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Sunday, February 23, 2014

CLRI February 2014


Contemporary Literary Review India
February 2014

CONTENTS
Poems
The Rain Acted
Raindrops on Roses
Doing Laundry at Midnight
The Mouse, the Frog and the Kite by Mandal Bijoy Beg
Not in Vogue
Don’t Look for a Romantic Story
The Shatter of Innocence by Sharvani H S
Too Late for the South
Kissing
The Invention of Shadows
Arts
Arts by Dwarakanathan Ravi "The earth laughs in flowers.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson
Stories
Ferrari Spider by Kersie Khambatta
The Couple in the Tonga by Ronny Noor
Fate by Tayeb Bouazid
Interview
Khurshid Alam Interviews Md Feroz Qureshi an Emerging Film Director and Producer par excellence
Book Criticism
Nataša Miladinović Reviews Susheel Kumar Sharma’s The Door is Half Open by Nataša Miladinović
Criticism
Valmiki’s Joothan and Nasrin’s Lajja as Literature of Protest by A. Temjenwala Ao and N. D. R. Chandra
Rethinking William Shakespeare by H. N. Prasad
Women Resisting Patriarchy and Colonial Oppression: A Study of Mahashweta Devi's "The Hunt” by Dr. Nazneen Khan  
The Stream of Consciousness in James Joyce’s Novels: A Study in Sentence Lengths by Dr. Sukanya Saha
In Quest of Quietus by Sukriti Ghosal
Book Review
Rob Harle Reviews Vinita Agrawal’s Words Not
Announcement
Call for Submission
7th International Poetry Fest- 2014 (19th and 20th September, 2014)
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Saturday, February 22, 2014

Poems by A.J. Huffman

Poems by A.J. Huffman


The Rain Acted

like a spotlight, focused in
on the abysmal litter of her life.
Her cosmic footprint: an old teapot,
mismatched coffee mugs, a hammer,
no nails, but a crowbar. She wondered
if she was using any of them properly.
She didn’t sleep, couldn’t hang
a single memory on barren walls.
Haunting failures, echoing along
with the tap tap tap of drops
against the sill. She curled herself
into a ball in the corner of an unsheeted bed.
Closed her eyes and prayed
for lightning to strike.

Raindrops on Roses

amplify the intensity of colored petals.
White echoes inside itself, mournfully wallowing
in the hollow depths of innocence.  Red erupts in
excruciating simulations of fire’s fierceness.  Yellow
vibrates the tangible code of mediocrity, clings
to the medial line of tempered rebuke, the sting
of unrequited terminology, the bastard label
of friend.

Doing Laundry at Midnight

Because my mind will not stop
running itself in circles, I take
up basket and bleach, begin
to sort:  whites, darks, colors.  The numbing
of such chores is soothing.  Slowly,
I begin to decompress.  By the time the spin
cycle stutters to a stop, my head
has grown temporarily hollow,
granting my eyes permission to finally close.


  

A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, includingLabletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com.




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The Mouse, the Frog and the Kite by Mandal Bijoy Beg

The Mouse, the Frog and the Kite by Mandal Bijoy Beg



Aesop's fable retold
 Once two rivals - a mouse and a frog
Engaged themselves in an argument, so hot,
On who was the master of the fen
And many a fiery fights they fought.

Hiding beneath the grass the crafty mouse,
Upon his enemy sudden attacks he'd make
Oft puzzling the frog at a disadvantage
Who once forc'd his foe a challenge to take.

Gladly accepted the summon the mouse,
And the two champions on the appointed day
With a point of a bulrush each armed
Entered the field with faces beaming and gay.

A kite chanced to be hovering overhead,
Saw the silly creatures in a fight engaged
Swooped down in a wink, seized 'em both
With talons and to her young were carri'd.


 

Mandal Bijoy Beg (MBB) is a poet, writer, author, editor, publisher and patron of literature and human endeavour in life. Author of two books of poems That Man (1997) and Evergreen Mirthfest (1998). He is a founder of The Home of Letters, India.


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Poems by Merlin Flower

Poems by Merlin Flower



Not in Vogue

decapitated in conditioning the
noises arrive, conclusive

the warnings  seem tiny
a series of finagling chances
like a dragon divided among ants

same scruffiness
fashionable endurance
bored indulgence
idle lookabout, captain

a finisher is fast and rich.

