‘Farmer’ ~ Ramesh Tibile – Vol. I, Issue 4

Poetic Musings



Zero literate my position

Neither pension nor fund for ration.

Piles problems over problem

Being tired so retired farmer of Nation.

Now, I am old enough

To match with new world

Wasting time watching T. V.

Getting up late displaying dullness,

Eating unwanted “Pizza or Burger”

To invite guest of indigestion.

And ……

Making show of Hi! Fi!

Having no culture to exhibit.

I am happy with my state

Being ignorant of all that.

Go bed earlier to rise so

To develop good practices for health.

I take bath and then tea,

To leave the “House” to darshan God.

Take a full round to see nothing

But to kill my time.

Return again to have lunch

Though no teeth to crunch.

Just lie on bed avoiding sleep then,

So the night no weep.

Everyone cares me grudgingly

Talks with me complainingly.

So I request Thee from my heart,

Let me calmly forever depart.

‘Missive’ ~Nitish Nair: Poetic Musings – Vol. I, Issue 4



The desert night murmurs,

Sounds of silence and somnolence

punctuated by muffled sighs,

Solidified by the power of grief,

A wind whispering through the dunes,

Meandering, fickle river of air

gently nudges the day’s oppression –

a stifling envelope of heat –

towards the ocean of yesteryears,

Yet another day brimming with

the toil of survival evaporates

into a serene nocturnal embrace,

Stars, flickering crystals embedded

in the blackest of velvet,

Astral abodes of ancestors,

Too distant to seemingly matter,

Nevertheless, ages of benevolence

softly drizzle on earthly tableau,

Quickly absorbed by a parched truce,

Fragile, precious in its darkened delicacy…

Swayed! Jolted! Shattered!

Ethereal fabric sundered by

menacing whine and smoking tails

of torrential pain, parochial

in intent of terrestrial annihilation,

Launched from cold metal tubes

supported on rigid mounts,

Iron or flesh-and-bone,

Operated by unfeeling hands,

Guided by minds long dead,

Caring for nought but a crescendo

of distilled, instilled fear,

Erupting in a calculated coda

of targeted and collateral damage,

Geysers of sand, mortar, humanity –

Yellowstone for the morbid and damned –

Proof that justice has been served

a la carte, itemised and priced by past crime,

One final meal of self-righteous vengeance

until hungry bloodlust rises again.

‘Kadamba Tree’ ~Chris Mooney Singh – Vol. I, Issue 4



It stands outside my room
a ghost in the mist from the past,
this once-green hotel for bats.

They should be searching out fruits
like yellow-knitted pom poms.
The cold has chased them off.

There’s no life for fruit flies,
dead in their sarcophagi; neither gnat
nor pilgrim butterfly is hunting

kadam-bloom cups of attar,
sticky with oil. These days, no one
has time to distil the fragrance.

If only there was the hint of a flute
in the mist, yet no blue god
cavorts in his boyish amusement

to steal the milkmaids’ saris
from the river verge and drape them
upon the kadamba. I can only go

to the museum for a Krishan lila
with gopis, or a terracotta kadam,
modelled with monkeys and birds.

That tree of love, that youth and a girl
are symbols of what should be
climbing the life-force in the kadam.

Why do I look at the kadamba
and see the life-lines in bark?
I have climbed this tree before.

‘Jamun Tree’ ~Chris Mooney Singh – Vol. I, Issue 4



You are not in the mood
to talk today, despite
your commanding height,
your thick tough trunk
good for railway sleepers,
your windbreak stance
at the side of the garden.

Is it the winter fog,
or those irate peacocks
screeching off after leaving
dog-like droppings
at your feet? It seems
you would prefer
we show decorum..

Grouch of an old maid
you have been living
with the family
far too long. So we tiptoe by,
as if past a room
smelling of underpants
and old brassieres
drying on a radiator.
What can we say about the old
we’re taught to respect?

Is it because this is
the cold dark time when
you feel fruitless before
your purple bullets,
like sour soap,
the size of olives
have yet to plump up
the thin ends of your twigs?

