I am a river
glistening in your sunny love
flowing in a dream
where we are a miscible solution
eddying in canoodling
2 (David L O'Nan)
Thunderstruck and downpours came
The next day after an engorged full moon
Breathing heavy, the air belted against the Himalayas
‘caused the belladonnas to be caught up in the fishnets.
And I walk down after another night of taunting silhouettes.
I feel the rain through every speck of light.
I see the river overflowing the streets soon –
To meet my first and second doorstep as I-
Wait to dip my foot in the filthy liquid from the comfort
The comfort, of my third doorstep.
And just cry there buddy, no backbone, no light
And just dream yourself a small suicide that’ll never be so bright.
And cast yourself a ghost before you’ve even spoken about all your sins.
Even if you watch me cut away, you’ll say I’m just gaslighting and will
Run, run away. To sit on a doorstep. Like a wet leaf stuck in the sewer grate cover.
I’m just inventing myself a new vision to go from mind to mind.
To read your mind. I don’t know if I can. The flashes are too quick to bind
Together, I’m just sitting back and listening to Ian Curtis singing
“I put my trust in you” “I put my trust in you” “in you” “in you”
I can follow the predator to his shaking bones and catch him behind a super-church
Brass-knuckles wait in a pocket. Is that what it’ll take to make this eyelid wish come true.
6 David L O'Nan (first 2 lines) Spriha Kant (next 3 lines) David L O'Nan (last 2 1/2 lines)
Third step, my home.
I can fade into anything I want. When I’m in my lonely bones.
Utopian curtains bared eyes
Blurred hopes flared eyes
Silence glared ambitions
I just stare back towards the panic park wanting silence,
the bird he hollers.
Through the trees and threatens me, casually and I vision my demise.
Ease down to the 2nd step
The river dried away, the rain stops to another town, for another meal
Getting closer to the tackle, the sociopaths in the battlefields
They wait behind minivans now and bounce around forgetting that
Wars are won by artillery, cannons, and fists. Not the beats within a mix.
First step, all dry now
The worms are drying and stuck in tulip petal straitjackets.
I heard the whispers (the sirens) that the circus was in town.
I watched it unravel with teargas and billy clubs
We were all just tigers growling equality through the megaphones.
We were the ones who were let down.
Sunshine brings in more clouds.
Bio: K.S.Subramanian, India has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India. His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi.
He is a retired Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu and lives in Chennai. His poems and short stories have appeared in several web sites, anthologies published at home and abroad.
Aging with Grace?
Ease into the evening of life,
a time honoured idiom;
Grey hairs alone do not uncover
the valley of wisdom.
As your bones feel the tremors,
you inch away from the whirlpool
of emotions; Doesn’t the world
change faster than the batting
of an eyelid?
You are a cloud of the Past,
shrinking in memory as time
ticks by; Soon the cloud is gone!
The new generation, on a tenuous
toehold, speaks a language
that waltzes over mind;
A bridgewide gap or a mouse trap?
You have reached a stellar stage when
what happens is only a happening;
It may anger or please but is
only a passing of breath, no more.
Growing old is refining the gild of memory.
To live life all over again
Let me not do a U turn
of my neck to see the past.
Skill sets that lost their sheen in time,
high hopes slithering down a slippery slope
and scorned by ingrate times that
sang an ode to Darwin.
Warm a pedigreed chair with emaciated stare,
or a rickety one unfit for your pedigree.
My chagrined inner voice said
“Fruit is not the milestone, karma is”
Me, fellow mortals, were never shy
of bending our backs, cerebral sparks
that lighted many, pleased a few.
But landed as always where destined
with a sickening thud and inner nudge
“this is not what you strove for….”
Soon days wove into burdened years
when stars shone less in a dark dawn,
my own halo eclipsed in the oblivion.
An old raging song that stirred the chords
of a crowd lost suddenly in the eerie!
Years later had an awkward timbre
when resung on a changed string!