Don’t Look for a Romantic Story

I tore the page of him from the life, now what?

The images flicker......lovingly
The sound echoes.....fleetingly
The smile flows........freely

All with him in
They torture me like crows masquerading as doves and smiling at
Hmmm
Mmmm
Shhh
You know, this scene will continue till
I die
Tuned on, tuned off
The subject, though, may change-should.


Merlin Flower is an independent writer and artist.





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The Shatter of Innocence by Sharvani H S

The Shatter of Innocence by Sharvani H S


To my dear Papa, from your Munni,
Yesterday I was lost.
He said we weren't, but I know
Far from home was his home
so empty and peaceful, so nice
He was so nice: Just like you Papa
He laughed like you and walked like you.
But then... He hugged me
and wouldn't let go!
He hurt me, Papa.
I felt bad, but he seemed happy
Was he happy that he hurt me?
He carried me home in his arms
Just like you, Papa.
But why did he hurt me?
I asked Mama but she only cried
Do you know why he hurt me?




Sharvani H S is studying an engineering course. One of my short stories was published in The Reading Hour while some poems have appeared with many online literary journals such as Kritya and The Enchanting Verses etc.


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— journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
CLRI is published online per month, in digital versions occasionally, and in print edition (planned to be quarterly), its print edition has ISSN 2250-3366.
Subscribe to our CLRI online edition. Our subscribers receive CLRI digital copies directly into their Inbox, get print copies free of cost whenever they come out during the subscription period, and are waived off any reading fee towards our print editions.
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Poems by Tatjana Debeljacki

Poems by Tatjana Debeljacki

Too Late for the South

It seems that we're late.
There was no need to hurry.
The branch was thin and it shook all down to the trunk. The cars rushed
down under. The snow covered everything. All of a sudden, a turtle-dove
moved as if about to fly, and then it fell down under the wheels of a
limo.
The frozen male swayed on the branch

Kissing

Die of beauty
You devil’s Emperor,
From merciful sin
Kiss these May cherries
Green apples
Pollen lips.
You start kissing.
Kiss white merry buttocks
hips, navel, tip of the nose
palms that clasp
You start kissing.
Kiss closed eyes
Bitter tear
Child of dawn, women of night,
You start kissing.
Kiss the moon of soul
Kiss, emperor
Kiss at the fifth side of the world.

The Invention of Shadows

If love is just deception then it is really perfect.
I am not able to describe that to someone who
Has never tasted something like that.
LOVE is the animal appetite. Now I have a different view on that.
His cigarette was burning, ashes falling on the floor, his hands were
trembling when he poured the tea. His eyes glimmered like the eyes of the
stuffed bird. I laid my hand on his shoulder. He twitched.
I can't make recollection of one single moment which lasted through
eternity.
You loved me once?
You have good memory
You do not want that I stop loving you.
It is winter, the snow is constantly falling.
All the words were in vain, I looked as if I desperately needed a hug.
I was scared.
The pain became trivial.
Your counterpart now owns your soul.
Who am I now?
Both of things you are now.




Tatjana Debeljacki writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. She is a Member of Association of Writers of Serbia, UKS since 2004. She is Haiku Society of Serbia- Deputy editor of Diogen. She also is the editor of the magazine Poeta. She has four books of poetry published.


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— journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
CLRI is published online per month, in digital versions occasionally, and in print edition (planned to be quarterly), its print edition has ISSN 2250-3366.
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Arts by Dwarakanathan Ravi

Arts by Dwarakanathan Ravi
"The earth laughs in flowers.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson


Dwarakanathan has a deep passion towards capturing moments and cherishing the details in it.
In this picture a flower vendor along the roadside has a basket full of flowers, but none for herself. She takes one flower and pushes it inside her grey strings of hair. But her smile was more beautiful than her flower: she was content with the way her day went.


