All posts by ippljournal

Haiku 1. barbet pair babblediscussions on a green perchquietness soon follows2. on the hot tin shedbig drops of rain keep fallingrhythmic as I listen Nishi Pulugurtha Nishi Pulugurtha is academic, author, poet and translator. She writes short stories, poetry and non-fiction and has published works in them apart from several academic writings Her co-edited translation…

Haiku The pond reflected your thoughts everywhere about a frog croaked after ages.2. There on your rough bark a lover wrote his fine name before his love died.3. It was a nude dance the dewdrops shone in timbre grass-blades spoke of tears. Navamalati Neog Chakraborty Navamalati Neog Chakraborty has served as a professor of English…

Tree Story It was a different life…deep rooted tentaclesexplored dark alleys dense and clingy, ficklesandy tracts, or stony bedswe held it all togetherwe resisted falling apartMischiefs hatched in silenceand some tradings underhandtentacles uprooted, gasping,sought homes that were no morethe colour of loss was greencan we hold anymore?can we resist them at all? robbed of home,…

The Rebirth They were all a smiling lot jocundly bathing in the sunlight red, white ,pink ,crimson _ in hues so bright I watched them transfixed oblivious of time and space they danced away gleefully so abundantly full of grace !time rolled on ,they became part of my existence they enthralled me I became a…

A Window I was searching for somethingsince I was someone’s sonsomeone’s husband and a lovera friend, a teacher and a father an entrance, perhapsan exit, might bewhiteness of remembrances spaces within where eyes could holdsomething like a window. A wooden one.One day, she called me a windowthe walls grew thicker as I counted the years…

Reality It’s black, it’s like a film, it’s slippery oil slickfloating on the water with a vein of scarletwashing the shore.Plastic bags those twists and turnsswirl in a fervour, in the swell of the sea.I try to hold but slips through my fingers,meanwhile the grey clouds and flakes of rainmove across the landscapes.But the wild…

Change The river flowed onQuietly,Mourning The dying sun. The trees stood wilting,Carrying the weight of The angels of the airWho had settled in their nocturnal nests.The boulders – grey, sat idlyWondering about the flute That had once lulled them asleep. Now, only the fragments lay in the dust – As sound of hammers and generators…

THROUGH MY WINDOW There is a craze for usurpingin the name of calibrated progressspiralling up to the zenithjostling towers calcifyshooting from ribs of denuded greena blanket of concrete envelopsmy city in aggressive stridesbirds fly away making room forflyovers swooping over the lungs,hold captive glory of greeneryguillotined in avenues of sadism,an interplay of felling and formingmaps…

Vinita Agrawal Together/the weather/is a language we can barely understand;but confessional experts detect/in the senseless diktat of hurricanea hymning of our sins, our stupid counterpoint.                                                           – From A Language of Change  by David Sergeant Introduction They say that poetry changes nothing. I guess that’s true only with non-living things. Otherwise, the plant would not have…