The vibes and atmosphere? I can. Summer sun. White clouds. Me and you and
The wild birds that flew, some poems
And they were written in a blank paper
Book,- yes with a pen and some
Quick easy fun drawings of flowers
And people, of mountains
And even of you
Screenshot
Terra Cotta Days
A plant container is everything, no?
Different sizes and their matted finish
Not glossy, perfect for the weather and the soil and the root systems. Nice. I like it.
Gardeners everywhere have these, and
The bases; the stands. It’s like writing or photography in that you can put any flowers you want inside them – you are a creator or at least a guide, a curator of the artistic and creative spirit a medium for something good
The Tree of Life
On a wall. Metal. Big. Symbolic of hope and organic cycle and beingness of existence. Love. Like. Look. The world outside the yard is quite quick and full of ambition, the worldly type. But the poets and artists understand the Magic of the gardens and the quiet meditative qualities of the yards in summer yes, the verdant and colourful gardens warm…
RUPA RAO INTERVIEWS WORLD POET AND PHILOSPHER DR JERNAIL SINGH ANAND.
Q — If you had a magic wand to change anything about your present or past—events, situations, people, views, words—what would they be and why?
Practically, it is impossible to retrieve even a moment that has slipped through our fingers. Yet, if we imagine possessing a magic wand capable of editing our past—our ideas, actions, and circumstances—I would change a few situations that proved deeply disturbing in my life. The first was the extreme poverty of my early years. It was dehumanising and filled me with a quiet dislike for the village I came from. I have very few happy memories, and those are tied only to my mother, my sister, and my father, who was helpless to provide for us because circumstances had forced him out of business. I certainly wish this had not been so.
We often believe that life has something in store for us and that we must abide by fate. Yet there was no wisdom in leaving Chandigarh and joining a post 250 km away in Mandi Dabwali. I also wish I had not accepted the Principal’s job at DAV College, Bathinda. I wanted to be a lecturer, and I became one. I wanted to be a poet, and I became that too. The overall drift of my life does not disappoint me. The end result is nearly satisfying. Happiness is an idea; satisfaction is another. I continue my pursuit of self-exploration and feel content with the journey.
Q — What would today’s Dr. Anand advise the child, youth, or adult Jernail Singh?
If you are born in poverty, the only option is struggle—single-minded devotion to your objectives, never looking sideways, always moving forward, and taking misfortunes in your stride. Scarcity taught me to fight for my ideals, and honest labour became my foundation. I would advise young Jernail to confront circumstances and achieve his goals. There is no shortcut to immortality; that lies in God’s hands. We must work within our powers and let God witness our honest efforts—efforts that harm no one, not even the cosmos. That is what I want my younger self to learn: stay focused, grateful, and responsible.
Q — If you were not a writer, what might you have pursued?
Had I not become a writer, I would have continued as a Lecturer in the Department of English and likely ended my career as a Principal, perhaps even a Vice-Chancellor. Writing made me disinterested in administrative roles, which felt like a drag. A VC has no time for himself or his family. Even as Principal, I was pressed for time and could not write much. My literary career gained momentum only after my retirement in 2015. In 2016, I visited Italy and Nigeria, and thereafter my work expanded rapidly, now crossing 200 books.
Q — What do you enjoy pursuing other than writing?
I enjoy walking in nature. I am a regular morning walker and often go to the fields and a small forest near my home. It is a joy to begin the day with the fresh smell of greenery, trees, and sometimes peacocks flying overhead. Occasionally, other wild animals appear, including serpents. Birds of many species accompany my walks. Earlier, before urbanisation overtook both sides of the slender road, there were birds of many feathers. Now, with bus horns, cars, and growing population, many have withdrawn. Still, squirrels, nightingales, and cuckoos remain and enliven my mornings and evenings.
Beyond this, I enjoy Urdu serials and browsing YouTube for news. I have organised around seven world poetry conferences and remain in constant touch with friends across the globe, inspiring young poets toward better work.
Q — What mishaps or mistakes guided you toward your destiny?
I recall one mistake that helped me move forward: forgetfulness—what I call memory leaps. Romantic people often suffer from it. I am reminded of Robert Lynd’s essay Forgetting, where he says players are the most forgetful people, and we are most casual with posting letters.
