CLRI

CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA

– journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.

CLRI Print Edition ISSN 2250-3366

Rs.30.00 / $2.0

February 2013

Editor-in-Chief: Khurshid Alam

February 2013

contents

1. EDITORIAL ............................................................................................... 2

POETRY ................................................................................................ 4

2. JAYENDRINA SINGHA RAY .................................................................... 5

Julia ........................................................................................................... 5

3. S. CHITRA ................................................................................................ 7

Metro Rail .................................................................................................. 7

4. MUKHERJEE T ......................................................................................... 9

Premonitions ............................................................................................. 9

5. MERLIN FLOWER .................................................................................. 11

Go ............................................................................................................ 11 Dead tree ................................................................................................ 12 Hello ........................................................................................................ 12 Eve .......................................................................................................... 13

THEMED POEMS: .............................................................................. 14

CHRISTMAS ....................................................................................... 14

6. FERN G. Z. CARR .................................................................................. 15

Scary Christmas ...................................................................................... 15

7. APRIL SALZANO .................................................................................... 17

Holiday Head ........................................................................................... 17 Post-Christmas Snow .............................................................................. 18 Christmas Day ......................................................................................... 18

8. BIJOYA SAWIAN .................................................................................... 20

February 2013

ARTS ................................................................................................... 21

9. ARTS BY ELEANOR LEONNE BENNETT ............................................. 22

STORY ................................................................................................. 26

10. ANAND MAHAJAN ................................................................................. 27

ERF Function .......................................................................................... 27

11. MOU PANDA .......................................................................................... 31

A Fictional Woman .................................................................................. 31

CRITICISM ......................................................................................... 34

12. AJU MUKHOPADHYAY .......................................................................... 35

Nissim Ezekiel and his Poetic Personality .............................................. 35

13. SWARUP GHARA ................................................................................... 40

Creating a New Feminist Space: An Analysis of Luce Irigary’s “The Power of Discourse and the Subordination of The Feminine” ................ 40

BOOK REVIEW .................................................................................. 46

14. REVIEW ON BANGALORE/BENGALURU: IN FIRST PERSON SINGULAR BY MEENAKSHI CHAWLA ................................................. 47

15. BOOK RELEASES .................................................................................. 51

February 2013

1

editorial

Digital medium is not simply a medium, it is a space to

our life. All its shortcomings stand tiny before its advantages.

It is the best alternative to saving paper, thus to saving plants

and forests. It is the fastest means of communication, you can

fly your documents and files across the globe in no time and at

no costs. You can share your heart and mind to the world

without coming under any hammer.

– Khurshid Alam, Editor-in-Chief, Contemporary Literary Review India

February 2013

2

1. EDITORIAL

February 2013 issue is a little late from its

schedule. The CLRI print issue has kept us too

busy.

Last month we made a theme-based submission call to Christmas Special.

We received a good number of submissions. Out of all the writers, we

declare

FERN G. Z. CARR, APRIL SALZANO, and BIJOYA SAWIAN

winners. The winners will receive one copy of CLRI 2013 Annual issue

for free.

***

Contemporary Literary Review India (CLRI) is not limited to publishing

creative writing only, it strives to promote and propagate the writing and

the writers. To achieve this CLRI runs a number of services such as book

review writing service, manuscript editing, and digital formatting to help

the writers move ahead in their career effectively.

CLRI is making news about book review writing, a very sought after

service now. Check about it at CLRI Launches Book Review Writing

Service. Writers, publishers, and journals are opting for our book review

service.

We promote our writers by including their book releases and book reviews

in our journals. We publish and republish them, conduct interviews with

them and talk with them on various contemporary issues ranging from

social, political or historical.

CLRI

February 2013

3

Read an interview with Bruce L Dodson published with Blues GR.

CLRI comes out online monthly and is planed to come out in print

quarterly. Presently CLRI comes out in print annually. Buy and read our

print issue to understand its standard. CLRI 2013 Annual issue is selling in

good number. We encourage our readers and writers to buy and read.

Buying an issue is supporting us. Support us support you.

Editor-in-Chief

CLRI

Khurshid Alam

Get Your Book Reviewed by Contemporary Literary Review India — journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.

CLRI prides itself to have a good number of review writers.

We have different review writers for books of different genres.

Our reviews are gaining recognition among the publishers,

journals and academia for fair and high quality reviews.

February 2013

4

At one time poetry was a large part of mainstream readership.

The public seemed to lose interest with the advent of gaming

and the Internet, and now the Internet can be the avenue of

restoration of this important genre of entertainment and

enlightenment.

– Jack Huber, Poet & Author, http://www.jackhuber.com

Poetry

February 2013

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2. JAYENDRINA SINGHA RAY

Julia

Half of what I say is meaningless But I say it just to reach you Julia

I am trying too hard.

And now I am falling into a pit

Dark as charcoal, cold with voices that echo

An octopus clutches my head

As I fall headlong into the sea of doubts

Black- blue.

You fed me risotto with clams, prawns and squids

The tentacles choked me until I calmed down

They were in my stomach half chewed

I dreamt that they joined into a whole giant Octopus

The mollusc clutches at my head now

The soft, slimy suction cups

Taste my thoughts.

But once I reach the end of the pit

I shall not hurt my head

The brain wouldn't hang out

The blood wouldn't slowly seep out

The octopus would have consumed me.

In nothingness

dark and liquid blue

I will know meaning/lessness.

February 2013

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Jayendrina Singha Ray is a student of English Literature. She is currently pursuing a research degree from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Her first poem was published in the children's section of The Telegraph, Kolkata. Another poem titled 'The Thought of An Angry Mind', was published by ndtv on its website. She intends to be a writer/illustrator in future. She can be reached at: jayendrinasingharay@gmail.com.

Get Your Book Reviewed by Contemporary Literary Review India — journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.

CLRI prides itself to have a good number of review writers.

We have different review writers for books of different genres.

Our reviews are gaining recognition among the publishers,

journals and academia for fair and high quality reviews.