I sense the new faces, old hopes
straining to carve a frame, new light!
I go back to my dusky sky, see where I
slipped amid the stars which shone once.
Portrait of my mother
Beneath those solemn eyes quiver
the vague outlines of a dim past.
The early days when she was just
a marriageable burden;
Heart was bland in a milieu of
unbroken tension, gripping scrutiny.
The early outpouring of natural warmth
brimmed on the day of wedlock;
The pulse trembled, like the unfurling
wings of a bird, for a maiden takeoff;
Soon calmed down, it never came
failed her like a distraught monsoon.
Now caught on a new wave of bond,
love for her offsprings, soothing
the pulse in pleasure, not peace!
But the beat, low-keyed, stayed.
Strapping and restless, they have grown
with a distinct tone of their own;
She has found the chords no more
in her power, salty moments of disgust,
ashy distaste recur.
Bonds might crack, wither
away in Time’s journey;
But I find her eyes, somber and ready.
A discarded cloth
A discarded cloth winks from a corner
awaiting the final shove to its fate.
In a few years it lost its sheen, hubris
whittled away by wear and tear.
It played host to its owner for a time
braving the nuances of vagabond weather -
rain, soaking heat or embalming chill.
It knew Time had nothing to reclaim.
Its owner, ever short of care or foresight,
was too besotted with his daily chores –
building a life out of the visible avenues.
No thought to spare for a cloth’s plight.
Its clever design or artful artwork is
a contrivance for only a passing notice.
A shred of beauty awaits its own twilight.
The owner’s day too awaits the hearse.
Its prankish wink was lost on the owner.
After all age is only a fading number.
I hear the slow footfall of New Year
whispering sweet tidings.
“Place hope on a rising swell,
Keep out the ides of the dark.
I come on the back of every
Rolling cycle, see through the
Layered tissues of pain and joy –
Let the clouded days leave no trace,
Verdurous moments refresh a memory
of the smell of spring and ever
out to undress a new haven.
The morrows always have a mystery,
Like the cusp of a coconut.
Stellar orbits feel no fatigue.
I have seen them too, often wondered.
If they don’t why would one
whine about the roll of the cycle?”
The footfall is close to the ear now.
Tip-toed by a joyous ring tone.
Q1 When did you start writing and who influenced you the most now and currently?
I started writing at a very tender age. Writing poetries is in my genes.
I was highly influenced by “A Retrieved Reformation” by O. Henry, and “The Necklace” by Guy De Maupassant for the very first time.
Many beautiful poetic gems are influencing me currently, including, Helen Laycock, Jeff Flesch, PS Conway, Gabriela Marie Milton, Chris Papps, Charlie Bott, Ann Bagnall, Darryl Lovie, KP DeLaney, Sharon Toman, David L O’Nan, HilLesha O’Nan, Lily Maureen O’Nan, Strider Marcus Jones, Jamie Kovalsky, Tricia Sankey, Swarn Gill, Daniel Cummings,Bethany Samaddar, Virginia Mateias, Punam Saxena, Kushal Poddar, Stuart Matthews, Dawn Serbert, and the list still has many more left to name….
The way the beautiful poetess Camellia recites poetries as a nightingale influences me a lot.
The frankness of J.D. Greyson that flows in her soft voice is too influential for me.
Online literary journals, blogs, and websites also influence me a lot,
currently, Move Me Poetry, Spillwords, Fevers of Mind, Poetry, &Art,
Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Eunoia Review are on the list.
I love the way Move Me Poetry brings out many exciting things with it regularly, especially its “Teach Me Tuesday”, “Move Me Poetry Battles”and “Daily Drop”. It is a convivial community of poetic gems that influences me a lot.
Q2: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?