When I worked at Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana, I typed a letter and sent it to the Head for signatures. He rang a long bell meant for me. When I entered, he asked the date. I answered correctly. Then the month—I hesitated but got it right. Then the year—1976. He showed me the letter where all three were wrong. I apologised, but he issued an explanation letter. I replied that I was sorry and added that stenos are allowed ten percent marks during selection. This infuriated him, and he wrote in my Confidential Report that I was “forgetful.”
Looking at the reverse side of this incident, it is clear I was not meant to retire as a stenographer. And indeed, by March 1977, I joined Panjab University, Chandigarh, in the office of the Dean Student Welfare, located in the most vibrant part of the campus—the Students’ Centre.
Q — What are you most proud of—personally or professionally.
Many moments have made me proud, though I believe in humility. The greatest was seeing my name inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. The Charter of Morava, Honorary Membership of the Serbian Writers Association, the Seneca Award (Italy), and the Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky Awards—all were achievements anyone would cherish. The honour grew manifold when I realised Rabindranath Tagore too had been conferred Honorary Membership of the Serbian Writers Association.
Another proud moment was receiving the Honoris Causa Doctoral Degree from the University of Engineering and Management, Jaipur, at its 9th Convocation.
Yet the moment that truly changed my life was learning I had secured 55% in M.A. English, enabling me to join Lectureship—the dream I had pursued with passion.
Q — What would you like people to remember most about you?
Only that I believed in cosmic wisdom and tried to accomplish the tasks assigned to me by the Muse. Poetry is an inborn passion; it cannot be acquired through training. I revived the epic tradition in a postmodern world. I am not a critic of science and technology; I welcome change. Just as we mine the earth for its secrets, we must mine the human mind with the help of science. But science and technology have no mind of their own; they are driven by those who wield them. I wish humanity to cultivate moral clarity and train future generations to remain focused. Science is a tool, not a replacement for human consciousness. The greatest possibilities lie not in machines but in the human mind—and in knowing its limits.
DR JERNAIL S. ANAND
Dr. Jernail S. Anand, with 200 books to his credit—including 20 epics—is a Chandigarh-based polymath and a leading architect of 21st-century ethical literature. His seminal work Lustus: The Prince of Darkness challenges the moral complacency of our era.
Founding President of the International Academy of Ethics and Laureate of the Charter of Morava (Serbia), Seneca (Italy), Franz Kafka (Germany, Ukraine, Czech Republic), and Maxim Gorky (Russia), his name is inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He is an Honorary Member of the Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade. Anand’s poetics unite ethics, Vedic spirituality, social critique, and the philosophy of meaning. A moral philosopher, professor, and international speaker, he has devoted his research to the ethical dimension of language, the responsibility of the individual in a globalised society, and the relationship between matter, consciousness, and transcendence. Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com
An army child, Rupa Rao is a biographer, poet, writer, editor, and curator who holds an MBA and a Law degree. She serves as an admin at LWG and is Chief Coordinator for the International Academy of Ethics. Featured in multiple global anthologies, magazines, and literary platforms, she enjoys hosting poetry sessions, author interactions, nature walks, and yoga. She has curated and authored anthologies—poetry, short stories, and interviews—and penned Dr. Anand’s biography. She has also edited a fantasy novella and three poetry collections for fellow writers.
Just like God came down and clad himself in flesh,
That is how storytellers wear bodies not their own,
That is how they shift their own pain to take up the pain of another person.
Sometimes storytelling can be painful,
Just like it was painful for the Almighty when he wore the flesh.
He cried.
He wept.
He was hated.
He was persecuted.
He was crucified.
Storytelling on the other hand, is a calling one cannot run from.
It is impossible.
At the time of maturity, the stories you are meant to tell start looking for you,
Whispering into your ears.
It gives you access into its mysteries,
Into its different realms.
It draws you into solitude,
To tell a story.
To reveal a secret.
You wear other people’s bodies to tell some of these stories,
And it’s not often an easy process,
But you do it.
You have to do it.
You have to take off the burden.
So when we write, we are not only writing about ourselves.
We are wearing the bodies of millions of other people, born and yet unborn.
We are conversing with the universe.
We are talking to the universe.
We are writing about different worlds.
We are restoring dignity to places.
We are giving voices to the voiceless.