February 2013

7

3. S. CHITRA

Metro Rail

The other day

The yellow flowers that lined

the pedestrian suddenly disappeared

they said the Metro Rail

had come

The trees that bore them

stood awkwardly blunt

some half cut

some with fallen branches

surrounding their foot

raising a dirge

with their erstwhile majestic bark

which Chipko men and women

once hugged to save them

like unpolished circular furniture

peeping out on ground

waving farewell hands

photo not accepted

February 2013

8

S. Chitra, an Associate Professor in English with Bharathi Women's College, Chennai 600 108.

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February 2013

9

4. MUKHERJEE T

Premonitions

I

They utter words of understanding that lose meanings

in the absence of the daylight that draws pattern on ceilings

when ragged haggard bearded bleary-eyed writers

wring open their minds on beds grumbling in tandem with

trucks plowing the highway beside and behind and before

a building that entraps endless paper and pencil and pennies,

all waiting wearily for a war to inspire a generation which lay

cramped with cables and keyboards and keypads stuffed

down pipelines of meaning and meeting and mixing;

while I command you and you compel me to tread the floors of

neon-lit corridors-turned-tunnels of a tropical urban mythical youth-come-

true.

II

They twist the trains of thought with drugs of dread and bread

that feed the lesser-fed bowels of brains strapped to bombs

that radiate inward into troves of treasures that were never born

because their predecessors had numbered lists of dreams for

the progeny to live and lead unto, like robots that fall in love

for the lure of lust and not the lover.

Trust manufactured under sodium lamps expired

when the birds woke up from nightmares of bright nights

that blind the sight of the wise white owl who hides beneath the bough

of trees too full of wood to brood on.

February 2013

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III

They have invaded every cave in which I could hide

and nurture my child whom I saved from the clutches

of his over-civilized parents who sell their name for fame, and health

for wealth

in the need to be somebody who they do not know

in a land brimming with bodies suffocated with each other’s sweat

wrecked with the experiments of an imported genius who dozes off to

delirium

in the stench of the stale revolution that fanned out aimless

in an era sans invention, waiting to be discovered by living miracles

that might come out of thin air or thick soil or the eulogized oceans

that stink of a sterilized race afloat for too long.

IV

The clothes are wet from the drops of dew that shall fall no more

because the skies have dried and clouds have died of crying

tears for men with no skin to soak in, unlike the imagined imagery

where evil wins and reigns. Instead, they’re all hanging in mid-air,

in suspended animation beneath a magnificent display of fireworks

above a frozen planet that has was robbed of love slowly and slyly

by grey-haired mammals in grey clothes who built grey walls around

the rainbow and stabbed the divine with nuclear knives with

bright red plastic hilts in spastic hands of human slaves.

Twish Mukherjee is an upcoming filmmaker from Kolkata, who has been making zero-budget short films of his own and freelancing various video-making services for the past two years. He writes and paints when there is not money for film-making, he says.

February 2013

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5. MERLIN FLOWER

Go

The winds are the same, but the trees have a different dance, I told him.

He nodded

taking in the words . He never said, ‘winds are different’, but I could read

it in his face.

I am his

friend. We

could have been best friends but fell in love before that. Now we:

avoid each other

take stolen glances

can’t speak without being conscious of the other.

He still:

kisses girls

flirts with them

knows where I am

remembers everything I say.

He can:

write like a dream

cook with passion

paint anything

play the guitar

He is:

younger to me

inexperience uncloaked

dreamer par comparison

He thinks:

I am the best in the world;

I am so innocent. He’s so innocent.

February 2013

12

I won’t marry him: I’ll let him fall in love and marry someone else.

When he does:

I’ll cry. Move on and fall in love again.

Dead tree

One up, above the stump, the lone lovely branch with

three leaves and a stem, brown and green meddling merged;

Oh,

there’s an ant on a leaf, biting it to bits.

And,

the criss-cross of lines, across and beyond, everywhere along.

In the back, a beetle sings,

‘la,ah,la, the end is near,

Ka, the beginning of beginning,

Ka the end of end.’

Hello

‘hi, ya’, presented to a new way of expression, ‘Hi, dda.’

In the year of our God, two small giants

said to each other, hi.

one from the south, one from the East;

They still were the same.

around the bend, the bird searches for its mate

in another bend, the snake isn’t hungry.

February 2013

13

Eve

I hear the drummer in the summer,

Tearing through the woods,

I stop and listen

drum drum drum drum.

Is it my heartbeat in the heat?

Merlin Flower, an Indian based in Indonesia, is an independent artist and writer.

Eve has been co-written with Cristal Conrad, a poet and composer.

Get Your Book Reviewed by Contemporary Literary Review India — journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.

CLRI prides itself to have a good number of review writers.

We have different review writers for books of different genres.

Our reviews are gaining recognition among the publishers,

journals and academia for fair and high quality reviews.

February 2013

14

The works of these poets Fern G. Z. Carr, April Salzano, and Bijoya

Sawian are declared winners on our Christmas Theme.

Themed Poems:

Christmas

February 2013

15

6. FERN G. Z. CARR

Scary Christmas

As Christmas descends upon the masses,

evergreens held ransom in living rooms

suffering the degradation of decoration

shed their pine needle tears.

Radios spew out incessant renditions

of Deck the Halls and Jingle Bells

Until you have to pull your hair

screaming, “Stop! I can’t take it anymore!”

Last minute shoppers indulge in a feeding frenzy

jostling each other in mean-spirited competition

for overpriced gifts which will be tossed aside

by spoiled children who expect more

While Rudolph the red-nosed Santa,

not a resident of Bethlehem,

sits sweating under his red and white

department store suit,

enduring the incessant prattle of

“I want this and I want that”

February 2013

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As he fantasizes about diving down

to the bottom of a bottle of gin

in a smoky bar somewhere.

All the brouhaha this time of year

is just another shovelful of dirt on the grave

of the suicide who will never be lonely again

and just another reminder to the parents

of a child mowed down by a motorist

weaving his way home after too much

cheer at his office party –

the calendar rubs their nose in it.

How do they respond to “Merry Christmas”?

February 2013

17

7. APRIL SALZANO

Holiday Head

is clearing, fog lifting, leaving landscape

in its wake, intact and mostly recognizable.

These are my hands and this is my return

pile, receipts neatly tucked in appropriate boxes.

I am sick of cookies, fudge, leftover ham,

but the kitchen counter is still

partially occluded by greeting card sentiments

and pictures of people’s kids I have met

maybe once and didn’t care what they looked like

then, wrapping paper, bows, to and from

tags for quick and easy re-gifting.

