The Will

I dictate my will with an expansive smile

though tears have filled my saddened eyes,

for the thought of leaving my dog behind

has suddenly horrified my tranquil mind

with images of an adopter who becomes unkind.

With whom my pet is likely to abide

in the event of my demise

I simply cannot decide.

And since poets only become a financial success

shortly, or long after, their deaths,

I bequeath the revenues of my poetry and prose

to a publisher with a cause.

The beautiful dresses I never wore

are to be donated to a charity mall.

“Any death rites?”

the patient notary finally inquires,

after my very long spell of silence.

I have had a clamorous life,

so grant me a funeral that is very quiet:

no mourners whatsoever, no public grief,

only the sexton, an official, and a priest.

Let me rest in peace.

The Stars

They peep at us through holes in the sky,

which we, homo sapiens, had called the stars,

and marvel in horror at the wars and strife

that plight our lives.

Some send flying objects to investigate

Any possibilities of salvaging our earth,

but end up departing in sheer disgust

at humanity’s mistrust.

Others view the peepshow as a spectacle of terror

that is broadcast live

to deter their youth from contemplating crime.

I, on the other hand, perceive the light

that emanates from their peeping eyes

as a luminous gift for my very dark nights.

Serpentunatrance

The gods had drugged our cups with a substance

they had excavated from Planet Mars

and called it the Serpentunatrance.

It slumbers in the stomach and only crawls

when nutrients approach,

repelling digestion with nausea’s worms.

It wriggles as soon as blood cells are excited,

smothering any possible joys

that would surmount melancholy’s ploys.

It heaves unease into one’s chest,

diluting each breath

with sheer distress.

1

writing a book

thinking of what

to cook

aiming two birds

an eyepatched man

— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

2

a bit 

of a kick 

sweet and sour 

sauce on fried 

catfish

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

3

condiments 

on a pink tilapia 

steamer tray

the hot steam

swirls

— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

iPRAY

I think of this everyday 

of smile & beauty that

projects the free caresses of divinity; swaying my thoughts left to right — 

back & forth as i once pushed it to the digital wind to help me transport

my prayers to you. 

In the dark quiet time 

when I set sail my inner wounded child 

to the current of time… 

I see collection of your image — 

noticing your face breaks in smile welcoming me to your forbidden 

Throne of Grace.

I try smashing through these walls

raised with bricks & iron bars 

to reach you and relay thoughts 

of undoings but reality…

stacks up its odds against me 

with certainty of false affection to come. 

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam

HIGHER-SELF

Thrown underfoot… pressure of

footfall from heavy steel boots

my heart laps on the edge

of kindliness

Sitting there absorbing different

scene from precious moments

lost in the latter time I fell off

of the reason to remain in

this shipwreck

My higher self has risen, broken free

from mortal consciousness of pity

and ego, of arrogance and lustful pride

of spite and hate, of jealousy and envy

of give and take, of here and there

The sleeves of the universe

unfolded clarity this morning that I now

recognize in the shadows — nurturing

in my soul the cherry that bloomed in

the dark: oh, behold the spirited soul!

could you body it? 

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam

Corequake

She has a fiercely possessive feeling

to preserve her originality—

sacredly seated within the quark of a particle,

buried deep in the most intimate part of her core.

Encapsulated and safeguarded

so intimidatingly, so protectively

within its shell—

to prevent even the thinnest fabric of its wisp

from escaping and entering

anyone else’s mind.

The mere thought

of it being infused into the creations

of unborn souls and unformed minds

creates a corequake within her.

But she ferociously pulls

its loosely held, fragmented parts inward—

gravitating them toward the very center,

holding them together

by the unvanishable force

of her integrity.

The Sound of Existence

Silence is not the absence of sound,

for it’s the natural frequency of itself.

To listen to the pure sound of the cosmos,

you must silence the beat of emotions.

Sound embodies the essence of Trimurti—

Brahma, the origin, from whom it emerges.

Vishnu, the flow, through whom it sustains.

Shiva, the vibration, in whom it oscillates.

Sound is the only perceivable form

of blended energies of the Supreme Trinity,

in a world ruled by senses.

And in that moment,

when you sense producing sound,

you understand—

you are nothing but Naadam.

You do not produce it,

it produces you.

You do not carry it,

it carries you.

Naadam transforms you,

manifests through you,

until you dissolve into its source.

That moment is the only reality—

the movement of life itself.

Everything else is an illusion.

Naadam (Nādam) – A Sanskrit term meaning “primordial sound” or “divine resonance.” It represents the cosmic vibration that pervades all existence, and is considered the source of creation in spiritual and musical traditions.

