Poetry In Our Time

PRASENJIT DAS

 

THE FLAME IS ON

 

Life may not be a green leaf,

the dews are tears in grief.

Life for many maybe cruel,

give me the guts for the duel.

The good times passed by me,

like a humming bird in destiny.

If not in life then maybe after,

let life be a pleasant chapter.

No, I will never give up,…never,

be an example for all, forever…

 

THE OPTIMIST

 

Never be drowned in sorrow,

as if there is no tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a day uncrowned,

tomorrow is a time unbound.

Many things are left to be done,

the path of glory has already begun.

The darkness shows the light,

life is nothing, nothing but a fight.

You will be a winner, sooner or later,

the spirit of good will fight for better.

The light of honesty burns bright,

even in the darkest dark of the night.

 

A LONELY FATHER’S CALL

 

O lonely man! O lonely man!

Where is thy rugged winter coat?

Bore the ravages of eighty seasons,

that still makes thee soul to float.

O lonely man! O lonely man!

Where is thy loveth destiny?

Fought many a war and battles,

loved thy child and killed so many.

O lonely man! O lonely man!

What is thy eyes looking for thee?

O dear son, come back, I hear the

MY FRIEND’S DEATH

Give me the ‘tomorrow’,

for I may never see.

The glories of today,

that belong to history.

Call me mad or insane,

when I will be no more,

you will weep, yes

every now and then…

Let with every tear,

my memory be always near.

The story will thus end,

for losing a nice friend.

steps of Death marching towards me.

 

The Bird

 

Look up! Look up towards the sky,

see the expanse and relieve a sigh.

Spread your arms and turn around,

see the heavens with glory abound.

Look up! There she goes, flying free,

away from her cage above the tree.

She has spread wide her wings of love,

just so innocent she is like a dove.

Playing hide and seek in the cloud,

the wind surrounding her like a shroud.

With glistening eyes and a little frown,

she dives down to her hometown…

 

The writer, Prasenjit Das was born on the 14th of March 1978 in the Himalayan foothills of Siliguri. He is an educator and entrepreneur with expertise in mathematics. As the founder of a reputed coaching centre he has been instrumental in shaping young minds and fostering academic excellence. His passion for teaching and leadership has enabled him to create a supportive learning environment for students to thrive. Prior to his current role, he worked as the sole designer from 2000 to 2006 for prominent organizations such as the BRO, IOC and erstwhile HUTCH. He was responsible for designing magazines, newspapers of Mass Communications Dept. of Siliguri college that showcased the achievements of these institutions. This experience honed his creative skills and attention to detail. In his free time, he counsels cancer patients and expresses himself through poetry and art. Sketching and Graphic Designing are hobbies that allow him to unwind and tap into his creative side. Last but not the least, cooking is another passion that brings him joy. With an unique blend of academic and creative expertise, he continues to inspire and educate the next generation.

 

 

Pulkita Anand

 

Things fall apart

 

It’s disappearing.

The land is crying.

The ice is falling.

The animals are dying.

The rivers are drying.

The sea is sighing.

The mountains are mourning.

The valleys are withering.

The earth cannot hold

Men’s anarchy

 

 

Weather Sonnet

 

Big surf, big surge, big evacuation,

Big ice, big falling, big melting conditions

Extreme heat, extreme heat waves

Severe drought, severe floods

Some regions expect wildfires.

There is a warning of a cyclone.

Some regions expect heavy precipitation.

There is a warning of a catastrophic storm.

The hurricane will be hurrying to the south at 150mph.

Tornadoes and flash floods will tease the region.

Biting cold hits the south with an unfamiliar freeze.

Water rising, land sinking, hopes vanishing.

The day will be dry and hot.

“Catastrophic, life-threatening flood expected.”

 

 

Time is out of joint

 

Disturbing, destructing, de

vastating, dis rupt ing, di s ape ar i ng

The third part of the star,

the third part of the moon,

the third part of the sun

Struck,

Sounding the screaming of animals and birds

The rapture within is

Darkening and darkening, frightening and frightening

Boiling and killing

Leaving, grieving and dying

Panda, saola, Vaquita, Chimpanzee…

Mere anarchy will be loosened on the earth

It is losing its spin; it’s losing its pin

It’ll l o se its wat er; it’ll lose its ice

pralaye bhinnamaryādā bhavanti kila sāgarāḥ।

(At the time of the Pralaya (universal destruction)

The oceans are to exceed their limits and seek to change)

Fear death by water

Swelling, submerging, sinking

Silence, silence, silence

 

 

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful earth…..

 

With Just so stories of Alice, who moved into the wonderland

and wandered like Goldilocks in the woods, and

Found that The Country and the Town Mouse were merged. And

Have machines are confident of their result in producing

But the Turtle trees, despite being slow, will grow, glow and nourish us in the end.

Now, Bo-Peep is searching for the trees

Just like the Blind Men touching the Elephant

Yep! Pinocchio of plastic refuses to change

Whatever he touches turns into plastic

Like King Midas’s

In the fad of fast-fading fashion, we are spending

On clothes that only wise and intelligent people

Are able to see

Ali Baba and his forty thieves came

To know about the treasure of the Earth

The Earth that lays golden eggs

We want her to lay all her eggs once

And are trying to kill her

The kinship between Mother-Earth

And men has gone. He wants to eat her in one go.