There are monsters in the fridge for energy

and angels in the new snow.

School resumes in seven days and I cannot wait

to slip back into my routine

like a pair of faded jeans that fit

perfectly before holiday indulgences.

February 2013

18

Post-Christmas Snow

The only thing consistent about the weather

in Pennsylvania is the inconsistency. You can bet

on rain when forecasters call for sun, and fog

when it’s supposed to be clear. The white

was absent from Christmas this year, but snow

is falling now, accumulating like there’s no tomorrow.

Icicles have intertwined with their fake, dangling

counterparts, light from one illuminating the other,

strung from gutters full and frozen. The deer forage

for the corn we placed in the yard close to the porch.

Housebound, we watch as we take the tree down early,

a sign of bad luck we won’t attribute to the proper source

anyway. Pennsylvanians only have bad luck in winter.

What’s the worst that could happen?

We’ll get snowed in and miss all the after-Christmas sales?

Christmas Day

It is Christmas Day and you cannot walk.

Your brother wants to tear open presents

piled under the blinking tree, gaudy

with homemade decorations, handprints

holding photos, construction paper deer

wearing remnants of glitter glue,

pipe cleaner antlers, disjointed.

But you are limping and all I can think of

is Tiny Tim, a holiday miracle in reverse.

Yesterday you were fine. What could have happened

between dreaming and waking that could paralyze

February 2013

19

a limb, a holiday, my heart? I take up praying

for the first time, a one liner,

help, which does not

seem sufficient so I add, please

both before and after.

I offer you gifts, forgetting

to save the best for last. I am at a loss.

I am hoping for the ghost

of Christmas past to show my folly.

I must have done something horrible

at some point, I know it. Thousands

of dollars wrapped in silver and blue foil

suddenly mean nothing. I want to trade it all.

Just toxic synovitis, the doctor says.

24-48 hours. More typical in infants following

a bad virus. Toxic? I start pushing Tylenol

like crack. I wish for a syringe

to extract the fluid

myself. I hold you until

this holiday becomes a memory.

April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania and is working on her first several collections of poetry and an autobiographical novel on raising a child with Autism. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, The Weekender Magazine, Deadsnakes, Winemop, Daily Love, WIZ, Visceral Uterus, Crisis Chronicles, Windmills, and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly, Decompression, Work to a Calm, and Bluestem. The author also serves as co-editor for several online journals at Kind of a Hurricane Press.

February 2013

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8. BIJOYA SAWIAN

I felt so good

The day I walked out of myself

I did not look back

But I could almost see me crumbling

Sitting on that garden bench

Unbelieving

That I could actually walk out of myself

That I would never go back to me

So…. you had better walk off too

And do not look back

For neither me nor I will be waiting

On that garden bench

Where long ago we talked of love

With the innocence of children

Not knowing that true love only exists

In the hearts of those unloved.

Let this be a period of searching

amidst the crags and crevices and rugged mountain slopes

Which we have built with our egos and our human failings

Maybe you and I will meet again in another time another place

Or maybe we won’t

Bijoya Sawian writes poetry.

February 2013

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Arts

February 2013

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9. ARTS BY ELEANOR LEONNE BENNETT

February 2013

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February 2013

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February 2013

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Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic,The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles,Florida, Washington, Scotland,Wales, Ireland,Canada,Spain,Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations.

February 2013

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It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their

own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.

― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

Story

February 2013

27

10. ANAND MAHAJAN

ERF Function

I would think I was now a known face not only for the permanent staff of

the temple complex, but for the big eyed tall statue of god Hanuman too. I

contemplated over and over again about this knowing me by big eyes of

God; knowing my real self, knowing all my years from childhood to this

old age, and I tried my best to relate my life’s union with the eyes. The

eyes, the knowing of which into my interior would make me fascinated.

The tall body of God was enclosed by a front open three walled structure.

There were glass windows at the height of Gods head in the side wall. I

noted this feature of side view of God’s head observable from the side

wall. I could only draw up a conclusion that the eyes of God Hanuman,

viewable from a glass window were trying to reveal a clandestine

message; a message from god not to confuse. As if it was an event of

clarification by Him; a clarification that human features of god mislead

one to assume Him a human whereas He is only a law. Men make laws

with his head. So it was now clear. The complete view of God from open

front and the view of only the head from high up glass windows appearing

at the same time was a cryptic message of course. Yes, God was only a

law.

My mornings here would start thus. The powerful prayers recited live by

the priest would make me feel that from the previous night’s sleep, the

kinks and bends of the previous day; the losses; despairs; atrophies, and all

impediments were seeing a nascent hope as if all impairments would soon

be corrected by tagging them into bodies of a league of morning joggers;

there would be an army of joggers in my existence and the redoubtable

recuperation from the joggers’ running feet would be directed to annul all

impairments.

February 2013

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I am presently working in a place of education where there are frequent

parleys over beautification and revisions to make a science fiction look

more engrossing. Movie has been selling however. Sitting and

participating in such a meeting room occupied full with a Steven Spielberg

listening to an Arnold about what the latter could do, other actors listening

in their amusement hidden in underclothes of their mind, I looked at them

with the eyes one looks at an assortment of power cables with a three pin

power plug at their tails; the moment the power pins were slipped into

sockets on the real switchboard running on 220 volts, they would reveal

helplessly that they were not wired on the head side to real lampposts of

the street; for a chain of decorative small blinking bulbs of celebration

nights or a birthday party would light up from the power in them – the

cables of above description.

I was on my way to my college where I teach engineering classes. I

happened to see not one or two but four small gathered knolls of motor

vehicle windscreen shards lying on the side of the highway, and four such

knolls in as small a length of highway as this I had never seen before. The

highway was almost panting for a suspiration under the mad rush of

vehicles rolling in a continuum over it in a hot day with no signs of even a

procrastinated monsoon. The four knolls looked like four doses of some

herbal medicine that the old tired highway had kept with in reach to

recover if disintegration for it was in the works.

