Thursday, December 1, 2022

DECEMBER 2022 V-8 No-9






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NilavroNill Shoovro

Talking With Poet



NILAVRONILL:Why do literature and poetry in particular interest you so much? Please give us some idea about your own perception of literature or poetry in general.

AMANITA SEN: Literature and poetry have been a way of life from the beginning. My parents subscribed to all Bengali literary magazines that were available in those days. ‘Anandamela’, ‘Shuktara’, ‘Chandmama’, ‘Desh’ ‘Sandesh’ were introduced to me when I was a child. Much later I have realised that poetry holds for us the mirror we need to have to not just see things around us ‘well, but to also see our own selves better. Like the mirror gives out the intricate details of the face that eyes miss to see, poetry often provides with words to the truth of our subconscious minds. Literature helps us to have a better understanding of the society. In a way it has often been a tool for change too, subtly working in the minds of the readers to enable a paradigm shift in the thought process, often making breakthrough with societal norms that surely needed a revamping or at least a focus that is pro-people. Munshi Premchand’s novel Sadgati,a harsh critique of the class hierarchy in India holds a mirror to the hideous fact of inequality on the basis of casteism in the country. Set in Bulgaria, during the Bulgarian-Serbian war, George Bernard Shaw’s play Arms and the man breaks the myth of the glorious side of the war by pitching realism against romantic idealism. These are the two stories that came to my mind as examples of literature being the mirror to the stagnating norms and ideals of the society.


NILAVRONILL: How do you relate your own self existence with your literary life in one hand, and the time around you, in the other.


AMANITA SEN: While man is the product of the society in general, his existence is also an individualistic one, where his emotions, thoughts find an expression from his own perception of the happenings around him. My literary life is more towards being an expression of my personal journey. I have also realised, it is so much upon me what I make of this time, I am in. Each age, century, decade comes with its own share of challenges, hardships and turmoil. My poetry is probably not apparently speaking of the bleakness of the present times in general. I write to try and make sense of the precarious play of time around me and my own existence here as well. That way my writing is an attempt to find meaning to the chaos called living.


NILAVRONILL: Do you believe creative souls flourish more in turmoil than in peace?


AMANITA SEN: It is entirely upon the individual and his own expressions that would decide what is the best trigger for creativity- a situation of turmoil or peace. The places that are geo-politically disturbed have seen some wonderful writings that are admired all over the world. Conflict is an important theme to write upon, irrespective of where you belong. There is no dearth of fodder for writing for those who thrive on turmoil. But I also believe that creative minds need to find or etch for themselves a state of peace in order to recollect, contemplate and reflect on their thoughts. So it is probably a balance of both that is needed for creativity.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think in this age of information and technology the dimensions of literature have been largely extended beyond our preconceived ideas about literature in general?

AMANITA SEN: Yes definitely. Literature being an expanding subject, information and technology is bringing close to us what new is being written in which corner of the world. There is no paucity of information on the amount of work being done all over the world. People are experimenting with different forms and genres to cater to the readers with little time to read and having short attention span as well.


NILAVRONILL: Now, in this changing scenario we would like to know from your own life experiences as a poet, writer and a creative soul: How do you respond to this present time?

AMANITA SEN: What I have realised is that every age comes with its share of challenges and conflicts. I write to express the waves of emotions I go through, looking around me. Words have the power to hold difficult emotions and help the mind in healing from the wearing out caused by the drudgeries of everyday life fuelled by the discrepancies between our expectations at the societal and personal level and the reality that we are made to face.

NILAVRONILL: Do you believe that all writers are by and large the product of their nationality? And is this an incentive for or an obstacle against becoming a truly international writer?

AMANITA SEN: A child learns about the social norms, culture, literature and heritage of the place he or she is born to. That way the concept of nation gets imbibed in his being.  If the word “nationality” is used in a restrictive sense, to prove some kind of supremacy of one nation on the other, then I think there would be few writers who would be called a product of such notion. A limiting sense of nation can be an obstacle against becoming a truly international writer.

NILAVRONILL: Now, if we try to understand the tradition and modernism, do you think literature can play a pivotal role in it?  If so, how? Again, how can an individual writer relate himself or herself to the tradition and to modernism?

