My Poems

                             Mahishasura                        Sonnet 169 When young, one year, I saw the Demon dying, As the Trident of the goddess Durga Into his stoney body deeply piercing: An art the 'medha' play'd on Dussehra Though, my tiny heart was cheery with Loads of relief the Devil's at last dead And gone were threats on life! But came the myth Next year, to find; as raised the Brute his head To fight the Goddess and to die again -- The repeat that happens every year, Just for few days to falsely entertain  The people's soul engulfed in inbred fear, For the Brute ain't dead behind the art, In our brutish mind and brutish heart. ©️ N P Samal 

                        The Anger Room                                  Sonnet 168 Sounds of crashing, cracking, clanking, splint'ring From the room do burst the air around As the objects one by one are lying Broken in pieces on the marble ground, Under the angryman's relishing eyes, While the avenging hands and legs run riot. At last the anger's got the vent that carries No crime, no guilt, no grief, and on the quiet Does the man appease his burning soul. Though costly is this novel deed to peace, Yet anger at the lifeless means no toll On human beings -- a bypass much to cherish. Hats off to China for this fine creation; A global fix against the vile emotion.  ©️ N P Samal 

                   Vishwakarma                                   Sonnet 167 He is the builder of the Universe  And therefore Vishwakarma is His name; He has built the Earth, her splendrous neighbours Inside the boundless Architectural Frame. And earthlings worship Him in most devotion For motors, mansions, mills, all mundane builds; But more construction goes with more destruction; To spoilage, wastes, do drain all Lordly yields. If construct does He, whoe'er destroys? Whoever brings forth cyclones, floods and quakes And hands out mortars, missiles, bombs to guys, That down each harbor, home instantly breaks? If Vishwakarma, then there's One to honor  Who will touch not Lord's resources, labor.  ©️ N P Samal  

                      Lies Of Life                        Sonnet 166 Today a friend, next day he turns a foe; And if he behaves a foe today, Your best friend he turns tomorrow: This is the norm of humans none can naysay.  We know not if untruth is our essence,  As we survive through mourning now, then mirth; The facts of us that fill our existence Are truly fatal lies till death from birth. Some force, for sure, reposeless day and night, Does mill us in the milling drum of living, As we do hug each other and then fight; Who knows whoe'er are living, who are dying? Then, each one we react to is all illusion; Each of us is an embodied fiction. ©️ N P Samal 

For you my doll was just a doll, none else, Made of synthetic stuff and dress'd in nylon, And  And I did bury deep my doll, beneath The rubbish of my hapless life, to death.  ©️  N P Samal