Joshnaa Banerjee

1.

The Lower lip is more flickering ….

The lower lip is more flickering
It leaps up to the teeth and burrows itself
As if a secret hinges on it
As if a gesture before a revelation
As if it is the first liking of a lover,
If touched, it should be touched first

Lower lip is more flickering
As if it is more notorious than rain, cloud and thunder
As if the upper lip is handicapped
And the lower lip holds all the reponsibilities of the upper lip,
As if a poet can address her beloved only with the help of the lower lip

Lower lip is more flickering
As if after emerging on the face, it is the most valuable one
Negating a fact that both the lips are equal
As if an introduction of the entire face
A sympathy for the upper lip
Portraying a favour that the lower lip balances the entire face

Lower lip is more flickering
As if the entire beauty of the face lies in the lower lip
If smiling, it pulls up the upper lip as well with it
As if a song of a sad girl
plays demon like lilith
plays love like an angel

Lower lip is more flickering
Playing both the roles day and night
Such a notorious like eroticism, anger, enchantment, ego and spell
The lower lip is more flickering.

2.

Air ….

Air
was like a lost letter,
like a settled law,
like a new popular poet.

Air
snatches our secrets like breath,
Even in tough days
keeps us alive.

Air
one day will snatch
me from you.

3.

I am the crack ….

Yes, I am the crack on the Earth
A crack through which passes insects
Kokum falls on me and shatters
Birds touch me with their beaks
Grasshoppers plays day and night

I am the crack
Noone shall stand and click my picture
I look like an eclipse on this beautiful Earth
Musicians shall not sing me a song

No shape, no tranquility
No happiness, no despair
Nothing here,
Only an ugly crack

O Lover,
Send me some signal
Tell me why cracks are not momentous?

4.

Forest is paregoric ….

Like a redolence, the wind reaches the forest dwellers
We, in zing tell our friends to look at the eagle, the vulture, the deer, the hippo
Hearing the sound of vehicles, they must have said, “Look, people have come” and turn their backs and walk away.
Our smell must have reached the tiger.
We were looking for the tigers
The tigers did not find it necessary to come out to see us.

A man entering the forest seems like a question mark to the forest dwellers.
the forest is not lonely,
Man enters the forest and the forest becomes incomplete.

Dr. Joshnaa Banerjee
Principal, St. Xavier’s School.
4 published books.
2 poetry books, 1 Biography and 1 Diary.
Editor of CBSE books.

Pulkita Anand

I wish to tell you I love you

In my country, morning starts not with Hi but chai
Before siesta we eat samosas and jelibi
We understand that everything comes on time
By eating Idli, dosa, and dokla
Our namaste is a bowing of self
Life is in humility and folding ego
We break coconut in the temple for
There is no sense in keeping a bloated ego
We speak Hindi, for we are Hindustani
For us a guest is a God and that’s how
We learnt other languages
The majesty of Himalaya or the grandeur
Of Konark make monarchs, Wow!
The colour of Holi or the sweets of Diwali
Shows our warmth and love
Our is a land of peace
We believe in
One earth, one family, one future

*

India is like a big elephant.
Graceful is its walk
Simple is its nature
Care is its treasure
Carrying rich tradition under its skin
Colourful and vibrant culture
Like a peacock dancing in the rain
Pure calm, its wisdom embracing many
Like petals of the lotus
Simple, docile your people
Like cow
Varied is your beauty
As your different zones
Meditation deep like
Sober Himalayas
Habituating different people
Like a forest of Sunderban
Rich is your faith with ever-flowing Ganga
Rare is your care for lives at Karni Mata temple

Where mice saunter seamlessly
Serving people is its duty

Johny takkedasila

Preferences

I Have no Place
It's time to bag organs and move.
While Moving,
Bag should be checked repeatedly for organs.
Sometimes eyes slip—
Walk foresight.
Sometimes heart breaks;
I have to walk like a heartless person.
Where priorities are changing,
Letters have no value.
Wanting to pounce on someone
With dung under their jaws,
Gnawing on flowers,
Swallowing honey,
And crushing fireflies,
Ignoring the waiting soil,
Screaming in the streets.
Withered and dried up,
I kept wretched to you.
Regards.
Now I must adjust my preferences accordingly.
Rivers must change their courses.
It's tragic to urinate on the moon.
Experiencing life without the sky,
I longed for the earth.
I grew my intelligence
Eating the biscuits thrown by someone.
Where is the measure of

Who kicked where?
How many footprints on my body?
No one should be trusted.
I have to walk my own way.
After wiping dirt from my eyes and legs,
Removing stone illusions,
Bones should be stretched
To incorporate them into the soil.