It’s said you helped
Lord Ram survive
14 years in the jungle,
that you’re the colour
of Lord Krishna’s skin;
and a cure for sour turns
of the liver and even
diabetes. Yes, you are the tree
of medicines, yet not lauded
like the pipal or banyan
those reigning patriarchs,
noted for sheltering philosophers.

No jamun, you are
a sorry old gripe in the midst
of winter, luring some upward
to shake free your raining fruits,
men willing to be boy-rustlers again,
to climb all over an old maid’s limbs.

Yes tongues will be stained
to complicent purple
and gums dyed in the colour of love.
You are not helpless,
branding your chosen
and can tell them off:

“Hey! don’t you forget
what I gave to you
from boyhood to manhood,
what I taught in the darkness
underneath the moon.
What I fed you on,
what I led you towards in knowledge
of the fruit of your loins.

Don’t play with me, boy,
I will expose those deeds
hidden in the secret garden
of the family hermitage.
Let’s not pretend
we are so innocent
and let’s also be frank.
I remind you again
through the purple stain of your theft.
Don’t forget who I am.”

Vol. I, Issue 3: Poetic Musings

1. STANDING ALONE   ~Sweta Srivastava Vikram

2. STORY OF A WOMAN   ~Paarth Ashok Narang

3. FINALLY I FOUND IT   ~Sagar Singh

4. A POEM   ~Nishtha Sood

5. SOMETIMES   ~Paromita Bardoloi

6. FLIGHT THROUGH THE OLD CITY   ~Abhimanyu Bishnu




By Sweta Srivastava Vikram


Binoculars made a home over eyes,

frosted breath rubbed hope into the lines of hands, eagerly

waiting to soak the sight of the surreal expanse of space.


Breath ran faster than I could breathe. Shuddering

with ecstasy, the breeze cajoled the bald, barren trees.

The uninhibited steam from the boiling tea leaves


set up the suspense. With the world as its audience,

the sun lifted the curtains, its first ray birthed magnificence—

the enormous Mount Kanchenjunga in unison


with spots of jealous clouds seeking attention. The crowd

of one cheered, but the structure stood unmoved like a white,

widowed wall painted in the sky. I sensed solitude,


humility mistaken for arrogance, no one to call its own today.

Not even a print of a soldier or Sherpa boy. Shielding its secrets—

unforgiving tales of betrayal and grief, etched as permanent marks


in the crevasses of its history, the mountain stood.

Was it tall or orphaned? The Humming Bird sang

hymns to bring solace to its barrenness. But with fortitude


of a circus artist covering angst with makeup,

Kanchenjunga performed the show,

without a complaint, under the blue bedspread.




By Paarth Ashok Narang


I am a woman and I shall tell you my story

I’ll tell you how I died and lost my glory

I was sad, I am sad and I shall remain too

For the life that looked eternal, but was vapory


Before I was born, daddy had a fear

Mummy also told the doctor to be clear

And worst was the day when I did get born

For that day in their eyes, was a gloomy tear


A sweetheart, a doll is what a girl does spell

But indeed my life had a way different story to tell

Missing were those Disney labeled pacifiers in my mouth

Rebukes were the ones used to make me quell


I did go to school, but did I really do?

When in minds of mummy, only doubts did brew

I wanted to study hard, and so I did too

But failed the exam of life, brutally in lieu


I grew up every day with many fears in my mind

To those ghastly to me, I was always kind

Yet my questions, yes all of them died unanswered

Which, today in oblivion, though not alive – I try to find


The day came when I fell in love with a soul

I held that soft hand and went on a stroll

Unaware that death awaited me back home badly

Oblivious that my armors will turn vitriol


I was beaten and slain with the sharpest sword

Nothing I spoke was listened to, not one word

That’s the day when I started dying deep within

That’s the day when I bid from life, farewell to accord


I am sorry that I dared, and I tried to speak

Forgetting that once upon a time I was meek

Nothing is now left of me, not a tad of flesh

All what is left of me, is a bloody streak


For those who put me to gallows of demise

Death embraced me, didn’t take me by surprise

I am sorry; to you I was not a dear son

The fact, which in fact was my end’s premise


I sleep in my coffin, hugging my death very tight

Come hurt me bad, however bad you might

Now I am dead, none can rouse any pain

For the stoic feels no ache, and possesses no fright




By Sagar Singh


Finally I found it,

found it in my situation,

my life is my own magic,

my own creation.

why should I take blames,

N put blames on other’s,

I wanna fly high,

with my own feather’s.