Where I live, just from the outside of the place, a rural town starts. There

is a fast track railway and a fast track highway as well on back and front

respectively of this place. Both lines, always 24 hours of the day are busy,

and are with the associated noise of their mobility; whereas the town

marred with rising inflation and drooping rupee has reinvented original

methods of preservation of life. There are dilapidated vehicles of transport

that carry passengers leaving trains at near-by bus stand and railway

station and then, boarding these reinvented vehicles with bared engine

assemblies in front of the vehicle; the vehicles manoeuvring in crowds and

creeping to depart for their destination; as if they are not being used by

February 2013

29

end-user, they are, on the contrary, being tested in the laboratory in the

gone by times of evolution of internal combustion engines.

I have woken again badly disturbed temporarily; my whole life can be

summed up as an erf(z) function of mathematics, wherein never solvable

terms have kept becoming more and more error producing; but then here

at this piece of land, with the aid of pin therapy of easing frequency of

Sirens of trains in the railway station, I stay half asleep after hauling

myself from the indefinite flux of thoughts rendered by previous night’s

sleep, and I work towards nucleation of an altogether nascent day of now

recognisable unknowns. From the backyard, into the equanimity of this

night hour, I hear the shrieking penetration of rail siren of an approaching

train. I love such hooting trains now amusing me at my awakenings from

sleep.

The dream had burnt alive my sleep. But the flame that had torched my

mind in sleep was merely a plastic pin jabbed into my mind; my mind

consumed it instantly and smiled and threw it in the knoll of similar pins.

Years before, a long bone in my body has turned a spear bleeding my

mind white, and since then remained imbedded into me now not oozing

even a drop of blood. What was the routine cleavage of a plastic pin

inflicted to my mind then?

Who is this man telling you his story?

Long back a classically beautiful painting of nature was given to a badly

mutilated maestro in making who in his skirmishes with the world kept

considering his new possession as a foisted paragraph, fit to be kept in the

margins in the work sheet of his quotidian struggle. The one and only one

creation of nature, the painting, with a lot many distortions in her first

remained oblivious of the maestro as he looked too much stricken by his

kinks to look of any value; then amidst her recovery the maestro’s truths,

his distinctions despite his mutilations with so many drive mechanisms

under repair in him became evident to her. She however saw this and then

again kept resenting on the mistake of her creator artist nature of not

February 2013

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putting soul in her in true spirit. Then as is the nature never ever changing

Her law of adherence to span of long years in taking minor feeds of

correction, the painting gathered soul after many years, and the maestro

too managed to stand erect amidst his achievements; he now looking with

new eyes at his immaculate possession. But as the saying goes, a bit of

creation leaves behind a big heap of costly raw material to remain of no or

little use in the aftermath, it so happened with this pair also. The raw

material was too costly and invaluable and they had never expected that

mere playing play park games with this raw material for lessening their

grief would do any harm to demineralise the raw material itself; the pair

now stood spell bounded espying the devaluation of the raw material that

was mined from their own interiors and was now not shaping up into even

a devalued structure of any shape to remain afoot on its own. The raw

material would never stand on his feet, easygoing as it had become. They,

in their tearing grief, decided to swim against the wave together with raw

material in their laps in hope of receding of the tide.

Anand Swaroop Mahajan, an engineer by profession, writes regularly. His writing has appeared in many journals in India and abroad.

Get Your Book Reviewed by Contemporary Literary Review India — journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.

CLRI prides itself to have a good number of review writers.

We have different review writers for books of different genres.

Our reviews are gaining recognition among the publishers,

journals and academia for fair and high quality reviews.

February 2013

31

11. MOU PANDA

A Fictional Woman

“A woman’s word…” vibrated all the particles floating in air with

resonating laugh of Raghvendra. “My Dad says that if you allow a woman

to speak then she gets over your head and pees into your ears” said

Raghvendra while Varsha kept gazing at him. Silent and deep engraved in

thoughts over these patriarchal words she asked him, “Do you love me?”

“Of course, I love you” replied Raghvendra. “But it does not appear

through your attitude” said Varsha. Raghvendra squeezed his lips and said,

“I don’t believe in showing love to a woman, men don’t show their

emotions. Emotions are womanly, cowardly. Real men have a lion’s

attitude: fiery, nasty, aggressive but, still poise. They never let their

emotions over rule themselves.” “O Really! Then how are the real

women?” enquired Varsha. “Real women have a fox’s attitude: clever,

shrewd, ever-changeable but, still pitiable” answered Raghvendra. “Do

you think, am I a real woman?” asked Varsha. Perplexed and entangled in

his own words Raghvendra said, “No” and laugh echoed through every

walls of the room with friendly tiffs between the two. “If I am not a real

woman then you are not a real man, understood?” giggling voice of

Varsha declared. “Of course, we are not real man and woman, we are

fictional and so is our relationship” Raghvendra busted into laugh as a

drop of tear rolled down over his cheeks. “Yes, you are not a man. I saw a

drop of tear on your cheek and it is an emotion that is visible” said Varsha.

“No, that was due to a dust particle and not emotion” replied Raghvendra.

Varsha knew it was useless to argue with Raghvendra as he never believed

in what he never wanted to believe.

Sky was over loaded with dark clouds. Sky was star-less and moon-less. A

big storm was about to hit.

February 2013

32

Extreme silence was all around.

A middle aged woman with black goggles and gloves robed in white

entered in her house. Even a falling feather on floor would make noise in

her empty house. She directly went to her kitchen. She picked up her

favorite thing there with enthusiasm salivating for what was going to

follow. With a bone China pot in her hand, she entered in drawing room.

She quickly seated herself on sofa and put the pot on table. She removed

her gloves one by one. She felt intense pleasure while removing those

gloves as the friction of leather gloves on her puffed skin over hands and

wrists created pain. “Pain, I need more pain to feel the life inside me

numbed by hollowness” said she while rubbing salt taken from pot on her

already scarred hands. She took a blade and made a few more new scars.

She laughed while sprinkling salt over the blood that oozed through soft,

dark and pulpy scarred skin. After completing her salt exercise, she went

inside her bed-room. She put her goggles down on the dressing table and

observed silently her eyes: One eye completely ruined by acid that she

threw over it 10 years ago and another completely perfect, in good

condition to see the devastation of another. She grinned at her image while

combing her hair. Drops of rain made sounds on the glass of her window.

She felt her limbs going numb. Suddenly she wanted to get into deep sleep

and fell on bed.