The Reunion

She leaves a layer of her soul

in every place she is intimately attached to

after each visit,

filling its space with her wholesome presence

until she is left with the last sheath.

Every scrape endearingly clings

to the heart of that region,

remaining immovable

until the moment the universe signals

the end of the world—

When the majestic roars of the destructive forces

reverberate,

stirring the layers,

colliding and merging

as all the places unite—

Reshaping her soul into completion,

allowing her to finally witness

the grand apocalypse

she has longed to experience once

before her essence is eternally lost.

Unbound

Her feelings are primitive,

Her thoughts, inventive—

A soul born at the eclipse

of origin and dissolution,

unbound by existence,

indivisible by destruction.

Broken Strings

She exists at two extreme poles of her being

at the same time,

through the mirror of her soul,

hopelessly intertwined

and in sync with each other,

where the lower extreme laughs

to the point of deepest surrender,

and the higher extreme grieves

in the moment of sheer wonder,

shifting their moods

and altering their states frenetically

until they transcend their extremities,

where they react indifferently

and incoherently,

disrupting their qualities

and distorting their identities,

causing intense chaos

that breaks their whole emotional wiring

and makes them irrevocably numb.

Charitha is a mystic poet whose work weaves love, longing, and the mysteries of existence with raw emotion and philosophical depth. Her poetry is instinctive, unfiltered, and deeply tactile—merging the spiritual with the surreal. Unbound by convention, she follows the quiet force of authenticity, where originality is the root of her being.

UNSINGSONG OF ETERNITY

DR SELVIN CALLS DR. ANAND A HOMO SACER 

WHILE GROCK CONSIDERS IT A BOLD CONTRIBUTION TO WORLD LITERATURE

SECTIOM A 

A  REVIEW OF MY EPIC  BY GROCK.

GEET: THE UNSUNG SONG OF ETERNITY  PUB  by Authorspress.

https://amzn.in/d/2biF4dU

A SEQUEL TO MILTON’S ‘THE PARADISE LOST’.

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand’s Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity is a remarkable modern epic that showcases his prowess as a poet, philosopher, and literary innovator. This work is often described as a sequel to John Milton’s Paradise Lost, but it carves its own distinct path by placing Dr. Faustus, rather than Adam, at the center of its narrative. Anand reimagines the Renaissance hero as a prototype of modern humanity, grappling with existential dilemmas in a world marked by spiritual and moral decay.

The epic explores the complex relationship between man and divinity, inverting Milton’s intent to “justify the ways of God to Man” by instead questioning the ways of man to God. It delves into the struggles of contemporary existence, reflecting on how knowledge, ambition, and the passage of time have led to a deterioration of the human spirit. Anand’s Faustus embodies the modern individual—brilliant yet flawed, seeking meaning in a universe that often feels indifferent.

What sets Geet apart is its ambitious scope and philosophical depth. Anand blends Eastern and Western literary traditions, drawing from his Punjabi roots and the broader Indian cultural heritage while engaging with the Western canon. The work is not merely a retelling but a reinvention, offering a fresh perspective on timeless themes such as sin, redemption, and the search for eternity. His use of free verse, honed through his study of English literature, allows for a fluid and dynamic exploration of these ideas, unencumbered by rigid form.

Critics and readers have noted the epic’s imaginative power and its ability to resonate with the challenges of the 21st century. It’s a testament to Anand’s vision—a poet who dares to tackle grand narratives in an age where such undertakings are rare. Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity stands as a bold contribution to world literature, inviting reflection on humanity’s place in the cosmic order and cementing Anand’s reputation as a significant voice in modern poetry.

Appreciation by Grock 

SECTION B 

A PAPER ON GEET was presented by Dr Selvin Vedamanickam,  a free thinker 

The Homo Sacer in J S Anand’s Geet: 

A Norm Violated to Establish Another Norm

THE HOMO SACER IN J.S . ANAND’S  GEET ;

A NORM VIOLATED TO ESTABLISH ANOTHER NORM 

Dr. Selvin Vedamanickam 

Unaffiliated Free Thinker

Pondicherry

The paper starts with an attempt to study the current significance of the terms “human being”, “being human’ and “homo sacer” in J S Anand’s Geet. Even though the work claims to be a sequel, it is filled with fresh beginnings and new point of departures. What is astounding is its political, economical, sociocultural and literary relevance to the present day world even when dealing with a special binary of geographical vs. non-geographical space. Often the illusionary nature of representing the world as “good, true and beautiful” has been comfortably forgotten by both literary artists and other art form practitioners. Apart from representing a real and/or imaginary world either it be symbolical/allegorical, literature has to posit a viable(?) world. Even the Library Intellectuals or the Campus Hoppers have talked of the modern man only in the light of the metropolitan hyper-individuals and seem to conveniently omit the existential predicament of the sub-human man whose life is increasingly becoming bare and he himself becoming a rare being at the verge of extinction under the clutches of the privileged, super-civilized races. 