Spriha: There’s no such pivotal moment as I have always seen myself in four different forms since the very beginning – an author, a musician, a painter, and an underwater diver, or if none of them then I wish to be born as a mermaid. I desire to be born as a mermaid. Whenever I become upset and/or stressed, then my heart
writhes badly to live as a mermaid
Q3: Who has helped you most with your writing and career?
Spriha: I have inherited writing from my parents so obviously, there have been full-fledged support and guidance from my parents. My younger sister has always been supportive of me in each aspect.
However, the main twist occurred in my life when Mr. Prabhu Joshi appeared in my life. He had a master’s degree in English literature and had a special study on the Structural Grammar of English Poetry. He always used to insist me and my parents to never stop reading and writing poetries. He always used to praise me for my work. He used to give me suggestions whenever I used to share my poems with him and many extra pieces of advice too. He also used to tell me to start reviewing books with my free mind. After his untimely demise, Stuart Matthews gave me space in his book “Sing, Do the birds of Spring”. Then, the founder and editor of the Fevers of the Mind, Poetry, and Art featured me in his two consecutive books
at a global level. The prestigious author Helen Laycock gives me suggestions with logic on my poetries posted on my Twitter handle. So, I think that these three authors have helped me in evolving as an author because one can not become confident enough till one is not published and the person starts evolving as an author at a serious level when he/she starts publishing, in my opinion.
Q4: Where did you grow up and how did that influence you? Have any travels influenced your work?
Spriha: I grew up in Indore, India. Indore has no role in influencing me in any aspect as it is known for its foodie nature, Malvi language which is the local language of Indore, carefree nature, and many other traits from all which I have remained untouched and unaffected.
Yes, my two travels have influenced my work. My first online published poetry “The Seashell”, published in Imaginary Land Stories on August 8th, 2020 by Sunmeet Singh, is influenced by Cross Bill Beach Resort in Havelock, Andaman Island, and by the Havana Beach in Kerala. While spending a few days with my family in Cross Bill Beach Resort, a romantic story whirled in my head which was
influenced by the beach, the sand, the seashells, the foreign couples and lovers basking in the sun nearby the beach, and many other things over there. The metaphor “pearl” that I used in my poetry “The Seashell” came to my mind from one of my funny incidents at Havana Beach. I was chilling with my family there in my pearl beaded top and leggings. While dipping into the waves of the beach, one
of the pearls from my top fell into the beach, and then when I took the second dip, I got that pearl. On getting that pearl, I suddenly went mad and kept on shouting in the excitement that I discovered a pearl from the waves of the beach, despite being insisted by everyone that the pearl was from my top that fell into the waves of the beach till my mother shouted at me in anger. One of my quotes, “A person with physical beauty lacking insight is like a seashell without a pearl” is influenced by this incident.
Q5: What do you consider the most meaningful work you've done creatively so far?
Spriha: I have not become satisfied with my work in any aspect yet. I feel the need to learn and explore more about poetries. I still feel the need to delve deeper into poetries.
Q6: What are your favorite activities to relax?
Spriha: Cycling, Calligraphy, doodling, reading and writing poetries, and reviewing poetries.
Q7: What is a avorite line/stanza/lyric from your writing?
Spriha: The lines/stanzas/lyrics from my writings that are my favourites are:
1) The last line from my poetry “The Seashell” --- “Swim with me till those streamlines where there’s no trace of the sea shore and I will submerge and breathe in them with you as a mermaid till eternity.”
2) A few words from an untitled micro piece that I wrote in Move Me Poetry Battle on Twitter ---“Kaleidoscopic dreams float like amorphous clouds”
3)My quote “A person with physical beauty lacking insight is like a seashell without pearl.”
4) The words from an untitled piece that I wrote in Move Me Poetry Battle on Twitter:
“No, she is not stubborn.
Rather, she is
as vulnerable as
a fire in the water
dare to rebel
her heart’s voice."
