Hindi Poems of Sushant Supriye

( Translated by the poet सुशांत सुप्रिय from Hindi)

Thus Spoke the Father

When I will no longer be there
I will still be there–
thus spoke the father

I will be alive in the
writings of my eldest son

I will peep out of the
paintings of my youngest daughter

I will breathe in the
self-respect of my second son

I will survive in the
steely resolve of my third son

Just as my father lives in me
and my children will live in their children
so will I be saved
in all of you
o my children–
said our father to us.
( Kaha Pitaji ne )



Yesterday Night in my Dreams

Yesterday night
in my dreams

Gandhari refused to
blindfold herself

Eklavya refused to
offer his thumb to Dronacharya

Sita refused to
go through ordeal by fire

Draupadi did not allow others
to put her at stake in gambling

Puru refused to give
his youth to Yayati

Several mistakes of
history and mythology
were corrected
yesterday night
in my dreams .
(Kal raat sapne me )



Someone Else

I wake up
one morning
and find out that
I have turned
a stranger to myself
from every angle

My eyes seem
so unknown to me

My smile seems
someone else’s

My hair has turned

On my palms are etched
someone else’s fate-lines

Psychologists say that
It happens sometimes

That we go on living
someone else’s life

That someone else
goes on living within us.

( koi aur )

Sushant Supriye

Born on 28.03.1968 . Had his school education from St. Francis
school, Amritsar( Punjab) and graduation from D.A.V. College, Amritsar .Topped in G.N.D. University , Amritsar, in Pre-University, B.A. ( English) Honours, and M.A.( English ) . Also topped in University of Delhi in M.A. ( Linguistics ) . Was lecturer in English for a few years in D.A.V. College, Jalandhar .
Sushant’s short-stories and poems have been published in several literary magazines and national newspapers in English. He has to his credit a poetry-anthology titled ” In Gandhi’s Country ” .
His short story collection in English titled ” The Fifth Direction” is in press. Sushant is also an acclaimed writer and poet in Hindi . Has to his credit two short-story collections in Hindi titled ‘ Hatyare ‘ ( 2010)and ‘ He Ram ‘ ( 2012 ) , and one poetry-collection in Hindi titled ‘ Ek Boond Yah Bhi ” ( 2014 ) .
Sushant presently works as a senior officer in a Government organisation. He lives with his wife Dr. Leena and two children Vinaayak and Aanya in Delhi ( India ) .


ELBOWS AND PHLEGM Or, Wedding in a Pedophile Prank


Oyin Oludipe

They grew sterile
A hundred ways – warm fingers
Too cold at the nape
These nights that swayed.
Mothers tore at festive lull

Road singers
Chant a mild tune, lone
A hug only could douse
To a make-shelter heave of their elbow-pads

The weary limbs alone was horror and faith
Locked so far with fright and fight
Daughters share the mucus for repast
Awaiting mother-breasts resurge,

Breach the screen
With hurt sirens, good wants
Must survive the whistled purr
Of a safe-journey bid down the senile street

Voices down!
Our agencies are serene and busy-ness
Intense, and meekly now
Turn around, fixed in nation’s hitch scale

Week three:
The tears of pained innocence must course
To strange needs – ache of elbow
For offspring’s rheum when she had
Dined on prayers and the febrile nerve


by Marian Dragomir

let’s take care of ourselves
this is the first thing we do
when those sent to torture us
can’t complete their mission
we don’t hate those who made the mistake
of not taking care of themselves
and the first thing on the agenda
is to wake up each morning

we turn on the light
with the same control
that created the torch
we stand still
with no motivation in mind
and just to look beyond
the illusions and hate

this poem has no angels
only humanity
which we must endure
to keep going on

let’s let the pain and fear
rule our life


Marian Dragomir is from Romania. He has written two books: “Verses for the big life” (2010) and “Book with Masks” (2012). He has appeared in more them 20 literary magazines from Romania and FIRST LITERARY REVIEW-EAST.

Two Poems: Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau

Apostles Of Corruption:

We, priests of the land
Casted the cowries of time
on the sand of humanity.

Lo! we had new apostles
who shall read to us the epistles
on night we our future gazes
like a lost stone amidst mazes.

Time is a river
that doesn’t respect
a nun or a believer.
Flys with supreme gaiety.

At the shrines where humanity
is the god they serve;
They sip the gods’ palmwine,
dips her offering, forge her sign.

The gods are speaking,
Apostles looting,
Villagers complaining,
‘Hear what we are saying’

A fine session it will be
Pray the gods and you will see.
Another comes
but always the same!

Epistle of lies read
Apostle of lies breed.

Here is the endnote, Die
Die, Ye, corrupted apostles.



Let It Rain:

I pray the rain
do not fall
on our nuptial night

But if it does..

it is another
verse of this poem
where we play
as lovers
nakedly dancing
under the nudity
of a sad sky..

it is love,
Let it rain if it will,
its a ring to our matrimony.



Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau is a young writer trying to be a poet.
He studies nutrition and dietetics at the Federal Polytechnic, Ede. He
has been featured in collections at home and abroad.

Things Which Float To the Top

by Yasmin Ramirez

I am a soup on the stove

blue orange gassed fueled fire

heating me up s l o w l y

I start to simmer.

tiny bubbles disturb

wriggle across the

smooth soupy surface

tiny irritations in life

I cannot control.

tomato liquid erupts

the people who’ve failed,

I avoid, they’ll see

themselves sinking

to the murky bottom

the people I trusted

with my heart, raw

only to be as careless

as the man who blackened, burned


I am a soup on the stove.

the blue orange gassed fueled fire

has not increased. Only

the heat in the soup has.

I gurgle, splash, the extra

ingredients, salt, pepper,

onion, seethe, scald over time

rising hot humid steam.

tiny cubes, beige chicken bounce

off the metal bottom of the pot

rise to the surface

things I wish to avoid.

Heavy problems sink down

the dark bottom seen

in spaces such as these

they are my dad, the man,

who deserves to be chicken

and my grandma who died

without letting me say good-bye

how selfish of her.

I spill over, tomato-base soup

bleeding in front of the world.

it gawks, eyes open wide, unblinking

I froth over my own reflection,

spilling, pooling, mess

I can’t stop laughing.

laughter. bubbling up

joining the simmering surface

I am a soup on the stove

the blue orange gassed fueled fire is

bursting, popping with each drop

running, down the steamy metal pot

my life boiling ripples moving

across the surface they geyser

dome like burst in the agitation

of my soup