AMANITA SEN: A thorough knowledge of our tradition can be the strong base on which we can build the house of modernism. The stronger the foundation, larger and more beautiful can be the house. Time will inevitably replace the old for the new. But a good knowledge of tradition and our rich cultural and literary heritage can only help in experimenting with new ideas. I am reminded of Tagore’s autobiography “Jeeban-smriti” that mentions about his learning of Upanishads and other ancient texts of our country. His poems, songs, novels carried in them the essence of the philosophy of the old scriptures, though they were all modern in their forms, content and expressions.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think literary criticism has much to do with the development of a poet and the true understanding of his or her poetry?

AMANITA SEN: Responsible and knowledgeable criticism might help a writer or a poet to develop his craft. It is always good to see a constructive feedback on one’s work. But if that would help the writer to grow would depend on his or her openness, sense of acceptance and desire to learn. The intent of the criticism and the writers’ perception of it should have a strong sense of positivity in order to make the whole exercise a rewarding one for the writer, reader and critic.

NILAVRONILL: Do you think society as a whole is the key factor in shaping you up as a poet, or your poetry altogether?

AMANITA SEN: As human beings we are the product of our genes and environment. The happenings in our surroundings, society leave a mark on us that find expression in words. If the word “society” implies everything external, then maybe it is not a key factor in my poetry. My poems distinctly talk of an inward journey that is sometimes driven by societal factors but not always.


NILAVRONILL: Do you think people in general actually bother about literature?  Do you think this consumerist world is turning the average man away from serious literature?


AMANITA SEN: Literature has a dwindling set of readers now. The rat race for a good career leave children with little options to read anything other than their text books. Also, the advent of social media is taking away people from serious reading. There is also a distinct rise in all forms of entertainment specially in audio-visual mediums that is encroaching upon the leisure time that could be spent reading.

NILAVRONILL: We would like to know the factors and the peoples who have influenced you immensely in the growing phase of your literary life.


AMANITA SEN: I was born in a literature-loving family. Books have been a constant companion from my childhood. Though I was not sent to a vernacular medium school, my parents believed that knowing the mother tongue well, was important for a child’s education. So, birthdays and all other occasions got me books written by Tagore, Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay, Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay, Bibhuti bhusan Bandopadhyay, Satyajit Ray and many other notable writers. An aunt had a beautiful library that got me introduced to the wonderful world of Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, O Henry, GB Shaw and other great writers. My father wrote poems and essays every morning, which he made me read before I left for school. Reading widely and indiscriminately helped me a lot to make sense of the world around me.

NILAVRONILL: How would you evaluate your contemporaries and what are your aspirations for or expectation from the younger generation?


AMANITA SEN: My contemporaries are simply brilliant in terms of their creativity. Their works are inspiring and are eagerly read by many. I try to learn from quite a few of them. I am absolutely hopeful that the younger generation would contribute meaningfully to the body of literature by adding newer and more modern insights to it. The onslaught of electronic media would only add to the variety of work and make it accessible to many.


NILAVRONILL: Humanity has suffered immensely in the past, and is still suffering around the world. We all know it well. But are you hopeful about our future?

AMANITA SEN: Hope is a small but powerful word. It brings for mankind the much-needed salvation from the looming sense of despair ignited by the unending war in some parts of the world and all other discrepancies, divisiveness, inequalities and hatred that make way to the hearts of the people. Hope is our ticket to the peaceful world we envision for ourselves.

NILAVRONILL: What role can literature in general play to bring a better day for every human being?


AMANITA SEN: Literature has the ability to change a person for the better from within. It can sow the seed of good thinking which in turn can translate to good deeds, beneficial for humanity at large. If people are encouraged to read more, there are chances that society will see happier and neurologically stronger people, considering reading is a complex neurological exercise. Psychologically too, people will stand to be benefitted by learning in depth the nuances of human minds from literature. Crime rates might find a dip. But all this can happen if only people go back to reading intently.

Author of two volumes of poetry, “Candle in my dreams “and “What I don’t tell you”, Amanita Sen’s poems have been published in many journals in India and abroad. She practices mental health and lives in Kolkata.





In this stranger of a room,

my feet shuffles hesitatingly.