5) The words from my poetry, “The Black Hole”, published in the anthology book,
“Bare Bones Writings: Issue 1”, “Hair like a hanging vine naturally burnished in ebony wood texture” and the last few words of the poetry “she is in the black hole where poverty rules”
Q8: What kind of music inspires you the most? What is a song or songs that always come back to you as an inspiration?
Spriha: My bond with music is with my soul.
A few songs that always come back to me as inspiration are:
1) “Fire Ever Living” and an album “Antithesis” composed by Alexandros Hahalis
2) “Raazi” composed by Shankar Ehsaan Loy and sung by Arijit Singh
3) A few songs composed by Amaal Mallik including “Besabriyaan”, sung by Armaan Malik, “Jeetne Ke Liye”, sung by Krishnakumar Kunnath, “Parwah Nahi”, sung by “Siddharth Basrur”, and “Zindagi Aa Raha Hoon Mein”, sung by Atif Aslam. His Bollywood album “Saina” inspires me the most and is closest to my heart.
Q9: Do you have any recent or upcoming projects that you'd like to promote?
Spriha: Two of my pieces have recently been selected for the upcoming anthology of Move Me Poetry and it is slated to release on October 2023. I am happy to know this.
Bonus Question: Any funny memory or strange occurrence you'd like to share during your creative journey?
Spriha: No, just hoping that a funny incident in my writing journey adds to my memory in the future.
Spriha Kant is born in Indore, India, and resides there with her family. She developed an interest in reading and writing poetries at a very tender age. Her poetry "The Seashell" was first published online in the "Imaginary Land Stories" on August 8, 2020, by Sunmeet Singh. She has been a part of Stuart Matthew’s
anthology “Sing, Do the birds of Spring” in the fourth series of books from #InstantEternal poetry prompts. She has been featured in the Bob Dylan-inspired anthology “Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan” by the founder and editor of the website Fevers of the Mind
“David L O’Nan”. Her poetries have been published
in the anthology “Bare Bones Writing Issue 1: Fevers of the Mind”
2 poems by Spriha Kant from Hard Rain Poetry Forever Dylan AnthologyPoetry and stories inspired by the Red Tractor picturePoetry based on photography “The Lone Road to Moloka’I” from Maggs ViboBare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and KindlePoetry based on photography Challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 1
The Elixir Maker by Ajanta Paul is a compendium of twelve short stories. Each short story is written with contemporary sensibilities. The author leaves a nice caveat for the readers to note. Though art, in all its wealth, variety and boundlessness is grounded in life, in reality, the author considers art a part of that reality, as an embodiment of its essence by the human mind and thus is a certain sense actuality rising above reality.
Storm is a metaphoric digesis. Satyen, a man of Jadavpur, now living in New York. He is a geologist and teaches at the University there. He has recently visited the dense Peruvian jungle researching his latest project. He is a product of migration. In his recollection Satyen remembers crumbling arched-windows of his grandmother’s musty old house in East Pakistan by the side of Kirtan Khola river. .He and his youngest cousin sister Jhuma always accompanied their Grandma Shanti Devi. He has two aunts Lila and Khuku. One day women of the family were enjoying their afternoon. Suddenly a big gale lashed the house violently. Lashes of heavy rains and howling storms blew everything with its tooth and claw. Shanti Devi and others strove to save the crumbling house but instead lost one of her sisters, she being washed away by the dashing flood, never to be found again. This pathetic episode reached Satyen and with it came the bad news of separation with his wife and daughter. This pitiful state of his mind merges into the pathetic story of his defeated grandma. In parallel, his tale smacks of his grandma’s fall and Satyen crumbles like that of their ancestral house in East Pakistan. The author shows the nature’s fury, remaining out of reach of man. The storm stands out as metaphor here.
