E-ISSN 2457-0265


Vol. 4 Issue 3

Rituparna Khan


Cry of COVID


I existed there since ages,

a queen in my own world,

ambling and loitering inert,



I watched many movies

created by the you

I found a number of

fresh faces introduced.


Those were the faces of

heroes, heroines, villains, vamps.

I saw them act and perform,

a source of entertainment.


Every other decade emerged

with some havoc of a

production from your

creative end.


I watched those, I watched you

from my own circle of life,

subtle, inactive, naive, a

silent spectator.


Everything changed in a jiffy.

The introductory face of

your latest movie was me,

Queen Corona.


A queen in my own quiet world,

I believed you to launch me

as the fresh lead face of

21st century production.


How stupid of me to trust you,

the least trustworthy of

creatures under the sun,

you humans!!


Your misdeeds abated me to the

platform of a vamp,  renamed

COVID 19, fresh in

negative role.








If dirge had a color,

it would be tinted in my flesh tone.

If dirge had an odor,

it would be the fragrance of my breath.

If dirge had a shape,

it would be as amorphous as my shattered soul.

If dirge had a size,

it would be as unfathomable as my grief.

If dirge had a life,

it would be as eternal as your poetry.







Suddenly something has disappeared

from the green canvas around her.


It is something in grayish tone creeping and

crawling towards her, steadily moaning.


There's a silent aridity in the adieu.

She doesn't know what has vanished.


She is gaping at the window pane, wondering,

where has the tapestry textured by the raindrops gone!


If it showers again in its usual reigning form,

she could satiate her soul drenching herself.


She is yearning to be humid again with the

droplets resting on her shoulder and breast.


She is loitering like a phantom in vain

to let the pelting pearl drops penetrate her.


Alas!  Now, all is in an untouchable distance.

Frequent rain is a myth that no more reigns.


Felling of the greens to transform to grays

has reset luscious nature to a repulsive mirage.





Flawed Maidens


Burning in the pyre of your ashes,

Loire river valley was impaired.

You were nothing but a witch,

turning Orleans to a desert of



Occidental orthodoxy

to Oriental bigotry,

no one spared any of you.

Not you, Maid of Orleans,

not you, Miss Magdalene.


Humanity in inhumanity

was fathomed in deeds, less

and misdeeds, more.


Men were in their frailty,

yet they were granted mercy.

Women were flawed always.

Then, now and forever.





Half Cooked Meal


A paradigm shift is this

new world order.

I find it tasteless, 

this half cooked meal.

Where is the care

and where is the cure?

An abnormal new normal is

heading to a discomfort zone.

"New" is sans happiness.

The world is in ravages,

leaving us destitute

in untouchable islands.

"Normal" is a myth now

alienated from reality.

Would we ever revive from

this permafrost of crises?





Home inside Home


Home is earth with an April heart.

She has a home inside her hearth.

Once that home was safe in August hands.


Home is earth with an April heart.

She has a home inside her hearth.

Once that home was happy with July showers.


Home is earth with an April heart.

She has a home inside her hearth.

Once that home was stable with November chills.


Home is earth with an April heart.

She has a home inside her hearth.

Once that home was at bliss in February charms.


Home is earth with an April heart.

She has a home inside her hearth.

These days it is imperiled with seasons, plundered.







Gazing with a blank, captivating look

in those eyes,

sizzling a restless tune of eternal moan

in those ears,

savoring a bitter saliva of monotone

with the taste buds,

smelling an aromatic chart of the

necropolis of Zenda,

touching skin deep wrinkle of the

parched earth,

Gina once acted in the main role

of mother earth.

Her vision is a dried up well now.

Her laughter is midnight darkness now.

Her smell smells the wrinkled earth no more.

Her touch has lost the look of that sweetener.

Her tongue has forgotten to sense the aroma of zucchini.

Gina is forever to no one anymore.

Prisoners are indeed, prisoners no more.

Who knows what will be the destination next?

Earth is too puny to humans these days.






Oblivion of Ashes


You're in me, you’re in them, you're in us.

Where ever you're, you're very vicious.

Borne with enough of your tantrums,

I have learnt the art to curb your genesis.


Here is a tumbler of distilled water.

This is a simpleton's life succor.

Mixed with pure heat of rays of dawn,

this will reduce your power to none.


Then I add to it fresh air of honesty

to churn out your desires to utter modesty.

I seek sweet drops from honeysuckle buds

to remove from you all bitterness.


This is added with soil and green leaves

to make a dough sans rapacious longings.

I put the dough in hearth of a pure heart

to burn you Greed, to oblivion of ashes.






About the Poet

Rituparna Khan is an Assistant Professor in Bidhannagar College, Salt Lake, Kolkata. She is a Geographer by profession dealing with anything and everything from natural to human phenomena based on a spatial dimension. However, her inclination to Literature, especially poetry is no less.  A few of her works are published and well appreciated and awarded in print as well as social media (two poems in the anthology, “Nostalgia-A Story of the Past”, five poems in OPA Anthology, one poem in SETU, three poems in the anthology, “Float Poetry: reverse the rivers” and one poem in the anthology, “Eternal Flame”.

She has an received an award from Inter Cultural Poetry and Performance Library for writing in a Rhyme Competition on World Poetry Day and received the Reuel International Award for Best Upcoming Writers in Poetry, 2019 judged by The Significant League in Glopowrimo (Global Poetry Writing Month). Her debut book, ‘Tales told and Untold”, a collection of short stories has been launched in Kolkata international Book Fair in 2020.

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