Varsha and Raghavendra went inside their car. They had working day, the

very next day. It was already very late, around 3 am in the night. Their

respective offices were at around 9 am and still Mumbai was 7 hours far

from the place where they were vacating. Both of them were amazed at the

rate time passed so fast. Hurriedly Raghvendra drove the car. They needed

to cross a valley before reaching Mumbai. A storm had already hit but,

still Raghavendra drove very fast, much faster than the safer speed limit.

Roads were not good, tyres skidded here and there but, they had very less

time.

February 2013

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Varsha’s heart was palpitating very fast as if something wrong was going

to happen. She asked Raghavendra to slow down the speed of car as she

was feeling really unwell at such speed under such weather. Raghavendra

didn’t hear anything due to the harsh noise made by the rain drops on the

window shields of the car. He kept on the high speed until the car hit one

very big rock. A big noise and blood with broken glasses splattered all

over the road. The next thing, Varsha knew was hospital room. Being

surrounded by her friends. The first thing she wanted to know was

whereabouts of Raghavendra. They said, “All is fine.” But her intuition

said, “Nothing is fine.” And it was true, nothing was fine and nothing ever

became fine thereafter.

She locked up her laptop in a cupboard as she never again had the courage

to open it. Raghavendra was there inside her laptop along with Varsha.

She resigned from her HR job in Mumbai and joined one NGO that was

working for the upliftment of women in rural areas. Her new job was to

create real woman out of the false ones. She knew the tragedy of being a

fictional, unreal woman.

Sun rays entering through the glass of a window fell on the face of Varsha.

From last 15 years, the dawn welcomes the day for her like this. She goes

to bathroom and then dresses herself for the day ahead with her usual

gloves, goggles and white robe. Outside her car is there in which she has

to travel numerous villages changing many women, nurturing and bringing

out real women.

Mou Panda is a 25 years old girl from Jharkhand, currently learning German to work as a translator. This is her first published work in any literary journal. She wants to portray the society she lives in through her stories. Writing is a passion to which she is addicted and she wants to pursue this passion of hers lifelong.

February 2013

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I criticize by creation - not by finding fault.

– Marcus Tullius Cicero

Criticism

February 2013

35

12. AJU MUKHOPADHYAY

Nissim Ezekiel and his Poetic Personality

There is no wonder that writers and critics would pay homage to an

honoured poet like Nissim Ezekiel who passed away on 9 January 2004.

There is no wonder also to find that critics would differ in their

assessment. A critic like V.M. Madge complains against Ezekiel that

through his writings, “The image of India being doled out to the world…”

in his very powerful essay, Pride and Prejudice in Ezekiel’s poetry, in the

July issue of the Indian Book Chronicle, 2004, while Chetan Karnena

writes in the August issue of the same magazine, “Ezekiel’s essential

genius lies in the fact that at a time when India baiting became a

fashionable pastime, Ezekiel, with his dedication and singleness of

purpose, stood by India and did something for India.”- Obituary.

We do not know if Ezekiel did many other things for India than writing, if

even through his writings he did uphold the age-old traditions and the

greatness of Indian civilization and literature. Did he work for the

promotion of communal harmony, environment or any other thing?

Even if we do not accept the contents of Madge’s essay, the verve and

force of his criticism, its arrangement and style engage our attention. He

proves his contention with ample examples. A few may suffice to clear the

points.

The poem “Background Casually” certainly confirms his point that the

poet was disgusted to live in a mixed religious milieu, such as he lived at

his home in India. Such lines as, “The Indian landscape sears my eyes”

proves his general dislike for India. In such poems like “In India”, “Guru”,

“Egotist’s Prayers”, the critic says that the poet’s irony and sarcasm used

against Hindu Religion and its practitioners are beyond limit. The critic

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aptly says, “But whenever religion is to be derided, it is much easier in

India to deride the tolerant Hinduism.” When the poet criticizes the great

classical poet Kalidasa for his sensuality, it is natural that a critic would

bring out examples of nudity from the poet’s own creations.

One may criticize one’s own country, criticize his parents, even self-

criticism is often a way to express displeasure but such things should be

with a positive attitude, with an effort to amend. Many great men were

grateful for being born in India. It is a country with many plus and minus

points like many others. Those who live here live knowing them. Mother

India is happy to give shelter to those who wish but she is not obliged to

them. If the poet Ezekiel writes, “I have made my commitments now. /

This is one: to stay where I am” (as quoted by the critic), it is in no way

that India would be obliged to him. “Stay if you please, but be Indian,”

would be the reply, says the critic.

“Put in the perspective of Indian English poetry, whose line of

development runs unbroken from Derozio to Sarojini Naidu, and specially

put beside the towering figures like Aurobindo and Tagore, Ezekiel, for all

his alleged virtues, appears no more than a punny urbanite sniggering

satirist….” The critic writes toward the end.

That I liked the beautiful finishing and some of the substance of the essay

by V.M. Madge, does not mean that I deny the varied creations of the

adored poet. Circumstances in life may sometimes create positions in a

person, specially such person as a poet who is really very sensitive to his

surroundings, that he gives vent to his feelings in his poetry though that

may be a temporary outburst.

It seems that Ezekiel was born with disgust and ennui. Surely he disliked

his surroundings and life around. Let us read –

And saw the city, cold and dim,

Where only human hands sell cheap. . . .

Barbaric city sick with slums,

Deprived of seasons, blessed with rains,

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Its hawkers, beggars, iron-lunged,

Procession led by frantic drums, . . .

The city wakes, where fame is cheap,

And he belongs, an active fool.

– A Morning Walk

He finds all goings on in a city as he walks but looking at himself pauses,

is he not a poet, a different person among the men in procession, of people

around?

Is he among the men of straw

Who think they go which way they please?

– A Morning walk

In the “Night of the Scorpion” the poet narrates how his mother was stung

by a scorpion on a rainy night, how she suffered throughout the 20 hours

that she lived thereafter surrounded by all superstitious people to finally

depart. The whole narrative is pathetic, evoking disgust and helplessness,

to end with the words of the mother as she dies, glorifying after all, the

mother figure: “Thank God the scorpion picked on me / and spared my

children.”

February 2013

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The same feeling of disgust, frustration and ennui in love making also –

After a night of love I turned to love,

The threshing thighs, the singing breasts,

Exhausted by the act, desiring it again

Within a freedom old as earth

And fresh as God’s name, through all

The centuries of darkened loveliness.

