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Lost Mother

My mother lost in ancient


While descending down

In a cobweb, she

Was frisky in fear.


I myself pulled on my oars,

Engulfed whole ocean in holes

Of a life jacket.

Across the shore, moss covered

Tentacles of tombstone

Of my mother

Beckoned me, in a moment Of multiple years.

I reached there

And began to rub off the scars

Beside it

An atom of embryo

Melted in itself on ruptured ground

In a chortling brook.

My little lost mother

Dips in me time and again.


Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman, from Lost Mother.

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Vincent and the Starry Night

Dark Cypresses are looming above. Soon they will puncture the sky, then dazzling Venus will give a white smile. Ethereal electrons in orbit are swirling waves of the mad man that have engulfed the whole stars of infinity. The tiny thatched houses with spiky minarets and their owners mock him and call him Madman. Soon Vincent will give them relief as hills are going to be crowned in his canopy. He is awaiting the crescent moon to complete the cycle. Moonbeams are full of photons, which will pervade the skull of a mad man. Just peeping in the skull, a Milky Way is spread in the bottom and gamboling wavelets of a live ocean are percolating the bony chips. An Impressionist will soon arise to paint the dark soul. The stark white soul is entering the astral world, the deep door of the moon.

Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman, from Photonic Postcard.


Tathagata’s Lunchbox

I saw words tucked in the wrinkles of Tibetan people. Refugees were gossiping

In the stale group, after the China invasion, Tibet bled. They live

safely in the Main Pat beside their election council and Dhakpo Shedupling Buddhist Monastery.

gully dogs looked frisky. in a thatched hut open in four directions, I sipped watery tea, but samosa was sumptuous, perhaps after tasteless tea.

my daughter looked for the red sun, tucked on the land “It is a leafless tomato”/ I wandered about little one’s metaphor/ dusk was at hand. We halted near a vendor selling chiniya almond on a reed stall.

The exiled prince along with his wife and younger brother were giving side glances to us in a tribal painting crafted on the wall.

on the pebbled fountain, I kissed my daughter, thinking about Tibetan prayer flags pervading around, did sweetness of cheek come out of them? swampy land trembled beneath, we jumping frogs,

but endless laughter was exactly in equilibrium. We went on towards hillside farming that was squared ahead, like the lunchbox

of many segments. Mother used to keep spicy bhujia

in the smallest one. Boiled rice chunk in biggest one as I am rice lover, born in the cauldron of paddy // among knee dipped women sowing seeds. One day I would like to feed red lentil tadka in a moderate one // Tathagata’s lunchbox.


Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman, published in Indian Periodical Journal.

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A stark loner

I erupted out of the cocoon

Insular island,

Tiny larva Budding in me, moving Among the raw skyscrapers,

Drilling in scaffold

Makes a hole

In my bleak bone.

I halted at a cart of voluble vender Both are sellers.

In paper cone of salty few nuts,

I sold,

A stark loner.


Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman, from Lost Mother.


An atlantic ocean leaped off--

A crack in the ledge

Twenty seven circled cage


Table bay harbours lobster

Bake the black monster

(among lobsters, oysters shrimps and sharks)


But he was going to test himself

---An ordeal in an ethereal oven.


The Robben Island got at once pale


                      -- When

White    whims were whirling in vainglorious boost

ROAST -- Roast--roast


Sun stumbled


-- in the hug of black star     tightened


Ruptured atoms saw

A sangfroid sea monk rising

On the sepulchred skyline

Of darkest Africa


Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman, published in Marias at Sampaguitas.

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Excerpts from my next forthcoming fiction book

“Though we were slaves but Britishers were not so bad, they were hardliner honest, everything was disciplined in their paw,” Grandfather always emphasised


Yes! not so bad, but do anyone could define the above and below, the par of bad and good? They are diluting stuff.

the tribulations of being a slave, sterilized–

in the British autoclave.

“This British autoclave nomenclature is quite remarkable, I think in the present scenario our country needs it more, everything is getting rotten, piggy and polluted. There is a need for revolution or dictator’s autoclave,” my cook remarked in a half jested and half earnest mood.


Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman

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