No more The Wind in the Willows for

Winnie-the-Pooh and The Snow Queen

The Snow White is no longer bright

In this greedy world, where is

That Happy Prince?

here and there, only Selfish Giants

disturbing Mother Earth’s Children

and even want to erase A Tiny Little Thing

Happy with their Frankensteins

Who is pulling the tresses of Rapunzel

The earth is falling, and we are still Sleeping Beautifully

I, longing for the lamp of Aladdin

to turn the earth back to her grace,

Wish to kiss these concrete towers, and

turn them into trees again, or play

The tunes of The Pied Piper of Hamelin

turning plastic away

For This Land is Our Land

Let’s sow seeds and see saplings.

The Earth’s Glory

 

 

Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is ‘we were not born to be erased’. Various publications include: Tint Journal, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Ecological Citizen, Origami Press, Asiatic, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press and elsewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Devesh Path Sariya

 

Bird in the rain

 

I gazed outside,

Tending to my own meal.

It was only a gentle drizzle.

Just as I finished eating,

The rain poured heavily.

Beyond my house’s window,

A bird soaked in the downpour.

In the language of humans, I yelled,

“Seek shelter among the leaves,

Or descend to a lower branch of the tree”

Yet, she flew away,

Perching on a nearby electric wire.

She extended her wing,

As if assessing her readiness for flight.

Once more, I called out,

“Take refuge on the temple’s porch”

Still, she remained on the wire.

“Come inside!”

I shouted with force, opening the room’s window.

The window stayed ajar,

Raindrops incessantly entered the room.

The love of an astronomer

She has an adoration for the moon,

While I find myself captivated by the trail of stars.

My livelihood relies upon the stars;

They emerge in the dark of night

And descend into the embrace of my telescope,

Transforming into shimmering coins within my bank account.

But the moon,

It’s merely a wandering intruder.

In its presence, the stars fade,

Their already faint light becoming invisible.

Even my binoculars offer little aid.

In the realm of stars,

Moonlight acts as a bird,

Feasting upon my harvest.

It is thanks to the stars

That I could bestow upon her a beautiful engagement ring

And a modest, artificial necklace.

As a poet, I may borrow imagery

From the moon another day;

But for now,

I wonder if she could beseech the moon,

Just once, to appear less frequently.

 

 

Ten days

After John Guzlowski

 

An old man recounts his memories

of the world war.

Before collapsing due to injuries,

he battled for ten days.

It takes less than ten seconds

for a bullet inside a gun to break free

and sink into a man’s chest.

In ten days of war,

How many times these ten-seconds occur?

It’s not a simple matter of calculation.

There isn’t just one enemy gun,

nor does each soldier face

an equal number of guns aimed their way.

Where do the bullets sink into the bodies

that collapse?

How deep do they penetrate

those fortunate enough to survive?

Do these questions matter?

Is death simply a misfortune?

Is escaping death a setback

disguised as a coincidence?

As luck would have it,

some soldiers emerge unscathed by bullets,

yet they bear scars of a different kind—

the toll of war endured for weeks, months,

and sometimes years.

The old man, wounded in the war,

lived a hundred years,

yet carried the wounds of those ten days

with him for the remainder of his life.

 

Exiled vs Refugee

 

Living away from India,

I feel like a mere shadow of my former self.

The global pandemic and my own illness

have only compounded this feeling,

making me feel as though I’ve been exiled

from my own country.

During a bout of homesickness,

I penned a poem titled “Exiled”

and shared it with John Guzlowski.

Upon reading it,

he promptly posed a question,

“Why isn’t the poem titled ‘Refugee’?”

John’s parents and grandparents

endured torment in Nazi camps.

They met while residing in a refugee camp,

only to be met with gunfire

when they attempted to return to Poland.

Ultimately, they emigrated to America,

yet an existential question lingered,

defining their true identity.

After much contemplation,

John concluded

that they were both exiled and refugees

simultaneously.

Exile is a perpetual swerve,

an overwhelming sense of emptiness,

but the heart yearns to return home,

rather than remaining a refugee.

With half-hearted attachment,

grasping the fabric of unfamiliar terrain,

refugees persist in their state of exile,

always scanning the horizon,

hoping for someone to arrive,

bearing news of

a treaty, a ceasefire, or

a potential homecoming.

 

 

Devesh Path Sariya (born: 11 February 1986) is a Hindi poet-prose writer and translator. Poetry collection : Nooh ki Naav (2022); Story collection : Stinky Tofu (2025); Non-fiction prose: Chhoti Ankho ki Putliyon Mein (Taiwan Diary, 2022); Translation: Haqeeqat Ke Beech Daraar (2021), Yatna Shivir Mein Sathinein (2023). Award: Bharatbhushan Agarwal Award (2023). Devesh’s literary work has been translated into English, Mandarin, Spanish and some Indian languages. Devesh is the editor of Hindi literary journal Gol Chakkar.

Phone: +919784972672

Email: deveshpath@gmail.com