– The Nights of Love

Yes, the “darkened loveliness”, only a powerful poet can write this way.

We remember the disgust and frustration of another powerful poet,

Kamala Das, in such matters.

Even in his patriotism or in the absence of it we find strong sarcasm and

irony –

Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct

I should say even 200% correct,

But modern generation is neglecting-

Too much going for fashion and foreign thing . . . .

Everything is coming-

Regeneration, remuneration, contraception.

Be patiently, brothers and sisters. . . .

Still, you tolerate me,

I tolerate you,

One day Ram Rajya is surely coming . . . .

You are going?

But you will visit again

Any time, any day,

I am not believing in ceremony

February 2013

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Always I am enjoying your company.

– The Patriot

Mahatma Gandhi was mentioned at the beginning of the poem so came the

“Ram Rajya”. Expressing in most modern way, even not caring

meticulously about the grammar of which the poet was quite careful it

seems, he tells things deriding the idealist’s hopes and aspirations. May be

they will be stung at this and try to beat back. But whether an Israeli Jew

or Hindu Indian, it matters little, he was a poet and expressed himself

adequately in his fashion, following the bend of his nature.

Work Cited:

1. 60 Indian Poets. Ed. Jeet Thayil. New Delhi; Penguin Books. 2008.

pp. 1-6.

2. Pride and Prejudice in Ezekiel’s poetry by V.M. Madge. Indian

Book Chronicle. July, 2004 issue.

Based in Pondicherry, Aju Mukhopadhyay, an award winning bilingual poet author and critic, writes fiction too. He has authored 28 books and has received several honours from India and abroad. Critiques on his poetry have been published in many periodicals and books. Many of his works have been translated in other languages and anthologised. About 25 scholarly books contain his works on Indian English Literature; quite more are in the press. He is in the editorial boards of some distinguished literary magazines and a member of the Research Board of Advisors of the American Biographical Institute. Writer on animals and wildlife; conservation of Nature and Environment is the watch word of his life.

February 2013

40

13. SWARUP GHARA

1

Creating a New Feminist Space: An Analysis of Luce Irigary’s “The Power of Discourse and the Subordination of The Feminine”

Abstract

To Irigary, a woman takes on the ideas that are prescribed for her by the

male dominated, philosophical framework. She speaks of the feminine

style of writing that would attempt to bridge various oppositions, such as

those between writing and speech, between horizontal and vertical

movements of the text. She works towards a theory of difference that

involves the creation of another woman, who is a feminine subject equal

to the masculine subject.

Creating a New Feminist Space: An Analysis of Lauce Irigrary’s “The

Power of Discourse and the Subordination of the Feminine.”

A French philosopher and psychoanalyst, Lauce Irigaray is a noted

influential linguist whose writings have been largely co-opted by feminist

literary critics. She belonged to a psychoanalytic school in Paris, and

taught at the University of Paris. Irigaray is best known for her critique of

Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytic theories in such groundbreaking works

as Speculum de Pautre femme (Speculum of the Other Women; 1974) and

Ce sexe qui n’en est pas un (This Sex Which Is Not One; 1977). The most

famous dimension of Irigaray’s thought exploits the contradictions and

gendered assumptions in the work of both Freud and his colleague,

Jacques Lacan. Deemed one of the most difficult of French feminists for

the complexities of her prose style, Irigaray has often been compared to

February 2013

41

Helene Cixous, Simone de Beauvior, and Julia Kristeva for her

adaptations of psychoanalytic theories to foment feminism that stresses

“difference”.

Using a deconstructive approach, Irigaray has advanced psychoanalytic

theory by focusing on the ways that language and culture position men and

women differently during the oedipal stage of human development when

subjectivity is formed and language is acquired. Following this line of

thought, with the theories of Lacan (mirror stage, form of “sexuation”) and

of Derrida (logocentrism) in the background, Luce Irigaray also criticizes

the favouring of unitary truth within patriarchal society. In her theory for

creating a new disruptive form of feminine writing, she focuses on the

child’s pre-Oedipal phase when experience and knowledge depends on

bodily contact, primarily with the mother. Here lies one major interest of

Luce Irigaray’s; the mother-daughter relationship, which she considers

devalued in patriarchal society. Women, she writes, must recast discourse

in the form that does not preserve an implied masculine subject,

harmonizing the machine of language in order to rethink the relations that

make possible meaning, knowledge and presence.

In the essay “The Power of Discourse and the Subordination of the

Feminine”, Irigaray argues for a specific style of feminine discourse and

thinking that world differs significantly from the logo-centric male

discourse. To explore this topic, it is essential to analyze the organization

of language. Language is one of the primary tools for producing meaning;

it also serves to establish forms of social meditation, ranging from

interpersonal relationships to the most elaborate political relations. If

language does not give both sexes equivalent opportunities to speak and

increase their self-esteem, it functions as a means of enabling one sex to

subjugate the other.

Irigaray starts by attempting to find a space for Feminist discourse in the

philosophic network of male-dominated thinking. She contends that within

the traditional philosophical discourse, a woman can only function in

resembling masculine methods of speech and of language. By doing this,

February 2013

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Irigaray believes that a woman takes on the roles that are prescribed for

her by the male-dominated, philosophical framework. As long as a woman

deals with “ideas” created by the masculine thinking, and expressed in

masculine language, she will remain as the subverted “Other.” She goes

on to analyze the feminine as linked to nature in a male-dominated

discourse.

She asserts that these natural, feminine, material aspects serve to nourish

the abstract and speculative aspects of masculine thinking. Irigaray argues

that one of the most subversive aspects of this masculine thinking is its

subversion of feminine pleasure. She continues to discuss this idea by

illustrating the representation of the feminine as virginal in the masculine

religious and philosophic discourse. Irigaray asserts that the feminine

pleasure, as well as the feminine thought, will not have a place in a

masculine theoretical system. She contends, similarly to Cixous and other

Post-Structuralist, that Feminism should not attempt to forward their own

theory that would place the feminine in a different place, but rather they

should attempt to “jam the theoretical machinery itself” (796).