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— journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
CLRI is published online per month, in digital versions occasionally, and in print edition (planned to be quarterly), its print edition has ISSN 2250-3366.
Subscribe to our CLRI online edition. Our subscribers receive CLRI digital copies directly into their Inbox, get print copies free of cost whenever they come out during the subscription period, and are waived off any reading fee towards our print editions.
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Ferrari Spider by Kersie Khambatta

Ferrari Spider by Kersie Khambatta

“Hey...mum...I’ve got a Ferrari Spider.”
Nathan bounded up the stairs.
“What’s a Ferrari Spider? I don’t want no creepy-crawlies in my house!”
“Mum... Oh.....mum........you don’t know what a Ferrari is?........”
“No! What is it?”.
“It’s a super-car, mum! It’s great! Come and see it! I’ll take you for a ride! Come on, mum.....come on...”
“I’m doing the cooking. I can’t come now!”
“Just turn the stove off,....... you can do it later.”
“All right! Okay!  I’ll come. Give me a minute!”
Anna closed the stove, and stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron.
She was shocked when she saw the shining, blood-red car with an open top.
“This is an expensive-looking car! Where did you get it from, eh?”
“ My dream come true! I’m so excited!”
“I asked you where you got it from, didn’t I?”
.“No, mum, no! I haven’t stolen it......if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Cause if you have, I will skin you,....I will....”
“My friend gave it to me”.
“Your friend gave it to you, eh? You sure you are not lying to me, eh?”
“No mum no. I wouldn’t ever do that. I swear!”
Nathan had to lie!
His father had died (from cancer) ten years ago. His mother had struggled through the years.
They rented in a high-density area in Sydney.
He was the only child. His friends were rich.
He dreamed of a Ferrari Spider.
What was the quickest way to make big money?
He would borrow for a start, and make the money grow.
He went to the nearest Westpac branch, and demanded to see the manager. The receptionist at the counter was not impressed. She asked him what he wanted. He said:- “Money. I’ve come to borrow some money”.
She gave him an ugly look, and waved him to the sofa.
He crossed his legs confidently.
After a while, a smartly-dressed woman, with heavy make-up, and grey hair, old enough to be his mother, came up to him, introduced herself politely, and invited him into her cabin.
He felt a wee bit nervous. A vague feeling that this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought it would.
“Now, what can we do for you, sir?”
“I want to borrow two hundred thousand dollars”.
She winced for the fraction of a second, but kept a straight face. She was superbly trained.
“Sure. But we lend on security, you know”.
“What’s security?”
She raised her eyebrows. This fellow was too young.
“People have houses, cars, they pledge as security for a loan. Do you own a house?”
“Nope, I live with my mum”.
“Well then, let’s see. Do you have an income?”
“Na”.
She was hungry,......and  this stupid boy was keeping her from her lunch.
“Not working?”
“Nah! I just finished school”.
“Well then, you can get a student loan from government for University.”
“Nope. No way!  I don’t want to go to University. I want  a Ferrari”.
“A Ferrari? Those cost a lot, you know! We don’t lend money to buy Ferraris.”
“I’ll try elsewhere then”.
He got up abruptly, hot under the collar.
He quickly walked out. He could feel her glaring at his back.
He went home dejected.
He sat with his head in his hands, feeling very sorry for himself. He wanted that Ferrari.
He decided to ask one of his very rich friends for the money. He had tons of it.
That fellow lived in a mansion, with a swimming pool.
“Hey mate! I want to buy a Ferrari. Can you lend me the money?”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars”.
“Fine! That’s no problem. How are you going to repay it? And when?”
“Well, say, in about a year’s time. I will earn the money”.
“You going to earn two hundred thousand dollars in a year? How?”
“I don’t know how! But I will do it”.
“Well then.....let’s see. Let me think........will you work for me, eh? Do what I say?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what”.
“Okay. I’ll ring you in a day or two.”
The call did come.
“Sunday morning. Be at the international airport at 9am,... stand just outside the
Air France counter. Take a suitcase with a few clothes. Someone will come to you. Just do what he says. And,..... go now, and get me a few passport-sized photos.
You will be  given a passport.”
“But am I going overseas? I’ve got to tell my mum”.
“Tell her what you want! Just be there. You will be back in a couple of days. Your trip will be paid for!”
What was he going to tell his mother? Where was he going? When was he coming back? Why was he going?
He lied that he was going on a short trip overseas with his friends. She was not too concerned. She had her own problems.
