Thursday 23 December 2021

One More Line and Other Poems

Title: One More Line and Other Poems
Genre: Poetry
Author: Sujatha Warrier
Publisher: Authorspress
Bookstore: Amazon 

Excerpt from the Foreword to the Book

"The mark of a good poet is to sustain the theme within the poem’s ambit and good poetry is never effusive in language. If it is to come alive it must be put together efficiently, organized naturally, say like a tree, whose every part serves a useful purpose and cooperates with every other part to preserve and express the life that is within it. Sujatha succeeds in that aspect quite effortlessly.

Poems, like semi-transparent opal, flash out different colours when slowly turned in the light. Readers' understanding and receptivity must turn in that light to enjoy all the facets that her poems offer."

 - Ambika Ananth, Author, Poet, Journalist, Founder Editor of 'Muse India'

Between Thought and Expression


A thought turns into a word. Words run into lines. Lines become an expression. Some of these expressions connect to your mind like leaves to a petiole. Some fall in an autumnal disarray. Some stay with you wherever you go, like leaves carried by the wind to different places. Whatever be its fate, every leaf has its own purpose. Here, I hold out to you a small foliage of expressions. Each, I am sure, will find its destiny.

 - Sujatha Warrier 

The book is available on Amazon at the following link:

Friday 17 December 2021

Of Yellow Hues






നിൻ്റെ വെൺനിലാപാട്ടിൽ?

നിന്നിൽ നിന്നൂറി-

പ്പരക്കുന്നതോ മഞ്ഞ

എൻ്റെ ശൂന്യമാം വാനിൽ?

© ജയശ്രീ പെരിങ്ങോട്


Whether it be the sun
seeping down
melting into
the fair moonlight of your song
or the yellow hue
oozing from you
in my sky of nothingness?

© Sujatha Warrier


Friday 10 December 2021

Light of Knowledge

PC: Manikantan Mundakkal

Knowledge and ignorance. One chases and the other flees. It's like a chasing game between light and darkness. The darkness of ignorance has to be driven away by the light of knowledge. While darkness can always creep in on its own, light has to be kindled.

Translation is a delightful experience as you delve into each line and the lines in between.


ഇരുളു ചുറ്റി-

വരിയും വെളിച്ചമേ 

കുതറി മാറുക -




തുരത്തുക -

നീയാണു സത്യമെന്നു 

നിറഞ്ഞു പടരുക -

© ജയശ്രീ പെരിങ്ങോട്


Shrug away, Light,
this darkness
that binds you tight!
Chase it away
with a glare
should it crawl back again.
Swell up and suffuse
as you would
the truth that you are.

© Sujatha Warrier

Friday 3 December 2021

The Brahmmastra - Unleash Your Hidden Power to Heal

Knowledge – the Ultimate Weapon

Book Title: The Brahmmastra – Unleash Your Hidden Power to Heal
Author: Dr. A. Sreekumar
Publisher: Authorspress
Bookstore: Amazon

“The Brahmmastra – Unleash Your Hidden Power to Heal” by Dr. A. Sreekumar is a unique book with an interesting perspective on health or “Wellness” as to how it should be really perceived and how it can be actually achieved. The author tells you how to go beyond your five senses and to look beyond scientific proofs to understand yourself, your body and your health. After all, all scientific evidences began only as a belief in someone’s mind. The fact that most of what man has discovered are researched further and disproved later to discover new facts shows that man has almost always been wrong.

“We want science to support anything for believing it. And that leads to the thought that science is information manipulated to show proof so as to create belief. In fact, science is described as nothing but a bundle of lies. It’s just evidences that may be very strong till someone disproves it. So life is an argument or just a crossing between truth and falsehood.”

The author further asks – Are we living in good health or comfort? All the progress and development that we made in science and technology have, in fact, given us more and more comfort at increasing cost of our own health.

“Today we have reached the extremes. Luxury, money and comfort are taking us for a ride. Glucose, the human energy currency, has become our destroyer. Oxygen, our soul and life, and Fat, the real essential, are all our enemies now. We are trying to attack and destroy them with chemicals. These so-called chemicals that are designed to protect our life are also our enemies.”

