Poems published in March 2014


a poem by Anupama M

The elephant headed Ganesha
Also known as Vinayaka
Is the cute li’le son of Shiva-Parvati
And is known to remove all misery.
He is the one who’s worshiped first
Though he has a stomach that could burst!
He is the most loved God of all
With a horde of ‘Bhoothaganas’ waiting for his call.
Around his stomach, a serpent he has tied,
As though it were a belt anyone would’ve tied!
His ears are as big as they could be
And he eats enough ‘Modakas’ to fill the sea!
He ne’er steps out without his ‘Vahana’
The great ‘Mooshaka’ in all its splendour.
For the sake of a mango, he competed against his brother
And ultimately won by going around his father!
He really is very smart
And has a very very huge heart.
He will give you whatever you want,
Provided you give him all the sweets he wants!!

The Human Diary

a poem by Abha Gupta

I walked this earth for a million years
I grew to learn to kill love and hope; what makes man a man

The next I learnt to kill my heart;
people would laugh at me

I spent half my life yearning for more:
the other half crying over what I have.

The rest will be trying to be with people;
and the last to die dissatisfied.


a poem by Asheesh Sharma

The bare truth of life is money,
It’s the running authority governing the whole humanity;
Money begets money is implied,
But generating money is not so simplified;
Money is a magic-
One has to live to have money,
The other has to die to save money;
Money knows neither religion nor any season,
But it’s is imposing to have some incurring reason;
Money is a Science to predict,
Is an art to depict;
Zenith of success depth of failure,
Since it is fascinating, has power to lure;
Money is a conundrum-
One acquires sense when loses money,
Other loses sense when gets money;
Money makes discrimination among poor and rich,
Since it has a high degree of pitch;
Money has colours-
Colour of romance, colour of chance;
Colour of starvation, colour of cultivation;
Colour of merriment, colour of harassment;
Colour of passion, colour of depression;
Money is a turncoat-
It changes with the party,
Leaves one in the lurch,
Gets other into the church;
Still, money is something but not everything,
You can buy anything but neither love nor the spring.


a poem by Priya James

I came into the world, with a cry in my lips,
I knew not anyone, only they knew me,
They became my dears.
I grew up, a cry still my favourite, it shattered their peace,
But I gleamed at the glory it endowed upon me.
They dressed up and left me,
They were busy and I messed up,
They replaced themselves and I missed them.
I met the toys, the power of money.

They taught me the first four letters,
Then the stick ran down my flesh.
Education wounded me,
As they put me the race for money.

They engaged my list of friends,
Then I blued in loneliness.
Friends wounded me,
As they joined the race for money.

They moulded my career,
I experienced the agony of discrimination.
Pride wounded me,
I experienced the power of money

They built the steps for their ambition,
I failed my duties.
Life wounded me,
As I joined the race for money.


a poem by Tapas Chakraborty

Flying lizards motor-raced
From one tree to another
As we made love
after war over identities.

She, Sonamuni Bui,
a Ho-tribal woman
Me, “diku”, an outsider in their language,
Actually a drifter with nothing to lose,
In pursuit of an elusive dream,
on the run with a stolen assault rifle,
As the police are, after me in
“operation anaconda”.

Shadows grew tall over seven hundred hills
At dusk- fall
as a volcanic love bubbled up
within us
Under the leafy
Saranda’s Kiriburu Loyall.
Isn’t escape from home an aphrodisiac?

Out on the hills, from somewhere deep inside its tectonic movement
Identities had clashed once in Kolhan uprising
Bathing hills with blood
but love is beyond history.

As we rolled on the grass in our naked game,
heady on haria and mahua,
the local brew,
I burrowed inside her
and she cried: “Diku Love”,
ripping through the silence of the hill.
Over with it,
her mind begins to drift as I picked up the rifle,
she cried:
“What can you do except kill, loot and get us pregnant?”

She missed a deeper conspiracy though,
Bagger 288 bucket wheel excavators
Hollowing out
Ore rich hills,
Gouging its womb out
for metals
noise of drilling machines
baying for Nature’s blood.
When everything is blurry, who is able to see face in the mirror?
(bullet ridden body of the speaker in this poem
was found later in jungles of Saranda in 2011)