Unfamiliarity strikes hard,

like I am the princess inside


a moss-ridden, dark palace

making my way through cobwebs.


The dusty settee faintly reminds

of two bodies that lay here often.


The writing desk looks the grimmest,

struggling to forget crumpled letters.


Words have a deeper imprint, no one

 knows it better than the wooden desk.


As if spelled to sleep, this room

feels neck deep in desolation.


 As I stagger out of the room

dizzy with dust that time has gathered,


a known smell of perfume hits my senses

like it has known no wearing out,

living out here a charmed existence.




Stepping out of Flury’s

a warm winter night,

a lady stops a little

pondering if she might

give to this bony boy

what he's begging for-

a few of her coins;

the hunger-beating toy.


"Modi's taken my money,

can I pay you by my card?"

To her own witty quip

she is laughing hard.


He watches her thin out.

Is there hurt in his glare?

I feel a sudden chill

in the laughter-ridden air.


The Old Lady


Towards the end of the night

it feels cold like the bones wish


they had warmth to snuggle with.

The doorbell rings feebly and I

stagger to find an old lady there.


Her eyes are hollow like they

have not known love ever, or

have lost the memory of it.


I open the doors wide to let her in.

She shares with me whatever

little lights my room has. Its heat too.


Much is left of the cold night.

Do I now read a glimmer in her eyes?

For my own bones- will they stop the clatter?


Mourning Grandmother


Bereavements have a strange sameness

in the tears that follow, or in the absence of it.

 The ensuing numbness, shock,

 the fear of an unforeseen absence

not featuring in the same order every time

make a pattern of grieving,

you learn with time.


Yet each loss, like a new painting emerges 

with shades that look similar to some colour

you have seen before, but their mix is novel.


Like when I mourned the grandmother.

The tears felt colder than her

Boroline-softened hands,

not dry from the kitchen chores.


As cool as her skin in her ripe old age,

when her blood and blood-ties grew colder,

the tears were a relief on a brutally hot summer day.

Typically grandmotherly, to make it relieving

for me even in her death.




AMNITA SEN: Author of two volumes of poetry, “Candle in my dreams “and “What I don’t tell you”, Amanita Sen’s poems have been published in many journals in India and abroad. She practices mental health and lives in Kolkata.




City Of Dreams


The music froze in the night,

But there is no disappointment,

And the "Salt" note is bitter again

From a stupid confession.

And the heart wants love,

Melody of love call me…


So often we meet bliss,

And this is the excess in life.

And in the note "Fa" there was a falsehood,

And in the note "Re" jealousy wanders,

But the heart wants love,

Melody of love call me…


To the city of dreams – Paris, where everything comes true,

Where madame and monsieur meet,

And the gentle "Lamour" sounds over the Seine!

The city of love is Paris, intoxicates with chestnuts,

So captivate with its secrets,

And I sing to you tenderly "Lyamur"!


From "To" to "Si" it rains,

In "Mi" disappointment again,

But you wait a bit

After all, desires are fulfilled,

And the heart wants love,

Melody of love call me…


The Song Is About Nothing


Evening, good page,

take me home.

This crew

You give it to someone else.


Street lamp

We will be beckoned by languid light,

Sunny amber

Dissolved by dawn.


The song is about nothing,

Just me, and only the evening.

He is his ray

Lights candles.


Subtle magic

He is touching the firmament,

The song is about nothing

Enlivens the notes.


For a long time about nothing

You whispered to me smiling,

And with your shoulder

Gently touching me like that.


Evening, you are my friend

From now on, forever.

The day is like a circle,

Meetings are endless.


Maybe There Is Love In The Heart…


Low, low clouds float over the ground,

Driven by a warm wind to the south.

You've forgotten me, maybe it's for now,

After all, we gave our word to each other.


I won't answer you, and I won't ask you a question,

You probably know the exact answer yourself.

Maybe love has been dissolved in the heart for a long time

And the answer is not given to me…


I believe our love was born

Like a morning ray at dawn,

But you obviously knew the question and the answer,

It was as cold as the north wind.


I won't believe it now, and at a banquet

I'm like a hunted animal, like a flower in the wind.

Maybe love has been dissolved in the heart for a long time

And the answer is not given to me…


Like a cold fog settled in the shower

And resentment, and the bitterness of separation.