Today we understand health to be just a state where we do not have any illnesses. Was this our belief all along or were we led to believe this? A question that is worth pondering. The belief that health is nothing but a state of lack of disease is perhaps what is most detrimental to health. The belief ensures that health and wellness remains forever seemingly close yet always out of reach.

“Though the definition of health is scientific, we see health as only a state of absence of diseases – the reason why most health check-ups are designed to screen for particular diseases. This screening for early detection of diseases is causing more stress than prevention. If nothing is detected, we have to wait for the next review in six months or one year with the hope of detecting a disease.”

Hence, the focus should never by on disease but on health. To put it simply, disease care should not rule our lives, and health care should be our way of life. And the right system of health care would be one that integrates “food and medicine in the most symbiotic way to ensure better health and life.” And the Brahmmastra that the author refers to here is nothing but the awareness of one’s own hidden potential to destroy anything that can challenge one’s existence.

“Your understanding of yourself would pave the way for better health. You are little short of a galaxy, and you know that there is a hidden, subtle power that is responsible for everything in you…You have to understand clearly the hidden mechanism and how to achieve the perfect balance for a smooth survival in any environment. Optimal and sustainable health is an absolute necessity. This understanding of your innermost power is called Brahm.”

Personally, I find that any knowledge to figure out which you have to seek within yourself is nothing but a reflection of that ultimate truth knowing which you would never need to seek anything anymore. Dr. Sree takes us on a journey right into the primary cell within our body and he shows us how the functioning of this cell is in tandem with the environment. And what he refers to as environment is the environment around us and the environment within us. Indeed, one realises in the end that the line, if at all there is one, that divides the two is but thin.

Thank you, Dr. Sree for writing this book. 

Thursday 25 November 2021



I am the boundless sky
I am the infinite space
I am the changing hues
in the cloud waves
yet, my soul is caged.

I am the burning sun
I am the roaring wind
I am the endless horizon
that can never be chained
yet, my soul is caged.

I am the rising flight
I am the soaring heights
I am the swelling sea
and the surfing waves
yet, my soul is caged.

I am the seamless spirit
the being of being
I have no boundary
nor a bondage
yet, I am, oh, so caged!


Friday 19 November 2021

Within and Without

K. Krishna Das

The smile on the periwinkle
is the joy of the entire spring.

What fills the drop of rain,
fills the entire ocean.

And that little breath
that gasped through me
was the wind that toppled the tree.


Friday 12 November 2021


Bharati Varrier

The day still simmers

for all its burnt out summers

in the night's embers.


[A tribute to poppies fallen on the asphalt at sundown, this ekphrastic haiku was first published in The photograph was clicked by Bharati Varrier.]

Friday 5 November 2021


An era lingers,
at times hides,
at time reveals
in the long corridors
of light and shade
between earthen walls
of grit and gravel
bound through time
by ethereal nostalgia;

history breezes
through the passageways,
spirals up the domes,
falls back in echoes,
clings to the arches
in an eternal scroll;
memories sparkle
in jewel-like hues
amid the rubbles
of a recalled bazaar –
an era caught and trapped
by layered ramparts
wanders at ease
in the labyrinth
unhurried, unworried
of the fleeting centuries.


*Golconda Fort, originally built in mud and later expanded using granite, is an over-500-year-old fort in Hyderabad, Telangana, India. The fortress city, during its golden era, used to be a centre for diamond trade.

Tuesday 26 October 2021


Rivers rushed and rose

off their course

All the swollen dams

be goddamned!


[The poem is an extract from the collection of micropoems, Fireflies.]

Monday 18 October 2021

When memory floods...


Mountains crumbled
as forests drowned
and floods tumbled
from town to town.


[This poem is from the collection of micropoems, "Fireflies".  The poem was written during the time of the devastating floods in Kerala in 2018 . The photograph is a recent one, clicked during the torrential rains in 2021. The relevance of the poem, unfortunately, continues.]

Sunday 10 October 2021


Bharati Varrier

I could see the light
in the night, but not the way
and I went astray.


[This ekphrastic haiku was first published in The photograph was clicked by Bharati Varrier somewhere on the streets of Goa.]

