Almighty’s

framed picture all day.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Backyard views

Backyards take me back

to childhood fears

spectral ghosts, blood dragons

and masked kidnappers

lurking behind trash cans

dismissed and labelled

irrational, nonsensical

Indulgence in fantasy

That was then

Older, when I claimed to see

an illuminated asteroid

circling above the wooden fence

They all turned a deaf ear

“Again, her imagination running wild”

floated to my ears

I stood transfixed behind the curtain

shaking in fear

How could I make them hear?

The low wheezing hum

like bees inside a metal drum

Then came the wind

a spiral, silent, chilling

And with a sighing hiss, it opened its eye

gobbling up the grazing cattle,

gentle and unaware, lifted in slow arcs,

legs twitching in stunned silence

their shapes vanishing into a silver mist

Branches bent in reverence

And the ground held its breath

By morning, the field was empty

no hoofprints, no cries

just circles burned into the grass

and a silence thick with knowing

Now, they watch me differently

whenever clouds pass, strange

Or dogs bark at the corners of the air

They whisper less and listen more

Because I saw and I still see

What they once called imagination,

now recognised as intuitive powers

***

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Ranjana Sharan

Ranjana Sharan Sinha

The So-Called Deadness

Stripped of their verdant attire,

leafless trees and bare branches

spread and stretch

skeletal fingers with nails stiletto:

The landscape whispers

a tale of solitude

wrapped in gloom.

Lost shapes and colours

have become metaphors of the past,

but even in seemingly lifeless state

secrets of renewal are buried

deep inside the trees:

Dreams of beauty and blossom,

echoes of verdure!

The cyclical nature

with changing seasons

create light and darkness--

Butterflies of happiness

and shadows of sorrow.

Stark trees endure and

wait with hope for

the return of spring:

Rejuvenation and rebirth!

Tanka-1

in a silent trance

stand the stoic trees in peace

deep stories to tell

mid a sea of yellow grey

complexness of existence

Tanka-2

the withered brown trees

silhouettes against the sky

life's fragility

the inevitable end

I muse on mortality.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Be a Guest

In silence, I watch the noisy world move past.

No one has time to stop, to lend an ear

To my chronicles of this world so vast…

A rudderless boat is what I now steer.

Creativity has long bid adieu

I am just a square peg in a round hole

Tough to keep pace in this fast-paced milieu

But yes, I'm not too far off from my goal.

Before long, the words will all come to rest

Bring eternal calm when peace stands up tall

Absence in presence proves a fruitful quest

Within folds, life’s tapestry has it all…

***

Tête-à-tête with a Gen Z

“Traditionally, Groundhog Day continues. People in the town gather to watch the groundhog emerge from its burrow. If a groundhog sees its shadow on a sunny February 2nd, six more weeks of winter will follow; otherwise, spring will come early...” Aunt Polly concluded.

Daniel, the Gen Z, gave a rather sarcastic smile. “Aunt Polly, is there any scientific proof of this? I believe it’s a rather quirky tradition, but it’s fun listening to your Gens’ serious discussions.”

Uncle Roger, who entered, quipped: “Daniel, your scientific questions have begun, eh?”

Daniel went on: “I just want to know if there is any proven data regarding this.” Or is it just another folklore that people trusted for centuries and like to believe it to be true?”

Patting him on the shoulder, Uncle Roger began: “Daniel, you’re entitled to your views.”

“The baby boomers and the earlier generations were fed with a lot of folklore, fairytales, fantasy, and legends. Although these tales may or may not have been true, they always showed respect for nature, animals, birds, and all beings; they often had a universal theme of good versus evil. We accepted without asking questions and developed logical thinking much later in life. Legends were connected to the locales around us and were meaningful to those who understood such environments and climes.”

“Look out! What do you see?”

Daniel peeped out through the curtained window.

“Some trees have shed their leaves; others are still green. There’s a sunny patch above. The ground is barren; some grass is still green o’er there. The ubiquitous squirrels and chipmunks aren’t seen, but I see a bird flying past in haste. Things appear dormant; some things are still vibrant…in the apparent dullness, there’s vibrancy.”

“Wonderful, Daniel! Hibernating mammals and dormant creatures conserve energy, and their activities slow down during the harsh cold season. While swallows, swifts, and songbirds fly down to warmer zones, the crows, hawks, sparrows, and cardinals have adapted themselves well to endure cold weather, they manage to find food.”

“While many of us revel in spending time indoors, with a book or gadgets, a few indulge in winter sports. I just came back from one of those events, you know. Aunt Polly, too, used to accompany me earlier.”

“Today’s the first of February, almost the midpoint between winter solstice and spring equinox. Tomorrow is the second of February. We’ll not be able to go and watch the ‘Punxsutawney Phil’s’ predictions, do you think we could be up early and see if any groundhog emerges from our garden?”