She goes on to form the above assertion to contend that part of the

disruption to the theoretical male system is feminine style of writing that

does not follow the rules of masculine, logically-based writing. This

feminine style of writing would attempt to bridge various oppositions,

such as those between writing and speech, between horizontal and vertical

movements of the text, and so on. She proposes that the text would be

cyclical and would come back to itself.

This style would give a place to the feminine form of discourse that would

be different from the traditional masculine forms of writing and speaking.

It would therefore offer space to a feminine way asserting itself that would

not participate in the theoretical forms that have traditionally reduced and

subverted it.

I consider the poetry of Lucille Clifton to be one of the best examples to

what Irigaray is trying to propose in her essay. While Clifton’s poems do

February 2013

43

not completely follow Irigaray’s suggestions, they do break the rules of

traditional organization and presentation of writing and of discourse. One

of Clifton’s poems is titled “female.” It is written, like most of her other

poems without any capital letters. However it does have periods. Some of

the sentences, however, are not complete grammatical sentences in a

traditional form. For example, one of the sentences reads “the strength that

opens us / beyond ourselves” (4-5). In traditional grammar this sentence

would only constitute a relative clause; however, in Clifton’s poem, she

punctuates it as a complete sentence. Another “sentence” in the poem

seems to be tautological at first glance, but it actually gains two separate

connotations in the poem. The line reads; “birth is our birthright” (6).

“Birth” in this line means both the birth of the women themselves, as well

as their right as women to give birth, to bring life. Another way in which

the poet flouts the rules is that in this poem, she does not explain

everything, and seems to rely on material/physical signs to express

messages to her readers, who may share them. She writes; “we smile our

mysterious smile” (7). There’s no explanation of what the “mystery”

behind that smile is. The author, instead, relies on her readers (mostly

female readers) to share that “mystery.” To empower women by giving a

voice to those “fruitful women,” “old women,” and women like herself,

she gives the best example in her poem “female.” The line, “there is an

amazon in us” turns each woman into a strong warrior able to fight

anything.

Thus Luce Irigaray concludes that women’s rights must be redefined so

that women can tailor the rights they have gained in the name of equality

of their own identity as women. She wishes to create two equally positive

and autonomous terms, and to acknowledge two sexes, not one. As such

she works towards a theory of difference, that involves the creation of

another woman who is a feminine subject equal to the masculine subject in

worth and dignity, yet radically different.

February 2013

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Works Cited:

1. Clifton, Lucille. “Blessing the Boats.” Blessing the Boats : New

and Selected Poems, 1988-2000. Rochester, NY : BOA Editions,

2000, 82, Print.

2. Helene, Cixous. “Sorties.” Literary Theory : An Anthology. Ed.

Rivkin and Ryan, Oxford : Blackwell Publishers, 1998, Print.

3. ---. “The Laugh of the Medusa.” Feminist Literary Theory : A

reader. Ed. Mary Eagleton, Oxford : Blackwell Publishers, 1996,

Print.

4. Irigaray, Luce, Merriam Webster’s Encyclopedia of Literature,

Springfield, MA : Marriam Webster, 1995.

5. Irigary, Luce, “The Power of Discourse and the Subordination of

the Feminine.” Ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, Literacy

Theory : An Anthology, 2nd

Ed. Malden, MA : Blackwell Pub.,

2004, 795-98, Print.

6. ---, This Sex Which Is Not One Trans. C. Porter, New York :

Cornell University Press, 1985, Print.

7. Margaret, Atwood. “Paradoxes and Dilemmas, the Woman as

Writer.” Feminist Literary Theory : A Reader. Ed. Mary Eagleton,

Oxford : Blackwell Publishers, 1996, Print.

8. Mio, Toril. Sexual / TextualPolitics. London : Routledge, 2002,

Print.

9. Rivkin, Julie and Michael Ryan. “Introduction : Feminist

paradigms.” Literacy Theory : An Anthology. 2nd

Ed. Malden, MA

: Blackwell Pub., 2004, 765-69, Print.

10. ---, “Feminist Paradigms.” Literary Theory : An Anthology. Ed.

Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Oxford : Blackwell Pub., 1998,

527-532, Print.

February 2013

45

11. Shoshana, Female. “Women and Madness : the critical Phallacy.”

Feminist Literary Theory : A Reader. Ed. Mary Eagleton. Oxford :

Blackwell Publishers, 1996, Print.

Swarup Ghara is M.Phil and Ph. D in English literature from C M J University, Meghalaya.

February 2013

46

The artist doesn’t have time to listen to the critics. The

ones who want to be writers read the reviews, the ones

who want to write don’t have the time to read reviews.

– William Faulkner

Book Review

February 2013

47

14. REVIEW ON BANGALORE/BENGALURU: IN FIRST PERSON SINGULAR BY MEENAKSHI CHAWLA

To begin with, a city is a difficult

organism to perceive; then to break it up

into discrete segments of culture,

history, people and other headings for its

sights and smells, its moods and seasons

and the luminosity of its sunsets, is a

task for the gods. Or perhaps, a

photographer with a pain in his heart for

his city.

Mahesh Bhat is the photographer with a pain in his heart for his

city Bengaluru, or shall we just call it, Bangalore, as we know it

better. Bengaluru/ Bangalore: In First Person Singular (photo

book) is, from the cover to the last page, a labor of deep love and

concern. The very first photograph on the flyleaf inside the cover

is that of Basavana Gudi taken in 1995. That picture sums up the

book I’m yet to read. The dappled sunlight, the waiting stance of

the structure amidst lengthening afternoon shadows and people

arrested in mid-stride tell of a Bangalore that is caught in the

cross-currents of identities, a city with roots, finding its wings.

This photo book delights the visual sense; at the same time, the

mind processes the subtle message of the image. And that is how

the author conveys the pain in his heart to his readers – not

through cart-loads of words on reams of acid-free paper, but

through pictures (on art paper) that reflect a city in all its living,

and lively, detail.

The author begins with a brief acknowledgement of the catalysts

and supporters for this endeavor to narrate the story of Bangalore’s

February 2013

48

25-year journey of change. Contemporary thought leaders come

first – Nandan Nilekani, Subroto Bagchi. Nudging them (gently)

are the artistes who, by the author’s admission, ‘have been

amazing’.

