CLRI CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
CLRI Print Edition ISSN 2250-3366
February 2013
Editor-in-Chief: Khurshid Alam
Rs.30.00 / $2.0
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
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
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1.
EDITORIAL
CLRI
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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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S. Chitra, an Associate Professor in English with Bharathi Women's College, Chennai 600 108.
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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-cometrue. 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.
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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 filmmaking, he says.
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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. 11
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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.
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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.
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The works of these poets Fern G. Z. Carr, April Salzano, and Bijoya Sawian are declared winners on our Christmas Theme.
Themed Poems: Christmas
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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”
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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”?
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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Arts
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9.
ARTS BY ELEANOR LEONNE BENNETT
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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February 2013
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.
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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.
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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.
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I criticize by creation - not by finding fault. – Marcus Tullius Cicero
Criticism
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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 35
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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 selfcriticism 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, 36
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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.”
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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 neglectingToo much going for fashion and foreign thing . . . . Everything is comingRegeneration, 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 38
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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.
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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 40
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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, 41
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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 42
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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.
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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. 44
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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.
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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
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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 47
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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 cityface its character. The author documents Bangalore’s character evocatively. There are so many pictures, and of such diversity – 48
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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 49
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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.
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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, 51
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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.
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February 2013 Title: Sammie Miller Author: Sonya Dunkley Publisher: Melrose Books ISBN: 978-1-908645-23-4 Price: ÂŁ9.99 Publication Year: January 2013
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