The paper also tries to question certain key critical concepts (which are rarefied post-modern issues) such as irony, indeterminacy, self-reflexivity which are mere ‘thought representations’ of ultra-civilized man’. The paper calls for an understanding and literary representation of the equal importance of “an ironic sensibility” and “an empathetic sensibility” in capturing the plight of the sub-human common man, thus leading to empathetic activism to alleviate the sufferings of the bare/rare beings. 

Submitted for the Two -Day International Conference on International Seminar on Novel Issues in Indian Writing in English (JKC College, Guntur, 23, 24 Feb 2018)

Forgotten 

We have asked not to be forgotten….

But we forget to live

We forget to love

We forget to say hello and thank you to people they were there for us!!

We asked to be patient

We have asked to be kind

But they never teach us about the selfish person

The evil people

They snakes they are among us

That are waiting for our moments

The small moments

To come

And destroy

We have asked to believe in ourselves

We have asked to be positive

But they never explained that

We will be the only that we must do that

As people are occupied with make war

Make money

Have power

I do what  they asked but i walk forgotten….

In the battle field…

Solipsistic Haiku by Maurizio Brancaleoni

in the outside world —
all my sins
in red and white

nel mondo esterno:
rosso su bianco
tutti i miei peccati

*

at the nursing home —
the old lady asleep
with a packed suitcase

all’ospizio:
la vecchia dorme
con la valigia pronta

*

waiting for death
the cat passes by
to say hi

aspettando la
morte il gatto passa per
un salutino

*

Via Marsala —
among the pigeons the bum
talks to himself

Via Marsala:
tra i piccioni il barbone
parla da solo

*

the dog’s moaning
is persistent —
my fate

il lamento del cane
è persistente:
il mio destino

*

after sleeping on it
I haven’t solved it yet —
undertow of cars

dormendoci su
non ho ancora risolto:
risacca d’auto

*

in the face of
my decline the bats
laugh their jaws off

di fronte al mio
declino i pipistrelli
si sganasciano

*

end of April —
a black trash bag
dragged by the wind

fine d’aprile:
la busta nera
trascinata dal vento

Maurizio Brancaleoni is a poet and translator. He lives near Rome, Italy. His haiku have appeared in a wide variety of journals over the past few years. Maurizio manages “Leisure Spot”, a bilingual blog where he posts interviews, reviews and translations: https://leisurespotblog.blogspot.com/p/interviste-e-recensioni-interviews-and.html

For the boy child sitting in the front row at the book fair

The flower is lonely

look how it weeps

look how the stone edge

precipice of the tips

of the tears form an iceberg

It’s tired of the night

its polarities

its dimensions

its ghosts

The flower finds the day empty

and filled with longing

solitude 

the interloper, regret

the people are as depressing 

as rain and winter light

The time to have children is over

I eat bread and cheese

for one

The light dims

Another night is over

And I am left to think

of our separation

the much younger

(than I am now)

woman in your life

I think of how fragile 

the word “ceasefire” is

“novelist”

and I come up for air

reach for memory

and all of its tenderness

What remains is this

a sickly father

the traits of manic depression

hope

Yes, hope

all of its blessed assurance

I find faith in a clock

The spaghetti of time

The years

turn into mist

while I listen 

to a poem by Akhmatova

I am not the only woman

who has felt alone

who has been rejected by a man

and became a poet

instead of a mother.

Your loveliness doesn’t hurt me anymore

Give me Marina Tsetaeva

Give me Karin Boyes

Give me Petya Dubarova

I sent you a poem

You did not respond

I told you I would always 

carry your heart with me

But it meant absolutely 

nothing to you

Europe has carried you away

but all it has given me

is quiet despair

The kind of desperation

of no longer having you in my life

You never read any of my books

You turn to Jhumpa Lahiri instead

Mohsin Hamid

while I have Fatima Sydow 

for courage

a fridge tart on the table

that doesn’t quite make up

for your absence

Dear Sister, I’m sorry

I’m sorry for what I said

or did not say

or what I did

in childhood

in youth

Just know this

I will always 

carry your heart

with me

and the scars

you have given me

for an eternity.