Wednesday, November 1, 2023



Game Of Words


You always pleaded

“Don’t mind my words!”


But how do you forget

The power of words,

You are a magician

Who plays so many games

And tricks with words!


The words you uttered

May not mean what they are

But like cruel stones

They bruised my lovelorn heart

Like sharp needles or knives

They pricked and let the blood ooze

That is still clotted at the edges of memory.


I like to wipe the surfaces

Clean the dirt and paint colours

To hide the smeared edges

Of scratched photographs

And the broken glass panes

But cannot cello tape your month

Or exhibit my bruises or wounds!


So I prefer the silent zone

The rain-soaked garden

The twilight darkness

The bhajans in the temple

And the company of ink and pen.


I have painted

The ruined temple of your life

In the vivacious colours of love

You have offered me roses and diamonds

 Which I cherish like my treasure

But your words have smeared me black.


You believe it or not

But when I am gone

You will realize

How truly I loved your grace

And never betrayed your trust.


June Sun


“The dry rivers are

Desiccated in agony

How rude the June Sun is!”

Said the fish to the turtle.


But the cocky crabs trotting

Reveling on their sandy beds

They whispered to their mates

“The June Sun is so warm and mirthful.”


The crocs crouching under the rocks

Drooling eagerly to dupe the thirsty think

“The June Sun is mighty and dreadful

When will the August showers come?”


But the clever shrimps

Swimming away to the gorgeous lakes

Clap for the June Sun and exclaim,

“You did well to scorch the green trees

They don’t share their flowers and fruits with us!”




The grains of memory are slipping through

The throat of Time’s hourglass,

Is it age or Alzymehrs?

I am floating in the air

Or am I drowning in the deep sea?

My breathing is slow and shallow

My pulse is threadbare

My heart is pulsating like an old Bedford car


Am I ready to fly away into oblivion?


Time is still flowing, but how do I measure

The time left?

The grains are still slipping

Through the throat of the hourglass of Time.


I know, my bare body is bereft of green

When the Spring will come

No more new leaves or flowers will bloom

No more bees will hum around my aroma-less body

The butterfly in my chest will flutter slowly

And my eyes will be fixed on the glazing sun

Darkness will overpower the flickering of the dim lamp inside.


The hourglass of Time will bear witness

To the shudder on my praying lips,

Uttering “Hey Ram!”





Dr. Mrs. SUMITRA MISHRA, a bilingual writer from Odisha, India, is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement, she has devoted herself more determinedly to creating literary works in English and Odia. Her poems and short stories in both English and Odia are widely published in literary magazines and e-zines. To her credit she has thirty six (36) published books; 26 in Odia and 10 in English. She writes poems, short stories, plays, essays, articles and translates works from English to Odia and from Odia to English. She lives in Bhubaneswar with her family.

No comments :

Post a Comment