Sunday 3 October 2021

The Still Thirsty Crow


The crow hangs around the eaves today. Just as he had done the last morning. Yesterday he had slipped his beak into the rain gutter to take a sip of the previous night’s rain. Today he’s prancing along the trough to see if there’s any water – here, there or just around the corner. Well, no. Today is not his lucky day.

He flew in to this neighbourhood just a few days ago. It's a kind of homecoming. He had flown away from here way back when the pigeons had taken over these roofs. Strangely, the pigeons are nowhere in sight these days.

The crow wakes up from his reverie. He slants his gaze into the eaves trough once again. Could there be some drops caught at the corner? Or near the spout? Just enough so he could throw in the much-fabled pebbles? Then the water might rise a bit. It just might! But, no, there’s not even a drop. For, it had not rained last night.

Strange are the seasons nowadays. They used to span the year. Now they come and go as they please, every day. The rain was pelting the roof just the other night. And today the entire trough is dried up. Now, where can he find some water to wet his throat? Wherever the pigeons find it, perhaps. Where are the pigeons, by the way?

Fall was yesterday
Summer had its way last night
It might rain tonight.


Sunday 26 September 2021

The Room Next to My Room


Bharati Varrier

The room next to my room

is a wee too perfect.

Bed is made,

pillows fluffed

to good shape,

everything well in place.

No clothes are in disarray

nor books lolling open

or closed,

no bags half unpacked

or packed

in happy repose.

Wardrobes are a surprise,

all in perfect order,

tidy too,

curtains are quite drawn,

no laundry overdue.

The gadgets are amiss

and their crazy complexity

of cords – 

a network on their own, 

a tangled web of sorts.

The room next to my room

is flawless,

or almost,

like a nest

of small chirruping birds

that grew their wings and left. 


[This poem is an excerpt from "The Attic & Other Poems".]

Thursday 23 September 2021


The sun slowly sinks
and the night falls at ease,
still the sunshine clings
to the golden rain trees.


[This poem is an excerpt from the collection of poems, "Fireflies".]


Thursday 16 September 2021



Krishna Raj Warrier

The journey is long and the baggage is heavy. One finds it difficult to lug around. Yet one's reluctant to put it down for good.



from place to place,

gathering stuff

from here and there,

discarding some

on the wayside,

my backpack

is loaded, heavy

and stretching

at its seams,

my journey begins

as I pick it up

and stops over

as I put it down,

the road speeds on

                slipping off my feet

as I tote around

                my belongings

from one place

to another

and yet another

until my bag

flops flat, deflated

…and empty.


Thursday 9 September 2021

Golden Hour

Chinmoy Biswas, West Bengal

It’s that hour when sunshine falls on a lean River Matla. The rays brush up her delicate contours. They sweep across her banks and naked riverbed. The landscape is aglow as the river turns into molten gold, its aura lighting up the traveller’s trail.

[This microtale was written for the above photograph, which was shortlisted in the Greenstorm Nature Photography Contest 2020, and was published on the Greenstorm Foundation website.]

Thursday 2 September 2021


Yercaud Poetry Festival 2021, the fourth edition of the series, was themed on "Air". The title of the event was "Breathe Poetry  Reclaim Life". "Breath" is one of my poems contributed to the anthology of the same title. This video is a souvenir of the event.


The world is equal, you said. Like all blood runs red. But that’s truth distorted. For some, it’s red. And for some, it’s red black. Like a binary tree, it gradates from red to black.  For, they have bled. They have bled for long, and their wounds have clotted.

The world is equal, you said. Like the sun shines on all. A tale nothing short of tall. On some, it shines light. And on some, bright. So bright, now there are dark skins and black lives. So black, not a ray of hope can pass.

The world is equal, you said. Like all are made of elements. With dimensions. Of time, space and substance. Well, that’s naïve, if not dense. For, the world looks through some. As if they are empty spaces. They might as well be fragments.

The world is equal, you said. Like the air is for all to breathe. Now, if that isn’t falsity! Air breathes white lies into some. And then black lives cease to be.

Your law kneels
Way too hard on me
I can’t breathe!