“Why not? That would be great,” replied Daniel.

“So, let’s retire early and be up at the crack of dawn. Else, we may miss our groundhog, if he chooses to make an appearance….”

***

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Sreelekha Chatterjee

Sreelekha Chatterjee

The Splendorous Sundown

Burnished gold of a red sunset,

the last beams hang low,

combing through the grey earth,

while the sky drapes in darker blue.

The sun wedges on the branches—

dead and bare—

as if a thought that refuses to leave,

entangles in the skeleton of my mind.

Inebriated of the misty glint,

the glory ready to die in the eventide,

memories of long-gone days

ring around, like a gust of wind

eddies and sways till a halting

attention serves a home out-and-out.

Peepers closed, the sun deliberates,

while my heart craves for

the scent of sun-warmed grass,

akin to a gale-spent boat

hugging the shore tight.

When the sun does peer,

I will slide open my door,

kindled in the rising light—

the birds will sing on branches green,

bees will hum a soothing tune,

copious flowers in the wind will bloom.

The twilight’s withering gleam

speaks of vernal due,

of lives endowed with

poesy, music, and light,

for every darkness augurs a dream.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Irene Emanuel

Irene Aarons (Pen-name: Irene Emanuel)

WATERWAY WONDER

Indolent waterways weave

along narrow canals,

soft-boiling bubbles circle fish-floats.

timeless brick-buildings

watch the languid water

clearing pathways for barnacled boats,

on which busy shadows

flick images at random;

somnolent sailors navigate

in timeless perfection,

forever frozen, facing

designated destinations

mapped centuries ago.

I sit on the bank

in peaceful contemplation;

as the waterways of my mind

course through the tapestry of my life.

***

RIVER OF RECALL

On a perfect day I sit by the river

and conjure up a recollection,

a vision of my father, an inept fisherman.

He went to fish, more for company than reward.

I see the two of them, Henek and Shmuel,

from the old countries, laughing and talking,

a morning of reminiscences,

bound together in common experiences.

On a perfect day, I sit under a tree

and visualize the misty gray smoke,

curling up from their pipes

as they sit in companionable comfort.

There were no expectations,

no quarrels, just a feeling that

all was right within their world.

On a perfect day I send my eyes into the past;

I remember that time of quiet living;

I am aware that those days were then

and even though I want to stay there

I haul myself back to the present.

On a perfect day I time-travel back

into ghost-places, where peace prevailed

and all was right within my world.

***

REFLECTIONS IN A GARDEN

My insignificance was magnified by an ant's journey across the path on which I was about

to walk. I was mesmerised by the ant's dedication to his task. It was obvious that his duty was to transport a piece of food to Head-quarters. I wondered about the time-lapse

between leaving and returning; when he left, did he know he'd return or did he prepare his family for his death? Was he aware of the dangers as he ventured forth? He could be killed by a passing shoe or drowned in a water-puddle. He could be swooped on and devoured; he faced danger on every level but he still forged ahead; triumphantly bearing his food. He was not diverted, he kept to a set route.

I contemplated human behaviour and why we are always vacillating from path to path; why we set goals and promptly side-step them when the going gets tough?

-----------------

On a glorious day, I stood on a green grass-patch and spoke to Him. Right off the bat, I asked myself why I assumed I was talking to a "Him"? What if "Him" was a "Her" or a flowing mixture of persona? Conditioning was the reason for gender choice but why?

That moment I really wanted to find out why there were so many evils around us; if "He" was all-seeing/all-hearing, why was the entire world on a path of destruction? A reply stifled my thoughts; "Foolishly, I gave humans the ability to make their own decisions and I have regretted that ever since."

So, we have brought this lousy state of affairs down onto our own heads, I coughed, blushed and went inside.

--------------------

Rowdy, raucous, ribald; rolling rapid squawks of rudeness as they fly. The iconic

Hadeda clamours for attention in triplicate. They seem to appear in trios and on this grey day, there they stood, majestically preening gun-metal grey feathers, impervious to the

soft drizzle landing on the pool water. Why do Hadedas form groups of three? Is it a quirk

of Nature or a designed set? One male, two females ---- a small harem; an insurance

against a time of death; a spare wife ensuring survival of the species.

With purposeful struts, iridescent sheen glinting through the greyness, their prehistoric

beauty remains timeless. Unfazed by humans, cats or dogs, they communicate via

tuneless hada-esque melodies, lifting their ungainly bodies skywards and I am fascinated.

------------------

As I was sweeping the patio, I got to musing about the bird feathers that litter the patio. How many feathers and bits of fluff would it take to make another bird? Then I started on the amount of seeds that the feathered beasties scatter everywhere and I wondered if a seed-tree would manifest itself onto the patio? At this point, I realised that I was muttering to myself and a sparrow was regarding me with a quizzical eye. I went indoors and made tea (should have added a drop of Vodka) hoping to calm myself. Then I worked on a crossword puzzle and deliberated no more.