Author Ajanta Paul in her story Glass deals with the ambivalence of marriage. In the story the author examines whether in reality marriage means equality, liberty and freedom between the sexes. The “Second Wave feminist literature” in the West has opposed marriage in their writings panning the discrepancy of the sexes that exist in marriage. The story has Sulogna and Indra who are happily married couple with a son. They are a upper middle class urban family living in luxuries. including holding occasional parties at home. The narrative displays “complete foundation of each self” and how much Indra and Sulogna’s marital life is cosy. Angana, Sulogna’s sister, a fashionable woman, lives life in her own terms. Incidentally, a party is arranged drawing a flock of people of various hues. Sulogna is face to face with the guests. When Manish offers drink to Sulogna, Indra’s faith on Sulogna falters.
However, for the first time one realizes women’s freedom of choice and integrity is questioned. Incidentally, feminist Critics argue that “marriage continues to remain “an institution which contributes to the maintaining of traditional gender roles, thus preventing women from achieving social equality, and reinforcing the idea that women exist to serve men, which in turn increases the abuse of women”.
The Silenced Bell is another engaging story explored with logical trains. The story narrates the tale of a Bell in an old temple in a village. Sasanka Babu is the feudal lord of the old village. Nirmala is his wife who bears many children most of them girls. But Sasanka kills her girl children by thrusting “guava” into the children’s mouth which is caught by Nirmala. She protests against this brutality; since Sasanka Babu is a patriarch and feudal lord, he in a flare up throttles Nirmala. Following this ghastly event, the Bell of the old Temple stops ringing to the surprise of the villagers. The author takes a stand against “patriarchy” and notes the protest of time and Nature against the feudal lord making the Bell silent for ever. One gets a hint of a parable of sort, strong and ruthless.
In the story Fat Mamma, the author Ajanta Paul addresses the serious problem of “gendering” or gender bias in corporate sector with a touch of wit and humour. The story is a pointer to the fact that in Indian subcontinent gender discrimination is practiced not just in the family or the micro level of our society but such differentiation is also carried out in the society at large or to be evident at the macro level. The narrative of Fat Mamma not only fulminates tenebrous social parameters regarding women’s ability to compete on equal basis in social ambience but also considers it to be found in male bastion. In Fat Mamma’s office various male employees try and accommodate themselves mutually. Here the author reflects “boys will be boys”, despite the comfort and the fruit of their work that they enjoy. Manik is a catalyst out of the three main characters along with Mohan and Ashwin who can ballast topical reality in the narrative and make Fat Mamma look more humane and a person with empathy. The reader has a feeling that Ajanta Paul is writer with accurate insight and resilience and this makes her stories illuminating.
The next story Lawsuit brings us face to face to a crumbling of small family headed by Rana. Rana works in a multinational Company and his financial position keeps his three daughters and wife Deepu in upper-middle class luxury, But this state of smooth sailing gets disturbed due to Lawsuit brought against Rana by the cartel of big Barons of the company as he refuses to side with the big bosses in their corrupt deeds. He does not capitulate to threats. Under legal pressure, Rana loses his job; at the same time his wife Deepu gets alarmingly sick due to fluid in the heart. In the meantime, Rinki, Chumki and Mimi grow up and Chumki in particular graduates into lawyer and vows to help the poor being trapped in false court cases. Chumki in remembrance of her father Rana, takes up defense council to intricate the poor and helpless people trapped in false cases. Ajanta Paul as always stands by the defeatist and Chumki represents the author with ethics and legal insight that makes the Lawsuit a humanitarian tale of generation.