Friday 27 August 2021

Book of Verse

A book pops out of the cupboard where it was hiding for ages. The book is strangely intact. It falls open, as though by its own instinct, to certain pages. They are filled with scribbled words  some in verse, some worse. Memories  each more delightful than the other – are packed between the lines.

Book of Verse

The book appeared
almost sinister
like a ledger,
a little weird,
out of place and awkward
in my cupboard,
propped up on its binder
in the farthest corner,
standing upright there
for years together,
treasured as it were,
and utterly obscure
in the darkest innards
of the cupboard.

Among souvenirs
whose memories had expired,
the journal, a tad peculiar,
and barely dog-eared
was rediscovered
amidst its tattered peers,
falling well open as per
its habit of years
at a leaf much pored over,
with scrawling words
in scatters.

The mind turned pages
back through the ages
of small surprises,
our meeting each other
to forever blather
in rhymes and meters,
every verse ventured
countered with another,
losing track of the junctures
and the conjunctures.

In flashes as I conjured
images of yesteryears,
I gently laid the ledger
propped up on its
in the farthest corner
obscure as it were
and utterly treasured
in the deepest innards
of my cupboard.


Thursday 19 August 2021

To the muse that you are...Gulzar!

PC: Public Domain

This is one of my tributes to Gulzar Saab whose verses never cease to haunt me. A poem inspired by the lyrics of one of his songs. This is not a translation, nor a transcreation. And no, this is not transgression. This is a poem that wrote itself in my mind inspired by his poetry. A humble tribute to him on his birthday.

These liquid jewels
of joy
peeping through
the petals of my life,

These limpid beads
of sorrow
hidden below
the canopy of my eyes,

These gentle sprays
of crashing waves
draining the sand
from under my feet,

This drizzling bliss
of existence
seeping slowly
into my entire being,

These tiny blobs
of life
let me savour
...little by little
...drop by drop.

[Inspired by the song Katra katra milti hai in the movie, Ijaazat]

Tuesday 17 August 2021

The Fall

They took flight from hell

Far away from War Gods’ knell

Then to heaven fell.


[With the Taliban establishing its rule over Afghanistan after completing the capture of capital Kabul, shocking visuals from the country are pouring in showing panic-stricken people desperate to flee the country...The unbelievable video showed an airplane taking off from Kabul airport and at least three people falling off a US military plane. (Aug 16, 2021,]

Tuesday 10 August 2021

Blue Hour

Pranab Basak, West Bengal

It’s the blue hour with splashes of orange when the sun lingers just around the corner. When the boats still rest lazily at the anchors and the waters are still. The waves barely move on the shores, holding the shadows intact. The sky dons pearl-white frills, and the moon still hangs around.

[This microtale was written for the above photograph, which was shortlisted in the Greenstorm Nature Photography Contest 2020, and was published on the Greenstorm Foundation website.]

Wednesday 4 August 2021

Gothambu Kanji (Wheat Porridge)

Roughly translated, gothambu kanji is wheat porridge in English. However, “wheat porridge” lacks the culture and flavour of g’ kanji. It’s a simple dish made with broken wheat and milk, with some sugar added to taste. Boil the wheat in milk, which should be around double the quantity of wheat. It gets cooked in no time. Then add sugar, and your g’ kanji is ready. However, g’ kanji made in this way is not my favourite. I add a special ingredient to it, called ‘memories’, and then the kanji takes on an enticing flavour.

From as far back as I can remember, my grandfather, or Achhan as I call him, used to have g’ kanji for breakfast and dinner. But he had his own way of preparing it. He would boil half a cup of broken wheat in one cup of water. Once it starts boiling, he switches the burner off, and lets the pot remain on the burner properly closed. The rest of the cooking happens gradually inside the pot. He cooks this around dusk and by dinnertime, when he opens the lid, the wheat is properly cooked with not a drop of excess water in it. He then pours just a dash of milk – because milk doesn’t go well with his gut – and some sugar. Now it’s ready to be consumed. The ritual doesn’t end there, though. He has to first treat us kids, who have lined up for our little share, to a scoopful before he can begin to have his kanji. By ‘we’, I refer to me and my two sisters. And most often, our cousin too. Achhan gives each one of us a generous scoop. In the meantime, we hear the click-clicking of our grandmother’s flip-flops as she passes that way, tossing over her shoulder, kurachu Achhanu vekkanam tto (leave something for Achhan too). We simply ignore this comment. So does Achhan. This ritual continued until we grew up. But even afterwards, oftentimes we wouldn’t mind growing down a bit to claim a share.