The book begins with a full-page photograph of a sunlit field at the

edge of a wood with a girl running across while her brother stands

by, playing his violin – a wide-open sky looks in interestedly. The

caption informs the reader that this field has now been imprisoned

by a cigarette factory at Chikkajala. The next picture, three pages

later, belongs to another world - urban squalor of asbestos-capped

shanties amidst piles of garbage dwarfed by futuristically designed

commercial complexes in the background. We have seen this

picture – in cities that grow breathlessly, and mindlessly.

The author asks “Whose city is it?”

Indeed, who has the right to stake first claim on Bangalore? Its

cultural denizens re-imagining concepts of life and living; IT

professionals, taxi drivers and businessmen from all parts of the

country coming in search of a new life; students; or its oldest

residents holding fast to memories of the first urban

neighborhoods – whose is Bangalore?

A city is planned on sterile drawing boards to systematic plans and

proofs by conscientious engineers, farsighted patrons. Give the

city ample time, minimal space… and you will see it grow under

the sun and sky - amidst the confusion of livelihoods and living

spaces, braving the profusion of vehicles and vagaries of weather,

through government inaction, or worse, pot-bellied solutions to

civic issues... the city will grow with a life all its own, into a future

that belies all predictions.

The harsh midday sun and the struggles it contains give the city-

face its character. The author documents Bangalore’s character

evocatively. There are so many pictures, and of such diversity –

February 2013

49

marketplaces, bus stands, and women vegetable sellers glittering

in diamond earstuds. Then there are dargahs, people celebrating

Durga Puja, as well as shops being set up for the day’s trade and

the new night life in the newly emerged part of the city.

Pages 56 and 57 present a contrast that truly mirrors present-day

Bangalore – the left page shows a line of four somber black burqas

adorning a shop window, deep undertones of demure womanhood.

The right page has a picture of a highlighted bright-red banner

shouting, “Happiness Sale Last 4 days left” and a line of four

painted-up smiling ragdoll-faces atop the banner. They both thrive

– to each, Bangalore is home.

Pictures pack in power – elegantly. The portrait of the descendants

of Sir Mirza Ismail, five graceful matriarchs of varying vintage, is

a keepsake; old world charm that we lost in our relentless march

into bold new futures.

The chapter that leaves behind a lingering fragrance is ‘Bengaluru

Karaga’. A ‘dramatic’ festival that began in the 1800s but still has

relevance for ‘struggles over urban space’, it encapsulates the

essence of the teeming city. It unifies across ‘geographical,

religious, linguistic and cultural’ divisions and is perhaps the only

time when Hindu deities are allowed to enter the precincts of a

dargah, Tawakkal Mastan Dargah.

A city is the sum total of its citizens’ experiences. It is what a

rickshaw-puller feels when he sets down his first client at seven in

the morning; it is what the student sees as she takes the bus back

home; it is the child watching the birds in the school playground.

The city shows a different side to each of its citizens, like a

million-sided prism. Each side of the prism is true, and each side

must keep pace with the other faces in change and growth.

In frame after frame in this well-produced, sturdily-bound, and

smartly edited book, the reader sees the million-sided prism that is

February 2013

50

Bangalore, or Bengaluru…a living, thriving organism suffused

with energy and flaws, and radiant hope.

Mahesh Bhat is a Bangalore-based photographer and has worked

on projects for a number of publications in over 20 countries, all

the way from New York Times to Newsweek of Japan.

Title: Bangalore/Bengaluru: In first person singular Author: Mahesh Bhat Publisher: Mahesh Bhat Publishing Year: 2012 ISBN: 978-81-904535-1-6 Price: Rs 1200 / USD 30

Meenakshi Chawla is a Delhi-based writer and writes book reviews for Contemporary Literary Review India.

February 2013

51

15. BOOK RELEASES

Červená Barva Press is pleased to announce the

publication of Following Tommy a novel by Bob

Hartley.

Following Tommy tells the story of the O’Days, two

young brothers living in an Irish American, working

class neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side in the

1960’s.

As thieves they are the bane of the neighborhood until the arrival of the

first African American family.

Hopefully this novel will evolve into a movie. I'll be on a front row seat

eating popcorn without any anticipation of the end. This is a must read.

– Irene Koronas, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry

Scene

In Hartley’s novel, set in the heartland of America, we dive deeply into

disturbing pathos of intriguing and relatable characters... I urge you to

read this remarkable debut, “Following Tommy.”

– Robert Vaughan, editor of Flash Fiction Fridays

“Following Tommy,” is a powerful, mesmerizing debut novel... These

characters pack-a-punch to the gut: tough, perceptive and shrewd. An

unforgettable read.

– Meg Tuite, author of Domestic Apparition

Bob Hartley was raised on the West Side of Chicago. He holds an MFA

in fiction writing from the University of Pittsburgh. He has been,

February 2013

52

among other things, a writer, actor, singer, teacher, bartender, mail

room clerk, and soap mold washer. He currently makes his living as a

respiratory therapist and lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two

children. Following Tommy is his first novel.

Title: Following Tommy Author: Bob Hartley Publisher: Gloria Mindock, Editor & Publisher ISBN: 978-0-9831041-8-6 Pages: 104 Price: $17.00 Publication Year: July, 2012

Sammie Miller is a young naïve teenage girl from a

broken home. She gets screwed over by men and all

she ever wanted was to be loved. Life takes a turn

when she discovers she has magical powers to

change people’s lives. Does Sammie change

people’s lives for the better or the worse?

Unlock the magical, social dysfunctional world of

Sammie Miller.

The author was born in Jamaica and moved to London in 2001 and was

educated at Westwood Language College for girls in Upper Norwood

where she obtained 13 GCSE’s. Whilst at Westwood, at the age of 13

she entered the Young Writers competition and had her first poem

published. Four years later she attended St Francis Xavier where she

studied Performing Arts, Media Studies, Maths and English Literature

‘A’ levels.

Further education was at London South Bank University where she

studied Writing For Media Arts (BA Hons). In addition to writing

scripts and novels, Sonya also writes song, poetry and verses for

greeting cards.

February 2013

53

Title: Sammie Miller Author: Sonya Dunkley Publisher: Melrose Books ISBN: 978-1-908645-23-4 Price: £9.99 Publication Year: January 2013

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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.

You can become our subscribers any time you prefer. To become a

subscriber, visit: Subscriber to CLRI