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  • Dr.Pragya Suman

Publication in Lothlorien Poetry Journal 8

I am grateful to Editor Strider Marcus Jones for giving space for my three poems in his beautiful journal. Lothlorien journal is available in both digital and print format at

My following poems are included--

A Pink Postmodernist Crept In Pale Prague

The jarring justice of the man; Kafka penned in melancholy.

Journey circled in hundred years

As sanitary was at the door

Vermin crippled in segments

For judgment,


My neighbour was senile, lurching gait; Rummaged the files

Cunning spoon of clerks engulfed

Coins. Mischievous officer told

“let burry in darkest hole”

For a official pension he trialed

thousand Kafka’s corner.

One day he dripped his head in kerosine oil around circle of crowd

Match box was going to strike

A self immolation aloud.

Paper rushed to his door

Drama and judgment

are conjoined twins of democracy.

White whisker of the pensioner is now twisted up.

I Seeeeeeeeee


Cold Coffee

The blotchy beam of stagnant sun

on running chariot,

filtered in my netted window

descended in cup of cold coffee.

I caught the silhouette --

broken bangles on rectangular bier

and the vermillion box of the mother

stumbled, beside the pyre.

An Iron Lady-- My Grandmother was a milk seller. a great bargainer, sold milk for stories.

stored them in the mud huts.

I stole stories while she was sleeping.

A noon napper--

left behind a brook of viscus stories in melted marrow, dining still in throat.

One day I thought to cut off

my unending throat,

but the chiseled scalpel

concocted in cold coffee.

It’s still regurgitating

belching, though I bolted down,

hundred years ago--

The Bier’s Bench

The house moves but I don’t move

Whenever I move on toe--bypassing

The old house in day to day life --

I see the green mosses stuck upon

The window sunshade and withering

Plasters swollen and dropped down

This rainy season.

I relished chicken curry

And offered yellow oleander

In the tiny temple

All days are alive but mosses

don’t let me in and I don’t move--

I go ahead after inhaling

Fragrance of red roses

I never turned back though

They became pale after my departure–

It hardly matters to me.

The toughest lesson I learnt

Upon the bier’s bench

By peeling and counting the letters

Embedded upon the rectangular bamboo

Mingled and lost --

Among scattered rice grains.

Dr. Pragya Suman

It is available on the following link--

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