E-ISSN 2457-0265


Vol. 4 Issue 3

Shatarupa Mishra

Lockdown Know-How


No knock on door.

No howdy, no bow.

Only pot blossoms bob.


Hollow dots block flow.

Sky low, clock slow.

Stop. Mop floor.


Noon now. Chop. Cook.

Chomp on good food.

Boost mood.


Bolt door. Brook no story.

Rows of books nod fondly.

Look on. Do not brood.


Grow comfort.

Go to work.

Words flow, orbs glow.






Living Metal


Surfing digital worlds

I am one with the machine.

A stubborn breeze,

moist with stolen dreams

of myriad eyes

sets wide the half open door

and brings in a whiff

of bygone days:

days that saw the unfolding

of two souls in a garden

of marigolds and togetherness,

then gave the name of obligation

to forged distances of time.

I come back to the human in me

and find life oozing through metal.

My fingers feel not the inert keys

but the warmth of a brother’s gift.





Looking out the Window


An empty stained barrel

asserting itself.

A jack-fruit plant proud

of its climbing friend.

Glinting in the sun a glass pane,

At once official and personal.

Dried mossy twigs against the bricks

speaking of storm and rebirth.

Memory of an absent squirrel

settling like dew on expectant shoots

that crown the boundary wall.

Ridges and rings on a wet trunk

declaring the grit of a deodar.

Raindrops carrying the load

of lost love, illusion and hope.








A windy morning.

Two determined eyes of a newly wed

ready to make her home spic and span.

An anxious pigeon aiming

to make its nest in a nook.

A clash of interests.


The scattered straws on the threshold

receive a spiteful glance.

The world’s too busy to see

the silent war that follows.

Human and non-human at loggerheads,

each craving to demarcate home.

Straws thrown in the roadside dump in a moment.

Fresh straws dropped at the entrance the next.

Resolve lies on both sides

till tired hands lose the battle

and the beak tastes victory.


The next morning, the maid,

otherwise ever in a hurry,

looks at the skillful weaving and says,

“Pigeons bring good luck.”

The beaten lady of the house smiles.

The earth is indeed mother to all.





The Errand Boy


There is something within,

running in my veins, burning.

Should I tell you

what turns the insides

into a barbed pulp?


But how fickle is Word.

He leaves me with promise

Of hope, help, humanity.

Halfway, he is ambushed

and so is the promise.


Play seizes him. Puzzles,

an interesting game

where solving is not the trick.

The more you jumble,

the better the score.


Word is on a winning spree now.

And I lose him.

His masterworks only burn me more.

Do I dare utter

what chokes me now?


Oh, let the barbs crush against

my skin and show themselves.

Let the pulp peek through the gash.

I’d need no messenger then,

face no enigma.








Like bold lightning

tamed by a magnet pole

descended the crooked boughs,


on the barren trunk,

thrilling a pallid heart

and letting it touch

the untouched.









About the Poet

Shatarupa Mishra is an Assistant Professor of English at Govt. Women’s College, Bhawanipatna, Odisha. She is a Gold-Medalist from the University of Hyderabad (2009.) She loves to read and write poems. One of her stories has been published as part of an ebook “Esmeralda’s Hair and Other Stories.”  It is available on Amazon. Though new to the world of publishing, she cherishes her poems as the break of day, feathers and flute notes. She recently completed the peer-reviewed “Sharpened Visions: A Poetry Workshop” on Coursera (12.06.2020) offered by California Institute of the Arts and received 98.4 per cent. She hopes the poems (six in number) appeal to the readers.

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