Author Ajanta Paul in her story Freedom upholds the tragic fate of people in partition between India and Pakistan and its cruel aftermath. But when it comes to India the freedom came with lot of bloodshed. During British imperialism, freedom achieved at the cost of communal loss and gory bloodshed. However, when in 1947 India gained freedom from the British empire, little did people know that post independent India would have to see many other divisions, intercultural and inter-caste conflicts. This partition could be said to be the greatest political upheaval in the political history of India. The critic and author Butalia recounts her experience; “thus memories of Partition, the horror and brutality of the time, the harkening back to an—often mythical—past where Hindus and Muslims and Sikhs lived together in relative peace and harmony”. Priti’s story falls in the same category. A quiet peaceful life suddenly succumbed to the evil forces of partition in the name of freedom and Priti’s personal loss of her son and brother-in-law while escaping from Pakistan to Delhi as refugees. Priti and her husband and daughters here confront a bizarre situation: In the ocean of milling crowd Priti lost her brother-in-law and her son Ravi. She is uncertain whether they could at all get off the train. She has strong surmise that mishap is in view and is tormenting, She happens to believe her accepted current life: “We settled in Delhi, made it our home..The girls grew up, married and now settled in the US”. The author traces the partition and its trauma with authentic tenacity.
In the Wayfarers the author follows a quaint narrative with a theme of journey in a bus full of passengers headed to Nityanandapur..In a crowded bus seats are filled. Samar by fluke gets a seat by the side of a co-passenger. Suddenly Samar starts spinning out tales of absurd nature acting a a rich baron. He fabricates absurd snippets of possessing wealth, money, big business and factories etc. While listening the phantasmagoric tales, the bus suddenly faces break down in the dusk. The passengers get frightened and disperse for shelter. Samar gets down and the co-passenger being jolted seeks help from Samar. He follows Samar for a night stay.. Being convinced Samar takes him and ambles a zig-zag stretch in the dark and reaches his oldish, broken hut. The co-passenger now realizes what Samar has narrated is only a fictive reality and gets disillusioned. The author presents a cacotopian mental state of the protagonist that not only engages the readers but also reveals how a penniless man could manufacture illusory tales to amaze us in a ruthless reality.
The story Escape narrates the life of Binu, a young boy. He assists his uncle Nandu in a tea stall on regular basis. It is by the side of Rly station at gate Seven.Trains arrive and leave as natural going of each day. The passengers arrive and many of them drop at the tea stall to sip, read newspaper and then drop out as always. Binu dislikes the job and often runs aways to travel in trains that arrive and leave. His uncle is not happy. One day Sarita, a teacher, arrives at the stall and she is requested by Nandu to give her nephew a fresh life. Sarita agrees and picks Binu for a new abode, a school. Binu who enjoys journey to explore people, nature and sights of wonder suddenly feels caged and his freedom to journey is cut off. Binu's life freezes into still. The writer quaintly explores the green mind of a boy for wonders in journey, arrival and departure of trains, is shown finally chokes and his desires stifled. It hints at our poor social system where desire to fly or ride on a journey gets stymied.
In Elixir Maker we get for the first time a tinge of “magic realism” from the author Ajanta Paul. Alok, painter by profession, discovers in the market how multiple kinds of scented juices allure people and affluent. On picking scented juice of bizarre kind, Alok feels wafted to the old mythic era in a flight of fancy, an era of rich Zamindars. He is enthralled by the sights, sounds and smells and changes to a queer person. The painter as an artist provides to a chieftain’s daughter scented potion/juice to relieve her father. To the contrary, Alok often receives sweet and cold water that slakes his thirst and puts him on different terrain. As a famous painter his works decorate many quarters in social platforms. In an illusion Alok visualizes Era, his wife, to offer him water in his exhausted state of wandering, tired, distraught, clapped out, and breathless.
The story in its meandering blends physical and fictive realties making it true in form. The author subtly has used her intellect and artistic resilience to make Elixir Maker, a work of “stream of consciousness” to provoke her readers to get the drift of meaning as hidden in the structure.
In her story Misunderstanding, Sheena takes the centre of focus for her undue misunderstanding of her husband Ravi. She grows skeptic about Ravi as he is often found talking over phone secretly that Sheena deems a rupture in relationship. Her doubt triggers separation in marriage. Days go by. In such manky doubt lies a greater truth unknown to Sheena. One day, Sheena comes to know that their baby is alive with “Musculoskeletal” abnormalities known as Crouzon syndrome. Such baby normally lives short. But in her case, Ravi clandestinely handed over the baby to a hospital for care and medical remedy. The baby is still alive and the truth is brought into light through a search of medical reports kept hidden in Sheena’s almirah. Both Sheena and Ravi curiously turn alive to the big revelation and the couple gets united due to “misunderstanding”. The way the story is sketched, it heightens the suspense and finally a great relief. The author has used her sharp insight to reveal a strange truth, very topical and alive.
