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Poetry — Dr Pragya Suman

Dr Pragya Suman is a doctor by profession and an award winning author from India. Writing is her passion which she inherited from her father. She also writes short stories and reviews which have been published in many magazines and anthologies.

Surrealism, prose poetry, and free verse , avant garde are her favorite genres.

Recently she won the Gideon poetry award for her debut book Lost Mother .

Her second poetry book was published recently by Ukiyoto Publishing, Canada.

Dr Pragya Suman is Editor in Chief, Arc Magazine, India.

Her social media account is following

Twitter : @DrPragyaSuman7

Facebook : Pragya.Suman.50


The jarring justice of the man; Kafka penned in melancholy. 

Journey circled in hundred years

As sanitary was at the door

Vermin crippled in segments 

For judgment,


My neighbour was senile, lurching gait; Rummaged the files

Cunning spoon of clerks engulfed 

Coins. Mischievous officer told

“let burry in darkest hole”

For a official pension he trialed

thousand Kafka’s corner.

One day he dripped his head in kerosine oil around circle of crowd

Match box was going to strike

A self immolation aloud.

Paper rushed to his door 

Drama and judgment

are conjoined twins of democracy.

White whisker of the pensioner is now twisted up.


I Seeeeeeeeee


Talks on Bier

Bilateral talks on bier opens

An invisible window

A pound of mine oozes out--

You know–

Words are frisky bubble

In a silent playground.

Cold Coffee.           

The blotchy beam of stagnant sun

on running chariot,

filtered in my netted window 

descended in cup of cold coffee.

I caught the silhouette --

broken bangles on rectangular bier

and the vermillion box of the mother

stumbled, beside the pyre.

An Iron Lady—My Grandmother was a milk seller.

a great bargainer, sold milk for stories.

stored them in the mud huts.

I stole stories while she was sleeping.

A noon napper—

left behind a brook of viscus stories in melted marrow,

dining still in throat.

One day I thought to cut off

my unending throat,

but the chiseled scalpel 

concocted in cold coffee.

It’s still regurgitating 

belching, though I bolted down,

hundred years ago—


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