I wanna run away one day,

live, life like a holiday.

chill out on beaches,

n get wet on a rainy day.

jump from peek,

measure how much ocean is deep.

I  don’t wanna complicate myself,

why I should think  before asking

anyone’s help.

Finally I found it….


Its hard, hard to understand,

love is faith n my only friend.

why not to try,

what’s wrong,

wanna sing my life, like a song.

don’t wanna waste time,

what’s complicated,

rules I made,

Its time to break it.

life is not about,

what I have or what’s gone of my hand,

everyone around,

is my  fellow , my friend.

I don’t wanna distinguish,

what’s gud or bad,

why should I regret later,

that ,this thing I never had.

finally I found it…




By Nishtha Sood

It was a night of unparalleled darkness,
an auspicious night some said,
The night that gives birth to all desires,
but desires within me were dead.
All the coyness, my deep preserved secret
that my father asked me to preserve till the time is ripe,
stood naked before me,ready to be devoured,
by someone whom I had never met.
“He will keep you happy”,
my neighbourhood aunt would say,
Someone from a far off village told my father that
the boy was a gem, and I was lucky
But the pious fire engulfed all my luck,
severed my identity,destroyed my existence,
the thin veil would break tonight,
I was supposed to yield,not offer any resistance.
It was not that he loved me,
my father was against the idea of people loving me,
He was a nice boy,he said,and I was supposed to be with him forever.
And satiate his needs night and day..
Why would I be of any use to him?I said to myself,
The question remained a deep mystery till tonight,
when I was shamelessly asked to cross the threshold because it was time,
for me to reveal everything on that unfathomable dark night.
A sacred night some said,
But devotion within me was dead..
Killed by his hands mercilessly moving across my body,
exploring the darkness within.
I tried to relent but my screams were stifled,
by the roaring noises of his intense fire.
“You are supposed to it every night,” he said,
“I have an insatiable hunger and your body is my bread,
I have earned you and can devour you in any way I want.”
That night my emotions and dreams met their demise,
My life was his possession, he was my god in disguise.
I should worship him every night with utmost sincerity.
His happiness is my purity..
I was half dead that night..I begged
for some respite,but it was greeted with despise..
And all I got was……….
anguish between my legs,
and tears in my eyes.




by Paromita Bardoloi

Sometimes, when the yellow sun melts in my hair

And the blue moon sets in my eyes, I think about you.

The rain carries letters with words,

And the green butterfly sets on my cheeks, I think about you.

I miss days that never were and the dreams that might have been.

But I still think about you …..

……And of days that never were.



by Abhimanyu Bishnu

Come again, when evening’s here

And the darkness rises as a shroud;

When evening kisses the darkening tresses

Of the solitary wandering cloud.

Let’s fly together, you and I

On the wings of the wind unbound.

Let’s explore this ancient city

Of amazing light and sound.


Let me take you into the oldest alleys

And lanes of the behemoth town;

That has survived a thousand years

And will further live ages down.


Let’s look into those decrepit houses,

Soar above the roofs as kites.

Let’s wander the streets –

The city streets, the strangest sights.


The curling smoke kisses the walls

Of long worn-out buildings, and falls.

The last Emperor left them behind.

Trapped among the city walls.


Close your eyes and you will hear

The clamouring of times bygone.

Come, it’s time to explore

The city of mirth and song.


Come again, when evening’s here

Come again, when dark is near;

We’ll roam the city, we’ll scale the walls

We walk about, we’ll know no fear.