The story Shifting narrates a little complex life of Mallika who is fed up with her seedy, musty house that belongs to her late father. Being Claustrophobic for a long space of time, She decides to shift from the very old house as she is sick of rusty memories of the past that makes her nearly frozen. Mallika seeks a new vista in her life and hence gets determined to purchase a new flat which she does.
Shifting involves a lot of labour and toil in the shape of loading unloading old furniture, junk domestic uses and sundry other things making it heavy for Mallika. In the Shifting Sanwar, the painter friend, introduces his artistic eye, colouring Mallika's flat with absolute mastery. Because of Sanwar, a painter of walls from village, makes the rooms look, vibrant, live and have a shade of chiaroscuro. All rooms breathe a fresh air and rhythm into Mallika's life. She is much enthused that she is able to accommodate Mahdi’s curlicued furniture made by him before he makes his departure for Middle East. Sharmistha and Mahdi friends of Mallika, separates after co-habitation for some time... While.Sharmistha goes to US to complete her PhD, Mahdi leaves for the middle East.
In a jumble of kicks, now Mallika re-discovers the meaning of life once she lost out of boredom and sticky anguish.
Chair is tale of multiple illuminating memories and nostalgic events, good bad and lustrous that hold the eminent academic institution ie the Women’s College its students of past and present are proud of. Incidentally, Chair represents the author herself, insightful, dynamic, innovative, creative marked by a halo of high, useful pedagogy; the process is that of teaching and learning. Nisha in her capacity sits in the Chair and navigates all official, educational activities, and governmental directives checking papers, documents, notices, letters of complaints and sundry other matters related to the College, Nisha presides over.
It may be mentioned here that this Chair has nothing to do with The Chairs by Eugene Ionesco, the famous French absurd playwright.
In the centre of focus stands out the Principal who is also required to guide the students to hold festivals galore: these are of various interests and being pursued till they pass out. Women’s College may not have glossy peels or gorgeous surface yet its eminence out-tops many in the field. Chair made of teak wood and Mahogany accommodates Nisha and inspires her to confront all challenges including bouquets and brickbats with equal ease.
The structure is set in a nifty reflection of the author through whose eyes the readers feel a kind of identity and wisdom of enlightenment never to fade out. A powerful short story that harks little but suggests much.
I write poems not only to
Release my inner hustles and bustles
But by each poem I want to
Reach someone or somewhere.
Life has given me numerous
Odds and evens and I too
Want to return Life something.
And I thought I can start with poems.
In my life I always wanted
To do all a woman can do.
I wanted to be a breadwinner
And a homemaker alongside.
I wanted to be a writer
And a lover sometimes.
I wanted to enjoy motherhood.
I wanted to be lifetime
Supports for many.
Life has given a lot of wounds
and all those are beyond repair.
I often wanted to pay them back
For I didn't want to save anything.
Yes! I started with poetry
And it paved my path towards
All those wish I made someday.
Bio- Tiyasha Khanra is a poetess and an author, lives in Kolkata, India. She has been published on International Times, Inkpantry, Innsaei Journals, Indian Periodical, Ode to a Poetess, Storymirror, Spillwords, The Lakeview Journals, Setu Magazine (forthcoming) and elsewhere. She is a bilingual poet and writes in English and Bengali only. She writes on Female issues, teenage psyche, Modern Issues, Urban crisis, Patriarchy and Christianity.
Wolfpack Contributor: Tiyasha KhanraPoetry showcase from Tiyasha Khanra