The Creative Section (Vol. 5, No. 1) is on its way and will be published by the end of May, 2024.





-       P C K Prem (India)


I intimately watch her

she is my nurse

smooth, loving, graceful and sublime.

Looks after a sepulchral body

tissues unborn,

she bears testimony to my pains

her face becomes stiff and rude

and at times she exhibits anger,

I profaned her smile and myself

in sympathy brought forth a sarcasm

of unrequited love born

when no love sprouted.


A strange harmony in disturbed wards

whose corridors screech to a moving halt,

of patients, limping bodies

emaciated, pale and great fluid thoughts,

remain unborn to write a book on catharsis.

Air smells foul and a nurse moves

about in blood and disease

unconcerned apparently but compassionate

wears a mark of a will

for one can challenge it to a duel.


And passion is individual and private

and compassion exclusive,

frighteningly honest

unique in temperament.

Lot of destined turbulence

and pre-willed rot

walking on ramps and electric lifts.


It discusses separations and farewells

without eyes beholding an experiment.

Her nimble fingers continue to walk

on charts and bio-data scribbled,

on pedestrian’s paths, she strolls

with no regrets.


A constant friend in distress made boring

by repetition and fabled stones,

it begets life when least needed

dextrose and sodium chloride haunt

a complete recovery in truncated careers.

No one could declare it useless

nobody will retell an experience

that occurred in honeyed whispers

in eyes open and speaking

words that would not disturb air

and communicate no message.


An assembly without debate and poison

escaping without a route,

probing life in latest electronics

generations of labour bring forth,

it knows a beginning and not an end.

A private enterprise in public sector

confusion erupted in sick wards

where patient treat doctors and play

with nurses calling sisters

a Cross blinks and forgets the man.


It lives a lonely life,

here everything works naughty in silence

of forced anesthesia.


What a torturing wait for consciousness

when dreams of a glowed and glittering,

but dulled sensibility

hope for an extra lubrication.

A sheer lie and an end without hope

and thus alongside the patient bed

grows an intimacy

that shall write an autobiography,

with smudged thoughts and lies unknown.


An utter confusion

on hospital corridors making futile

tries for locating extinguishers,

to press and break them

for fire shall spread and burn

and nobody shall live to read

an autobiography.