I wanted to return everything, it's already too late:

I hear only sad sounds.


And the question is in vain, and I don't know the answer,

And I don't need you, and I don't need the whole world.

Maybe love has been dissolved in the heart for a long time

And the answer is not given to me…




IRINA SHULGINA: Born in the Siberian city of Krasnoyarsk. Graduated from KSAMT. Composer, poetess, singer, vocal teacher. Honored Worker of Culture of the Krasnoyarsk Territory. Soloist Kras. state Philharmonic Ensemble "KrasA" Head of the family ensemble "Sisters". The Shulgin family is a laureate of the All-Russian competition "Family of the Year". Honorary Worker of Literature and Art of the LIK International Academy (Germany). Academician of the Petrovsky Academy of Sciences and Arts (St. Petersburg). Academician MARLEY (Canada). Academician LIK (Germany). Representative of the Federation of the World Society of Culture and Arts of Singapore. Member of the Union of Songwriters Kras. the edges. Member of ISP (Moscow). Member of SPSA and ISAI. The author of more than 300 songs in different genres, hymns, which are performed by soloists and groups from different regions of Russia. Laureate of International and All-Russian competitions. Grand Prix of the International Competition in France. Winner of the competition of individual grants of the governor of the region, for his personal contribution to the preservation and development of culture. Recipient of the Order of Merit in Literature and Art.



I Was Dancing


I danced on tiptoe


clinging myself to the most unspeakable dreams

of slot… survivors.

I was looking for a safe foothold

which sometimes turns into a port

so dark.

Up there, among the dripping branches

of dew, I rose up

where the eyes dazzled

of rising light

to embroider on the essence

of infinity.

Beyond the blue of the sky

beyond the earthly agony…

Beyond life itself.




And in this cosmic empty

the soul

finds no shelter.

He is at the mercy of feelings

that does not blend well

with his desire to


in a joyful air.

Sooner or later

he will find the right key

to open the door

to smiles hungry for love...

and evanescent anxieties

they will give the way

to new latitudes...


Flesh Heart


Yes, I have a heart

flesh made

eyes dressing dreams

they range

in the infinite celestial vault

to step on grains of salt

straight to the center

of mine drives, fragile and strong

as only a fair woman

warrior and mother, can be.

Although a heart can be hard


it is the abode of a soul... doesn’t


I take my leave of my distortions

kissed by shining moons.

I dress in hibiscus, still in flower

without ceasing to honor sprouts.

Then I take a run... madly

and I fly away, far away

from an hybrid and sifted earth.

I am a flesh heart made

in my lights and shadows

that hug me, and in the middle

there is all my life.




FRANCESCA PATITUCCI:  She has been writing poetry for several years.  She is a teacher of English language and culture. She worked, for about twenty years, in a multinational in the field of Human Resources. She has two sons. The passion for writing and reading was born from a young age. She is a lyricist for musical pieces, one of these present in a collection released last August by a well-known singer-songwriter from Palermo. She reviews books of her “pen-friends”, edits poetry collections and often sworn in literary competitions. She has obtained several important awards in the national and international competitions in which she has participated and she’s present in various poetic anthologies, in monthly and daily magazines, writes monthly articles in an online magazine and collaborates as an administrator in a literary group of fb with weekly social workshops.




In The Wind


For what is in the wind,

but a prayer, a song;

giving praise to the earth,

where both belong.


A whisper of love,

a caress tender and true:

yet, what it holds together

it can also undo.


Seeds of beauty,

strewn and sown;

finding a place to thrive

until they've grown.


We are all wind,

carrying words that weigh;

sending them soaring

on any given day.


A thousand murmurs,

carried on her breeze;

the wind holds them all

while caressing the trees.


A warm summer day,

a cool autumn brush;

a cold crisp finger

causing all to rush.


The air is swirled,

making leaves glide by;

a current under wings

allowing birds to fly.


Yet, what is in the air,

but the promise of spring;

and warm sunny days

when songbirds sing.


Tearing all down,

she can rage fast and fierce;

scattering all o’er the earth,

she can cut and can pierce.


Secrets, joys, and lost loves,

even horrors, she's pinned;

all close to her breast,

forever carried on the wind.