It was perhaps during the difficult 1970s when the prices of essentials had spiked up to such a level that Achhan decided to go on a family-budget-friendly diet. As part of it, he decided to slightly tweak his recipe for g’ kanji. He cut down on the sugar. Milk, which was already minimal, was done away with, and to my horror, he reduced the amount of wheat in the recipe too. Simply put, I found this recipe too unpalatable. But what could a kid in her early teens do about it? So I decided to go around the problem in my own way, or rather, in his own way. I declared in no uncertain terms that I would also go on a budget-friendly diet in solidarity with Achhan. I said I would go for a complete fast, by not taking any food until he reversed his recipe. I was absolutely serious about my decision. In fact I was quivering like a leaf with indignation, the slip of a girl that I was, while taking this Bheeshma-like pledge. My voice had risen so high in spite of its tremor and my eyes had so welled up in spite of the fires raging within them that Achhan thought I really might do it. Mind you, I was quite capable of it. And for fear of my going ahead with my new diet plan, Achhan gave in. He promised that he will never mess up my favourite recipe again.

Achhan never made much of his recipe for g’ kanji, though. It was just that that was how he wanted to have it. And we loved it. So also did our cousins. Almost every kid in the clan got to experience its taste at one point in time or the other, and those who didn’t, still knew about it for sure. The popularity of Achhan’s kanji crossed the barriers of time. Our children, rather, his great grandchildren, also have lingering sweet memories of his g’ kanji. As my grandparents grew older, my Amma was allowed to prepare the gruel, presumably under oath that she would follow the recipe and protocol to the dot.

As a child, I believed I was special to Achhan. So did my sisters. They believed they were special. And none of us could have been more right. Whoever Achhan was close to felt they were special. That was the kind of love Achhan had for his dear ones. He left us in 2003, at my sister’s residence where he spent the last years of his life. He passed on quietly in his sleep. And with that ended the daily kanji making ritual.

I have tried to cook g’ kanji several times since then. It has never been the same. With the passing years, I realised I had to add more and more of the memory ingredient to make it taste the same. And therefore, finally, I have completely tweaked the recipe. Now my g' kanji is saturated with memories with no wheat, no milk, and no sugar. And the flavour lingers in my mind forever.

Friday 23 July 2021

I take the road....


I take the road
that takes me along
wherever it goes,
turning wherever it bends
stopping wherever it ends.

The rivers flow by me
when my feet blister
with burning sores,
they nurse my wounds
and soothe my bleeding sole.

The wind blows by me
when I decelerate,
short of breath,
picks me up on its wings
drops me at the next turning.

My journey rolls
around the earth
like a ball of thread
searching for my own end
arriving at and departing

from strange destinations,
forever in transit,
until my road and I
slip at once
and fall over the horizon.


Thursday 15 July 2021

Fish for Thought

Sue & Rue

Sue: Say, what's benefaction?

Rue: It's like giving poor men fish, thus feeding them for the day.

Sue: What's leadership?

Rue: Like teaching poor men how to fish, thus feeding them for a lifetime.

Sue: So what's politics?

Rue: Like giving poor men fish to keep them eating out of your hands forever.


Thursday 8 July 2021

Pretty Place

Life reeled out
in umpteen slides
of days, months, years,
time flew by
like a gushing wind
or a storm
or a cyclone
but never like a gentle breeze,
raising clouds of blinding dust.
Now that the hurricane is settled
let me put my feet up
and look around.
Those little flower pots
I had watered every day
as by habit,
that photo corner
crowded with reminiscences
of the toddling years
of my family,
that wall of art,
a continuum
of aesthetic indulgence
from childish scrawls
to teen scribbles,
those slanted rows of paperbacks,
slices of fiction and facts
in tidy stacks,
that wooden cabinet,
the ancient hand-me-down,
with its invisible treasures
of lingering memories
of a bygone era,
and visible little tokens
of special moments
some remembered
some faded into oblivion,
that vintage trunk,
a treasury of memorabilia,
and those little pieces
we picked up over the years
utterly deceptive
in worth and weight,
but cherished in their time,
snugly placed and forgotten,
beckon my gaze.
Hey! My home
is a pretty place!