We are treading upon the serpents and scorpions of this world.
Art And Pain
Pain is the bedrock on which an artist sits to work.
Art is the artist’s response to pain.
When he’s assailed by pain
He sits down to make something out of it.
He sits down to talk back to pain,
To hold a conversation with pain.
He sits down to give pain his own blows,
The blows do not have to come from pain alone.
The artist wants to fight back.
He wants to give out his own punches,
Blows…
He wants to pummel pain.
Give pain some slaps.
Give pain his own ‘I dare you’ responses.
He wants pain to know there’s still a long way to go.
He wants to shame pain.
Belittle pain.
You think you are going to harm me?
But you are actually exalting me
Dear pain,
Thou exalts me!
You think you will make me cry.
But I’m carving beauty out of my scars.
I’m carving beauty out of my bruises.
I’m carving beauty out of the lashes you gave me.
You gave me a ladder to climb into creativity.
What else could the artist have done?
How else could he have coped?
How else could he have understood what was happening to him?
What was happening around him?
How else could he navigate through the myriad of questions?
He simply turns to art
He starts to paint.
He starts to design.
He starts to write.
He starts to create.
He starts to carve.
He starts to raise the dead in him.
To heal the blind in him.
He starts to rise,
Like Maya Angelou.
He starts to sing.
He starts to dance.
Where is thy sting, O pain?
Where are the chains you brandished?
Because they didn’t get me.
Your chains did not see me.
Because I leaped
Dear pain,
I jumped.
I transcended thy limitations
I have flown into the skies
I have spoken to the world
Where is thy sting, O pain?
Because I will continue to sing and fly into the heavens.
Isaac Dominion Aju is a Nigerian Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s appeared on Poetry X Hunger, Flapper Press, Asemana Magazine, Cajun Mutt Press, All Your Poems Anthology and The Kalahari Review. He’s the editor at Words Not Yet Spoken literary publication.
In our modern daily life, there are two main ways to read books: reading through electronic books or paper books. In past times, people could only use printed books, but nowadays, as technology develops day by day, we can also make use of e-books. This article discusses in detail the positive and negative aspects of both traditional and electronic books.
Nowadays, we can read e-books in almost any situation because they are located on our electronic devices, such as phones and tablets. We cannot only read them ourselves, but in situations when we might not be able to, we also have the opportunity to listen to their ready-made audio versions.
Just as online books have a number of useful aspects, they are not without harmful sides. For instance, if we read them for a long time, we may encounter eye disorders, meaning a decrease in visual acuity. Another aspect is that mobile books can easily disrupt readers’ reading routines. Because nowadays phones and other devices feature short-form videos and various entertaining games, they distract people quickly. As a result, the habits and routines of reading books can be disrupted, and interest in reading gradually declines.
Traditional books also have their own unique advantages. Taking them in hand, turning the pages, marking important parts, and keeping them on bookshelves as souvenirs give people a special feeling. Furthermore, printed books help us greatly to concentrate our attention. Printed books also have their respective negative aspects. For example, over time they can deteriorate, their colors can fade, and they can fall apart. Moreover, we face several challenges in finding newly released literary works because finding new books in remote villages causes difficulties.
In conclusion, both traditional books and electronic books are equally useful. Nevertheless, taking the above thoughts into account, I consider printed books to be more preferable. The reason is that they help us focus our attention. In my opinion, the advantages of paper books surpass those of e-books.
Such a nuisance—the little girl in nothing at all!
Even the intersection is unhinged, rushing with red eyes,
opening green eyes only to go blind.
No, not these.
Do not waste a thought on such things.
A man of your worth doesn’t bother with them;
please, do not ruin your evening.
Ask yourself instead: why is there no Starbucks here?
Is the coffee cloyingly sweet?
Thinkers like you crave a bitter brew.
Ponder your new lover’s swelling breasts instead—
the finest creation of beauty in the world is a woman’s breast.
Your fountain pen, engraved with the Madonna,
sheds its clothes as it writes—
compare the two pairs of breasts, while within your skull
a war breaks out between rival miracles.
Do not dare think of the beauty of the vagina,
it is like a black hole,
where your entire being collapses into nothingness.
Do not spoil the evening;
let each sip of coffee
yield another intoxicating draft.
May your evening be blessed. Let her arrive,
let her warmth outmatch the coffee’s steam.