Realization

Sometimes,
It is well known that people are needed.
People want trees like sprouting hands,
To swing on branches,
Shadows running behind;
Safe for my life.
Someone is cutting me,
A bridge of swords being built in my stomach.
Thorny plants spread on one side of my body,
Water and blood do injuries.
Before fears and insecurities
Are forced out of eyes
And turn into hot flowers,
Place water droplets
On wings of flowers.
Also,
Drink rivers.
Ponds should be deposited in the body.
Throw stones away.
Why stones?
On the way, I threw and injured them.

Back into me.

From Wounds to Poems

Injuries all over the body,
How can I express that?
Who did it and why?
I introspect deeply,
I must heal myself,
Applying verses to the wound on my forehead,
Forgetting the past,
Accepting that railway tracks do not meet,
Happiness should be feigned, lived by adjusting the tone.
Injury from my mother.
No shoulders, why a ladder to climb?
Scattered seeds fled like hills.
"It's not an injury; it's a life crisis."
Who are you? What are these injuries?
I won't say! Don't witness torn flowers,
Or the pool of blood between hot bodies,
Or the heir to a momentarily dead time!
Injury from my father.
As we climbed a hill near our house,
It was understood there was no sun on that side.
If someone desires flowers, moons, or colored eyes—destruction.
General injuries.
Suddenly, someone turned off the light.
Who caused this injury?
Darkness; evidence is clear.
The whole body felt like a wound.
Stepping off the stage, my body hurts.
They dug into me.

One is past;
Others are present symbols;
Someone else's future destination;
They returned to dig again.
Now I carry poems alongside wounds.
Those poems aren't mine,
Written agreements for a period.
Wounds are my inner strength,
Poems are open structures.
Injuries
Are the source
Of poems—spring.
But I desire to be wounded.
If there are no injuries,
Where are the poems?
Including this verse.

Blood Drop

It feels like someone shot me,
Splitting a stump in half,
Many deaths occurred;
Silence within me.
Digits on the mobile screen
Play hide and seek,
Like an ancient building collapsing,
My wetness collapses,
Life without wetness mocks mercilessly.
However,
Put fire heart in the four directions,
Cook four white flowers in it,
If not cooked properly;

A creature like a man
Throws something at me,
Maybe thorns or iron-like weapons,
Half a minute later,
Porridge on my face,
That's history.
A doubt starts in me,
Careless or getting used to situations,
Unspeakable state.
Adjusting hair or
Rubbing legs,
A juggling act begins,
In this magical juggling act,
I go this way and that way,
As it rains in the sun,
Does the sun shine in rain?
Life in an unknown predicament.
Who is to blame?
Dark, dark, dark;
Four walls,
A head,
Three wings.
How many times have I touched the cloud?
How many times my heart got wet,
Feeling that a single drop will move?
Everything is frozen.
In my life,
There is no place for black tears.
How many times I remember,
If I remember, the sound of thunder will fall.

The journey cannot be stopped,
My presence in the blowing wind,
My past is in flames,
For those who say that is proof,
A shoe blow.
Am I the one who waits so long? Is she?
Add water in a fist,
Sprinkled on sores like eyes,
Draw lines on the forehead,
Filled with a homelike body,
Under the knee of the sea,
I am walking around with blood,
Waves of cycles,
A drop of blood in it.

Johny Takkedasila, born on June 8, 1991, in Pulivendula, Andhra Pradesh, is a Telugu poet, writer, novelist, critic, translator, and editor. With 30 published books, his works span Telugu, Hindi, and English. He received the prestigious Central Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar in 2023 for Vivechani, a Telugu criticism book. His poetry features in international anthologies, and his stories appear in global magazines.