One cannot truly know her,

or even presume to guess;

the wind is eternal,

and invisible her dress.


You know she is there,

just watch and you’ll see;

all sway in her presence

as she flies free.


Take her not for granted,

for if she ever goes away,

a hush will fall around you

and sad will be the day.


For what is in the wind,

but eternity and breath;

a thing taken for granted,

right up to every death.


Shadows In The Night


When the shadows of the night

tiptoe through your halls,

and the whispers of the wind

still the voices in the wall.


Cry out, oh you wanderers

of dark and ghastly places;

withdraw from this expanse,

depart, oh dreadful faces.


Banish all the demons

who are clinging to this place;

send them to the outlaying

with dignity and grace.


Raise ye, all the banner

of liveliness and light;

send it soaring outward

with your very might.


Soothe your shivering self

with His peace and loving grace,

and place a sacred blessing

to hold upon this space.


Return to peaceful slumber,

knowing light hath vanquished dark;

rest now, securely in His arms,

wrapped safely in His Holy spark.


Pool Of Tears


I am standing

in a pool of tears,

reflections staring back at me.


Sadness and heartbreak,

joy and happiness,

swirl together so silently.


Lost loves,

children stolen

by addiction and mental health.


Found friends,

reunited once more,

some of our greatest wealth.


Tears splash,

flowing down

into a river of sorrow.


As I paddle,

holding onto wings

of the Angel that I borrow.


There are days I sink,

overcome by pain,

unable to swim, I reach.


His hand, always there,

reaching down to me,

so the surface I can breach.


Sentimental feelings,

a fools cash, some say,

not worth holding onto.


Yet, there is laughter,

and joy that splash,

creating a ripply brew.


Time settles,

with the emotions felt

across so many years.


Always, I am reflected,

when I'm standing

in a pool of tears.


Smokey Hues Of Blue


Through smokey hues of blue,

the world reveals herself to me

and makes me to see;

unfolding gently,

sometimes wildly.


In a tango of conflict,

waves curl and roll;

crashing and thrashing

like an unsettled sea,

she dances.


Beckoning, she calls,

trying to lure me in,

with cloudless skies

and sunny days;

obscuring the deluge.


I, ever watchful

through my shades of blue,

see with clear vision

that which she would

disguise and conceal.


A misty haze gives way

to waterfalls and rainbows;

sparkling and dazzling,

the world in her glory;

creation revealed.


Yet, in her gentleness,

lays a tamed wilderness;

an oxymoron within itself,

for amid the colour, she resides,

within the smokey hues of blue.




LESLIE C DOBSON: Leslie is a Canadian Poet, Author, and an Inspirational and Spiritual blogger. She finds great joy in writing and sharing her works with others.  Her collection of works can be found on her website,



In The Shade Of The Cherry Tree


The earth cries

The memory of your steps

That your soles

Have too often sprained.

The cherry trees

Do not bloom,

He’s not here anymore

For so many years.


The straw hat

Hung in the barn

Rest for ever.





The soles bite




Tear the flesh


Horizon blown

Deadwood Legacy

Memory laceration

- Trace -



The Sky Is Roaring


The sky is roaring

On the tree

Seal of History


A land

Their land


Through the veins of shadow


- Out of memory

The flesh the wind –




SANDRINE DAVIN was born on 15/12/1975 in Grenoble (FRANCE) where she still resides. She is the author of contemporary poetry inspired by tankas, she has published 15 collections of poetry, the latest of which is entitled "Fracture de terre" at The Book Edition. Her works are studied by primary and middle school classes where Sandrine works with these students. She has this taste for sharing poetry with young audiences and making them want to write...





I wish

you could be succesfull

to get back to me


And this time

love could start from your feets

instead of your hands!




I am writing

“The loneliness”

On the sands

So that

Wind can take it away.




My eyes and Your Hands

They are both good hunters

When we both target

Each other’s hearts




DONYA MIRZAEI was born in Tehran on 11 March 1980. Besides her own poems; She also appeared in Iranian and Turkish literary magazines with the poems of many poets she translated. She also translated the poetry books of Turkish poets and writers into Persian anda the poetry books of Persian poets into Turkish.