Sit face to face and begin to write—
let the lover’s body strip down like the fountain pen.
Do not spoil the evening.
Drag the poem deep into the night—
let the ink of the fountain pen
flood the undiscovered vagina.
Ri Hossain is a prominent voice in Bengali poetry, recognized as a rebellious and resilient figure in the contemporary literary landscape. Born on August 19, 1981, in Rangpur, Bangladesh, with ancestral roots in Munshiganj, he began his literary journey in 1993. His poetry deeply reflects personal experiences, societal conflicts, urban alienation, and a steadfast commitment to free expression. Author of several works, including the poetry collection Kobitar Abhyutthan Chai (2024), his writing bridges social consciousness with profound psychological and intimate introspection.
Birds watch the red rock mountain and a tall, still
palm feathers the sky. A hawk to the left belongs
to the larger painting with a pear, a stone as in nectarine,
a pitcher with reflective gleam, branches, and a smaller,
rounded bird. There is a serenity here, a curtain
to the right. At night, does this still life sleep?
And are their dreams the same as mine that mine
the urgencies in self-splintered pieces not at peace?
Do they collect themselves in one gentle full-fledged day,
each fiber performing what it does? Here I see cerulean sky
might light the eyes. The will to hold still and breathe
from middle distance, a spirit on the lam hiding
hope for mid-day light and a little privacy.
Sonnet for Monsoon
Not a world to anyone please instead Stay unblinkingly astonished here Choose close listening don’t step listlessly away Remember your home once unremarkable Has left me repeatedly the natural Unspoken haven evening out The viola clef in the course of fife drummed in Let’s share a table and table work Those close-by people are so much work Tempting me to adulterate your life history Despite your refusing to wear Your hair in that faucet I recommend You take my course become shocked open To the not yet watched framed world
Jazz Fingerings
15/
Bass is reliable; wind blossoms land. One supper at a time, piano keys crawl
toward a not-yet destination. Something unnamed is golden to the touch
conferred like clothing on the line in a late summer partial breeze. The tone
once wished comes gently true. Hands limber toward clock time, then turn
away. Some cleanse seams a placid otherwise. One fraction at a time,
the thought of light erupts but inside quiet named nothing except froth,
a moth of mood until steep enclosure wrinkles what looked smooth.
A supple colorless blush leans toward an unexpected window brimming
with light brought in with the spirit. Is spirit legible? One chooses shades
of midnight to lie down upon. The texture steals the sound, then dreams
replace the mis-remembered daylight with wrist movements and sheepish
dream. How many consecutives can fit inside the case of the instrument
that parlays ounces of escape within the warm tones? The missing armature
is found beyond a rinse of mild caffeine, of other liquids once unsealed.
And melody holds still amid the gem of color almost heard between
the interstices of a jewel to be considered warm compared to glistening
keyboard’s in-charge motion in the moment fresh cards are played
and fill the tiny room that might become a yard in mind as open
as imagined fullness. Quick with change and quiet then. As optimistic
motion lotions its way into what’s possible while only smiles are held
within the smoke around the silver of the playthings that instruments remain.
Monody for Monday
I sleep through my carb-fed shimmering REM dream
where nothing and everything insidious lets go. A wreck
of metal belonging to someone else whose name has left
its mark minus the syllables. I sing in my sleep less than I laugh
at something that wakes me. And if you must know
the daylights out of this, my vocabulary makes fun of me
and my popping joints that feel fluent (sic) enough to me.
Ready or not, I love a good road trip as much as anybody. Two lanes
won’t quite do, but I’ll take them so long as they’re pointed north.
I used to gather arrowheads and tuck them inside something soft.
Wildflowers showered me with myself. Anymore, I don’t bother
glaring at the scenery. I’m a window facing the aisle through which
you can only perspire perhaps unknowingly on nature
sprinkling ablutions where least expectorated.
Sheila E. Murphy. A Pushcart-nominated poet, recent appearances include Gargoyle, Poetry Bay, Poetry, Lana Turner, Poetose, Volta, and others. Most recent book publications are I Want to Be Your Radio (Unlikely Books, 2025), Escritoire (Lavender Ink, 2025), and Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Recently performed at the New Orleans Poetry Festival. Won the Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003) and the Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.