---

A Wagnerian Opera takes place in the garden. The squalling is appalling and produced by Coco (the cat from Number 7) and a ginger UN-neutered male (I have named him Nigel), who has found that my garden is a smorgasbord of birds and insects; there is also a bird-bath which provides fresh water and Nigel thinks that he has found cat heaven. Coco is determined to let Nigel know that this is his garden and he has no ticket to enter. So the two main leads, Tenor and Baritone regale each other with harsh words and cruel cat-calls.

I am grateful that this opera does not feature a rollicking chorus as I have no idea whether the neighbours have a penchant for opera. I rush outside, collect Coco, bring him inside and close the cat-flap. The opera continues through the glass and I turn the volume up on my radio.

------------

Follow the evidence. That's what I did the morning I woke up to dove feathers scattered all over my little garden patch. I picked each one up carefully, gently, so as to grant them reverence in death. I collected at least twenty proper feathers, it was hard to pick-up the fluffy bits. I did a survey of the garden, would the culprit emerge? Later that day, Coco came to the door; he did look a tad guilty, not surprising as he had fluff at the side of his mouth; mud on his paws and some spots of blood on his fur. The serial killer had struck again, the case was solved.

------

The rains fell steadily, the garden service would not arrive. My garden rejoiced by blooming everywhere. Three tomato plants became six overnight. The Delicious Monster spread out and embraced the weedy lawn, it also gathered many other small plants under it's protection. Weeds sprang up and produced dainty yellow flowers and the real grass grew exponentially. As I watched this growing phenomenon, I noticed little white flags dotted around, waving wildly--- the sparrows were lost in the overgrowth and were surrendering. Obviously my mind was being tricked by Nature, who always has a sense of humour.

--------------

There was a party of pigeons on the roof of the house next door. I counted ten in a row and wondered if they were plotting a coop(Coup de Grace), they sat orderly, neatly, all facing towards the West. How long would they stay? Suddenly, an harassment of Hadedas ( Endemic to South Africa ) came raucously flying past; the pigeons took off in a superb choreographed ballet of wings.

And the silence descended. I looked towards another section of grass and was overjoyed to see that the sparrows were still pecking busily at possible crumbs.

Oh, the pleasure of the birds encircle me in a blessed warmth of life and song.

***

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Meghna Kaul

Meghna Kaul

Meghna is a teacher by profession , loves to read and write. She composes poems and writes short stories. She loves to write on nature and celebrates simplicity of life. She has written reports and articles for TOI. She is currently residing in Lucknow.

Beyond The Fence

I always try to peep beyond my reach, a sense of unknown, untread, unvisited mesmerizing the regular rut of life, like the clock that ticks unnoticed though measuring the immeasurable time, that slips like the smooth sand escaping my palm beyond the fence, the wide expanse

beckoning a mystery

a sense of surrender to the supreme master

the world is a stage and past is the glass beyond which there is eternity

the grey sky is the silence

that precedes the first dew of the morning

the gossamer shed

a mystic call

the petals uncurl

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Baijnath Gupta

Baijnath Gupta

The Spectral Hosts

The party season is over

And the leaves, like guests, have bidden farewell

To the trees hosting them.

Their palate being satiated,

Their dance to the cadence of Zephyr

being over,

Lost still in the verdurous dreams,

They plodded their purple way

Back home.

The vacant verdant hall

And a drab yellow bulb

Hanging from a grey wall

Ask the spectral hosts,

"Where are your green guests now?"

The pallid lips of the hosts move

And seem to say,

"The guests go to where a generous buffet is arranged for them

By the nouveau hosts."

