A Poems by Sourav Roy ( HindI)

Slumbering Daughter

My lap,
A rising sea.

Your curious eyes,
Fishes from the deep sea
Afloat, braced to fly,
In their playfulness
The Moon
Not, but a rattling toy.

Your arrival was no poem;
I shivered
A lone stalk of grass
Awaiting a downpour,
A stranger in my city
Running blind
On potholed roads
On the birthing bed
Beyond those faraway clouds.

Eighteen hours of labour
And your crown appeared
The most pure and delicate of all things
A face resolute
Snuggled in soft linen
Brimming with milk
Voicing burps and hiccups
Growing fast
You look at me sidelong
Then grab my finger as if to ask
My name.

My heart
A tree has sprouted;
Your footprints, like butterflies flutter on my sleeves.
Coos and gurgles, you tell me -
What the djinns desire
In tales of magic,
That without losing tears
Is the way to cry,
That on this rugged earth
My lap is a cozy spot.

Unflinching eyes
On a bouncing head;
Twirling all ten fingers
You conjure up a time machine
Dozing off

Like wet soil
In my hands
Your sleep is etched.

(Translated by - Vidya Bhandarkar)

(More poems by Sourav Roy)


The birth of an artist or

pregnancy stretch marks

And her yet unborn
baby in her womb
drew the tree of life
on her belly's skin.
It was the first artwork
of this human entity.


The mind was off but worked.
Made pearl jewelry,
traveled by train,
talked to you,
ate fruits,
chased squirrel,
picked flowers,
became tired
and then woke me up.

(More Poems by EDINA BARNA)

A Poem by Shanta Acharya


The world may appear to be your oyster,
remember it is not yours to keep or conquer.

You may never discover why you are here,
if you have a special place in the universe.

There may be planets inhabited by creatures
infinitely more intelligent and conscious than us.

By the time you figure out most things you believed
in are flawed, half a century will have disappeared.

Things change faster than you can imagine,
leaving you running in the same spot quick as you can.

No point in prising open your priceless treasure
with a sword, nothing worth having is won by force.

Build therefore your own world. If you start early
you might learn to make a home of it eventually.

Explore the vast continents of yourself –
nothing in this world is real, nothing more real than you.

From What Survives Is the Singing to be published by Indigo Dreams Publishing, UK; 2020.

(Poem in three parts by Shanta Acharya )

A Poem by  by Hemant Divate ( Marathi)

Translated from the Marathi by Mustansir Dalvi

While I check my e-mail
While I check my e-mail
My wife watches Koi Apna Sa
My son plays with his GI Joes
My father is in the hall, watching ETV
My mother peers through the peephole
glaring at the comings and goings from the lift

While I read the newspaper
My wife is prattling on her mobile phone
My son is engrossed in Cartoon Network
My father has his head in a bucket, inhaling steam
My mother holds a vigil by the window
waiting for the maid

While I am not at home
My wife sends me an SMS: “i ms u”
My son keeps calling on the phone: “What are you
doing, Baba? Come home!”
My parents have quarrelled
so I am informed on my return
and that the talkative maid
has put in her notice, and left

(More poems by Hemant Divate )

A Poem by  Zingonia Zingone

The Shulammite

I hear that you write Poetry
Your face stamped on the cover
Your name anchored to a newspaper
Column in the gutter,
Dressed in air you dance
Verses over calamities
Untouched by stench
An open-petal Sufi
Oozing arcane words
Arousing frenzies
As the Earth
Struck by bombs and barbarity
Fades away.
Why are you a poet, Milady?

Between mist and sundown
I am an incipient fragment lost in time,
My eyes, doves
That carry in the beak
Peace of flight
Towards lands deprived
Of the primal Word,
For I am the beloved of my Beloved
Word of his Word
In the feathered inkwell,
My parchment, a flowerbed
Receiving verses
From his breath

Hearing you will hear
Yet shall not understand,
Seeing you will see
And not perceive…
For I am a tuberose
Bloomed in deserts of progress,
A mirofore
Holding the fragrance of her Beloved:
So ancient yet new, inspiration

Woe to men
Mighty at drinking wine…

I put aside lovers and wine
I knock down The necklace-wrapped tower,
Nothing is left
Of she that I was

Pacified by the Unknown
And seated at His shade
I receive the effusion

I write
Not knowing why

( More poems by Zingonia Zingone)

A Poem by  Francoise Roy

Flock of one

…your sheep that were wont to be so meek and tame, and so small
eaters, now, as I heard say, be become so great devourers and so
wild, that they eat up, and swallow down the very men themselves.
—Thomas More, Utopia

It was so white.
Freshly shorn,
seemed as if they had removed
cottony clouds,
and about a foot of him had fallen,
defeated by its own weight.
In it pupils shone
a lake surrounded by reeds,
a body of water
embedded in the gentle hand of evening.

But they came, mostly women.
No one noticed
when the fluffy tail grew a stinger,
the bleating tongue split in two,
and the snowy fur began to grow scales
between misty tangles of hair.

No one noticed.

(More poems by  Francoise Roy)

A Poem by Siddheshwar Singh ( Hindi)


I wish to write a poem on water
My language should become fluid
It should be collected
In various vessels used by the ancestors
So that the words be saved from withering
The paper remains moist
And the handwriting should retain a polite dampness

I, with all my might
Call out to the rivers and oceans
Evoke the clouds
Cajole the ponds and lakes
Invite the falls
May they appear as a sentence complete
And may the poetic action reach its culmination

The water is still stagnating somewhere
It is another matter that we built many dams
Carved out evergreen canals
Stomped at and melted the glaciers
Bottled large lakes
Brought them to the bazaar
And lost the Shane if eye by turning into vapour

A limitless thirst is spread all over this Earth
The fertile area of poetry
Turns into a desert day by day
I contemplate
And get afraid of the approaching sounds of that day
When a word like water
Will survive only in an idiom
We will shamelessly
Keep using it to form sentences
And shall be considered/proclaimed a successful poet.

(More poems by Siddheshwar Singh)

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