But he did not go with anyone. He went alone. He was given a return ticket to New Caledonia, a packet to carry, warned not to open it, and ordered to hand it over to a person who would collect it from him at the destination.
It was the first time in his life that he went out of Australia. He quite enjoyed it.
He spent the next many months going, all expenses paid, to different places he had never even heard about. Not to large countries or big cities.
Always to small airports, with little or no security.
“Have you driven a Ferrari before?”
“I’ve driven a Holden, mate.”
“Idiot! Don’t you know the difference between a Ferrari and a Holden? A race-horse and a cart-horse? We will go for a long drive. Get in”.
On the deserted, desert road, the sleek vehicle hit speeds of over two hundred kilometres an hour.
He was thrilled.
“Can I drive? Please, mate! Just for a short while. On the open road.”
They went through small towns, slowing down a bit, but not enough to go un-noticed by the radar-equipped, black cars, parked in side streets.
The message travelled ahead of them. The number and the description of the vehicle were relayed to the national computer.
Fortunately the block where he and his mother lived had a lock-up garage, and he kept the Ferrari in it for the night. He could not sleep. He was so excited. He kept admiring it, saying to himself:- “My dream come true! My dream come true!”.
He could not wait for sun-rise. He took it out while it was still fairly dark, wanting a fast drive on empty roads.
He did not even notice the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror, so lost was he in his own thoughts.
“Ah ha, son, nice car! Pretty expensive, eh?”
“Yes, sir”.
“Got a driving licence?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Give me the keys. Just sit quietly while I check the registration”.
He was scared. Why had he been pulled up? He had been within the speed limit.
“This car has been registered to some else. Not in your name. Mind telling me who the owner is?”
He hesitated. He was not sure whether he would be doing the right thing by telling the officer who the car belonged to. But then he decided that the officer must already know that, so he did tell him.
“You just drive quietly ahead of me to the address of the owner. I want to find out whether he gave you permission to take the car.”
“Yes sir”.
They parked in the driveway, and the uniformed officer knocked softly on the door. It was opened slightly, and then banged shut abruptly.
The officer called for back-up. But a loud screech of tyres from the back of the house proclaimed very clearly that the occupant or occupants did not want to talk to the police.
He was taken to the police station, and interviewed by plain-clothes detectives. They knew all about his overseas trips. They had the hard evidence of his involvement.
They had not taken him in, as they wanted the big fish.
They produced him before the court, and he was given bail.
Weeks later, they took him to the police station, showed him a familiar face through a one-way glass, and asked him to identify him. He had no choice but to do so. They knew anyway.
The stern, lady judge looked down at him through half-glasses, cleared her throat, and said:- “Young man, you have broken the law. That is a crime. You have to be punished. The evidence produced before me shows that there are others who are clearly the main culprits. They will get a more severe punishment if they plead guilty or are found guilty. I would have sentenced you to a term of imprisonment, but for your youth and your lack of previous convictions. I have come to the conclusion, on hearing both prosecution and defence, that in your case, a sentence of home detention is the least restrictive outcome, considering the deterrence aspect, and the mitigating factors. I hereby sentence you to a term of nine months home detention, at your mother’s house, which has been found suitable by probation for electronic monitoring. There will be the usual post-detention conditions. Lastly, let me tell you this.a fool and his Ferrari are soon parted! You may stand down!”
 
Kersie Khambatta, a semi-retired lawyer in New Zealand, is a part-time writer of articles and short-stories. His writing is recognizable by his simple style, with short sentences and appropriate words. He has a diploma of Associateship of the British Tutorial Institute, London, in English, Modern Journalism, and Journalism in India, and a Certificate in Comprehensive writing awarded by the Writing School (Australia and New Zealand). His pieces have appeared in publications in Canada, New Zealand, U.S.A., India, and other countries.


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— journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
CLRI is published online per month, in digital versions occasionally, and in print edition (planned to be quarterly), its print edition has ISSN 2250-3366.
Subscribe to our CLRI online edition. Our subscribers receive CLRI digital copies directly into their Inbox, get print copies free of cost whenever they come out during the subscription period, and are waived off any reading fee towards our print editions.
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