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Laksmisree Banerjee

Laksmisree Banerjee

1. GREY YEARNING

Out of the box the universe lives with me

A reality more mesmerizing

than a dream- sparkle---

Encased in my glassy shell

an intangibility hard to trespass

I see soaring innocence

Yearning hands of prayer

Upward motions of sacredness and desire

Children seeking eternity

With peals of laughter

Fragrant whorls of incense

Moving upwards to touch

The azure bending to kiss---

Dry twigs have undergone

Transcreation of souls

Now nascent and pure in

The play of outstretched baby hands of jubilation

Soon they will break the boundaries

When limitless space will bring harvests of corn

Dense foliage will spread velvet verdure

The rejoicing children of multihues will giggle

The walls and fences will fall apart

And the land, sky and sea converse in untarnished mirth----

I know for sure the rains will come soon

The drenched empyrean will mingle with the children

In a new age of noble youthfulness

And I will break open my glass cage

To ballet with the mellow sun-soaked showers

To let my heart sing till infinity

Songs of the good earth

And let baby leaves and grass grow in abundance---

***

2. HOPE

we live in huts and hovels

across that untouchable horizon

fences are redundant with

windy gusts of remorse

awaiting spring

the pathways to our cubby holes

have clusters of half-axed trees

forming a community of minimalism

bare landscapes revel in bonhomie

shrubs and bristles along highways

hug, stretch and hanker for company

for that greenery of kind socialism

for that foliage of untarnished love

the parched earth wails with moist tenderness

as brittle twigs lie with still to be born babies

the cloudless skies celebrate life in death

with the arrival of watery whirlwinds

a patient watch proclaims sudden silence

of the mortuary wrapped in brown about to rise

a coffin cloth of cruelty is a sign of

plundering as the grey sky relents

that jaundiced orb in the sky proclaims

rejuvenation with a fast approaching festival

Of awakening....

***

3. BEAUTY OF TRUTH

This day benediction is a far cry

scrambles through light and shade

The skeletal limbs outcry

In tired movements

Stretched beyond

The invisible horizon

Blazing with love and hate----

Here is a slivered world

Days like nights of gold and silver

Sun masquerading half- nude

As the amorous moon

Scrawls across in perfidy

With aridity sucking out life

In shrivelled fog of dusty skies----

The barricades harsh still

Assert their supremacy

Though hills and greens

Herald with thrills from afar

The egg in the sky drips

With hope of better days

Echoing still the beauty of truth---

Oval pallid may perhaps turn vermillion

As dreams of love swim to soothe zillions!!

***

Bio: Laksmisree Banerjee is a Multiple-Award winning Poet, University Professor of English and Cultural Studies, International Scholar and a Vocalist. Widely published and anthologized she has Twelve Books of Poetry and several research cum academic publications. She believes in the potency of her Pen and Voice for Socio-Cultural Transformations.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Roopam Chadha

Roopam Chadha

Contemplation

The air is still, around the bare trees

Bereft of nests, and emerald greens

They once flaunted, during the spring and summer

The pallid sun, wakes up from its winter slumber

The park is lonely, lingering with sorrow

The homes are empty, a void too big to swallow

The dew in the grass, sits fresh for days

No feet run on it, no footsteps to chase

The glass window, witnesses the solitude and despair

The ochre leaves fall, after they have lived their share

The silence is deafening, after the evening gloom sets in

The ears crave, for the din of the kin

The wind is cold and dense, a whispering melancholy

The gnawing loneliness, yearns for company

Which filled the house, with guffaws and bonhomie

If winter is harsh, then spring will be balmy

Bio: Roopam Chadha is a Delhi-based, award winning bilingual poet. She has received an award for her debut anthology ’And the Canaries Sing On’ from ‘Autism for Help Village Project Trust” (2021). She has also won the best English collection award for her second anthology ‘Blushing Candles’ from The Literary Warrior Group at Sahitya Akademi New Delhi (2023). She is also a recipient of Bharat Awards for literature (2025). Her poems share space in several national and international anthologies.

Setu, May 2025

Special Edition: Sankha Ranjan Patra

Sankha Ranjan Patra

When Heart Feels

When heart feels

Useless to live in own sorrow,

Pleasure only in seclusion.

Where in the still sky the sun shines

In the absence of rainy days,

And enough condolences sunshine.

Where Storms will not collaborate

With desperate winds,

Where birds will not collaborate

With desperate clouds.

When heart feels

Useless to live in the crowd,

Who wants not?

A lonely abode far from the noise,

Where leafless trees talk with rays

After shedding tears.

Where each beating will not

pretend

To be compatible in false cry,

Where each winking will not pretend

To be compatible in fake shy.

When heart feels

Useless to be singing in thinking

A melancholy song,

Better to learn about a place

Maybe a source of solace,

Better to turn around a page

That might be in life

And that kind of peace

Must be a kind of such

Blissful beauty of nature.

When heart feels

Useless to be sinking in thinking

All day long,

Better to run towards a place

Known to few unknown people,

Better to turn to heaven

That might be on earth

And that kind of haven

Must be a kind of such

Blissful beauty of nature.

When heart feels

Useless to share own sorrow

With living entities of the world,

When heart feels

Useless to care other's sorrow,

Better to be an individual

Like the deepest lake

Losing way on the land,

Like the farthest isle

Losing way on the sea.

***

Bio: Sankha Ranjan Patra is a poet and author. He belongs to India. He writes in English, Bengali and Hindi. His published books are Muse, Mute, All About Love and Borsha. Muse and Mute are poetry books in English. All About Love is a novel in English. Borsha is a poetry book in Bengali. He has contributed for many anthologies and magazines. He has been honoured by different literary societies.

Setu, May 2025