Sunday 27 June 2021

At times


PC: Sanil Nair

Yes, it’s raining again. It’s the kind of rain with which you tend to have a conversation. It’s the kind of rain that beats in rhythm with your heart. Rapidly, loudly, gently, softly… But always on the beat. In the correct tempo.

At times

At times in a whisper
at times dropping hints
at times throwing caution to the winds
the rain is in conversation
with my heart
at times in a drizzling monotone
at times with storming passion
at times pouring its heart out
intensely, incessantly,
to mine beating in response
at times with a quickened pace
at times with a fluttering pause
at times missing a throb
as I give in to the thunder
of their doubletalk
at times in languor
at times in elation
at times with abandon
but sure as pouring heaven
we all three –
the rain, my heart and I –
are playing on the beat
relentlessly, rapturously. 

© SW

Tuesday 22 June 2021



Sue & Rue

“What is reopened economy?”

“It’s like a beverage store opened after a prolonged lockdown.”

“What is suspended reality?”

“It’s like a long queue formed in front of it by jobless clientele.”


Tuesday 15 June 2021

Rain Chant

PC: Sanil Nair


The rain beats
a steady tempo,
rapid, intense,
with no undulating variations
no lightning notations,
no thunderous modulation,
there are no boughs
swinging to the beat
leaves tap their feet,
it’s a straight descent
from the heavens
seeping into the elements,
it’s been pouring so
for a couple of days
or perhaps more,
yet I miss the slanting rain
the lashing rain
the sweeping rain
the thrashing rain,
I miss the rain
that rushes me off my feet
to close the window
and then stops me
from doing so,
urging me to stay
and tarry for a gentle spray
to wet my face,
tempting me to eavesdrop
on the cavort
of the water and wind
in a passionate binge,
I miss the rain
that strikes my roof like a stone-pelter
to send me helter-skelter
but keeps me rooted
at the window ledge
listening to the sky instead.


Tuesday 8 June 2021



Sue & Rue


“What’s a happy life like?”

“It’s like dying happy.”

“What’s a healthy life like?”

“It’s like dying healthy.”

“What's better than a good life?”

“A good death, maybe.”

“And what does it take to die that way?”



Tuesday 1 June 2021


PC: Bharati Varrier

Shattered I had been
to smithereens, or umpteen
whole bits of being.


Tuesday 25 May 2021



Sue & Rue

“That was a flying lizard.”

“A lizard is not supposed to fly. It glides.”

“But fly it did.”

“And how!”

 “Yes, it stormed. Now that that’s settled, let’s have some tea.”


Yes. Some jasmine tea. It’s already brewing in the sea-cup.”


Tauktae means a gecko (a vocal lizard).
Yaas means jasmine.

Tuesday 18 May 2021


Book Title: Ruminations
Editor: Anju Kishore
Genre: Collaborative poetry
Publisher: Authorspress

In a publishing scenario where there is a constant debate whether poetry would ‘sell’ or not, here is a group of poets who have come together to talk, think, discuss and write poetry every day on chosen themes, triggered by a new prompt every week. In this way, they continuously delve into, discover and dabble in new experiences in poetry. What’s more, they publish the collections. And what’s even more interesting about the anthologies is that they are not different poems written by different poets. Each poem in the collection is written collectively by different poets. “Ruminations” is one such collection of poems. It is a collection of poetic ponderings on love – love of the absolute kind. And this coterie of poets call themselves the India Poetry Circle. Founded by Jairam Seshadri, who is also its curator, IPC is a group of professionals in various fields, strongly connected by their passion for literature, especially poetry. “Ruminations” is the fourth in the Confluence series of poetry collections brought out by IPC under the inspiring leadership and guidance of Seshadri. A professional accountant and poet, Seshadri has a collection of poems and another of essays to his credit.

