Literary Orphans

Three Poems by Jyothsnaphanija



Time, restless

makes lemonade with rain.

Grey scales

Pi curves.

Chatter about stars.

lightening a corona,

moon flowers


Fatigue words

Letters nauseated

at too many  spaces


Platonic circles

Memories witched


with whispers of logomaniac possession

resolve to mercury.

We can switch, on the telescopic vacuum,

while traveling along the coffee smoked kites.


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Antique Tree

Mornings are somnifacient with music, wind from the hills,

We sweeten our words for another year in our mystic village.

It’s about black magic the scholars left their spectacles.

But we never knew it.

It’s raining  intentionally this time.

Circuiting like fire.

Those trees won’t burn

More confessions to hear.


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Olden Photo

Old photos are like wedding sarees in wardrobe, never worn, stiff, grand, ever new, growing towards infancy.

This photo I saw many times, when mother was pointing to the bride, we couldn’t resist to notice her veil, torn.

There’s another photo of her I like, she stands next to my father, smiling like falling daisies.

Grand-mother sways her hands, cottoning her fingers.

My aunt’s name was repeated in many films.

She is like a postcard to our family, grand-mother used to complain.

There is fire sniffing in her fingers, injuries of broken bangles.

My aunt’s photo is like tea powder which mother borrows from neighbors.

She stands in the circle, as a triangle, faded with ages.


My aunt used to dig the bottles, pressing her nails into the soil,

Postponing appointments with the psychiatrist.

Her in-laws village was a new continent, she learns the language of cooking,

Scrubbing the house, visiting other women’s houses to find her love.

The days were disappearing in nights,

She reworks with her bangles.


She used to help my mother in mathematics in stitching,

My grand-mother in science.

She was like a video game for the neighbors, playing card for her brothers.


The wind folded, combusts our home.

Photos are only for history making,

My aunt stands with arms folded, before no entry signs.

With ages, our home and we

are remodeled, but her name is removed, her three daughters amass her life from all scraps.

They make her picture young, hanging at walls, scribbling some words in new lines.

She watches us living, encircling the asylum.

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Jyothsnaphanija’s poetry has recently appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, Poetry Pacific, East Coast Literary Review, Wordgathering, Message in a Bottle Poetry Magazine, forthcoming in Pool Poetry Journal and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine. She is a PhD research scholar in English Literature, currently resides in Hyderabad, India. She blogs at

my photo for literary orphans

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–Art by Petra

–Art by NiiCoLaZz

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