Creative collaboration is an exciting adventure, as the end product – the final work of art – is always a surprise for the collaborators.  It’s this element of surprise that makes the creative process exciting. And “Ruminations” is a treasure trove of beautiful poetry, edited by Anju Kishore who is a poet and editor, and a former cost accountant. The poems are based on the verses of the 13th century Perisan poet and Sufi mystic, Rumi. Anju has done a wonderful job of interweaving the verses with poetic narratives, which render the collection unique and enhance the experience of the readers. The anthology, or the Confluence as it’s called, stands apart from all other anthologies in that it does not reveal which poet wrote which verse. The contributing poets’ details are given in the end pages of the book, and that too in verse format. However, their names are not mentioned along with their verses. This suits the concept of this poetic exercise, which is, as this writer perceives it, losing your identity to become one with the larger whole, or rather, losing your separate identities in the larger oneness. In that sense, ‘Confluence’ is a befitting name for the series.

A collection of poems cannot be read at one go. One needs to go back and read the verses several times to absorb the essence of the poetry. There are many such verses in “Ruminations” that made me stop and go back and forth, to revel in their beauty. I cannot quote them all, but I wish to quote some lines here that had me reading them again and again.

Rediscover the ancient in you!
Sink deep into your own being
and rise above differences
that evolutions bring
What will speak is a deep silence
that is of the universe, the origin
The sound of this silence
from the core of the earth,
would rise
Nature would pause in awe
Powerful notes would resonate
and you
one with the cosmic harmony
would pulsate in blissful breathlessness”
(The Mote of the Matter, p18)

It’s the simplicity of the above verse that helps it carry the intensity and depth of its meaning so gracefully. The poem “Love, Lessoned” has a narrative which is a fitting conclusion to the poem.

“I had reached the summit but not the journey’s end. The wind had slept, the birds had left. The mountain was now silent.
Far below was the hushed crashing of the sea. I was falling in love with that, within me.
And within me began, a new journey.”

These lines carry a quietude within them. They are able to put a flustered mind to rest. The words actually transfer you to that place they portray. A place that you wouldn’t want to leave.

As a reader, I identify totally with the poet in the poem “Kilned in the Blaze” when he/she (for, I cannot identify who the poet is) writes:

“An untamed nomad am I
carrying the desert in my heart
To this paradisiacal garden, do I belong
or have my uninitiated feet led me to a tavern wrong?”

“Let me loosen my soil
to be moulded in your hands
Oh, divine potter
make of me a vessel from my quagmiry sands
Stomp me till I become a pot
sand me smooth
to hold life’s nectar, rooted where it stands”
(The Wisdom of the Desert, p47)

The Creator has often been described as a potter and you as the pot or the clay in His hands by thinkers, philosophers and poets since time immemorial. But the ultimate surrender of the poet to the “Potter” in the above verse is effortless and uncomplicated, yet profound. Indeed, the poet does not wish to be spared from any ordeal while being shaped by His own hands.

Love has been expressed by poets, writers and artistes in infinite ways, and still the all-consuming emotion remains much unexplained. In the poem “In Love with That”, you stop short to soak up the poet’s love that is “wrapped in its own words” (p55).

In the poem “The Duality of Death”, the philosopher in the poet understands death for what it is, and anticipates, or even looks forward to, as it would seem, the “seamless progress towards eternity.” (p75)

The vividness of the poet’s imagination is at its best, in the poem “Salt Dolls”, when he/she writes,

“This salty Sea is not what we perceive
It is a cloth of Time, of Space
Woven together unto infinity!”

By quoting a few lines here and there, I fear I may be doing an injustice to all the poets (there are 45 of them). But that is not my intention. It’s just to give the readers an idea about the magic that’s been created by the camaraderie of a group of poets bound together by their passion for poetry. Anju’s finesse and dexterity as an editor in putting together, moulding and shaping the verses is perceptible in the seamless flow and reflective pauses of the poems, all of which are strung together in story-like sequences. Besides “Ruminations”, she has edited/co-edited five other anthologies. She has also published a collection of poems, “…and I Stop to Listen”.