Bücher von Ratikanta Mishra

My first collection of Poems titled "The Silence... Between Two Words" sees the profundity of darkness and banality of light between two pre-destined, immutable points called Life and Death. The characters, nay. Beings of my soul now clamour for space as has been their due under the Sun and the lap of Mother Earth. Being a liberal father, I have but to respect their sensibilities in the present Anthology. During the course of dialogue, they have questioned, interrogated, appropriated, negated and denied each and every on their way, the Established Canonical Text of yesteryears dictating thereby the discourse of present in particular to find out the kernel of truth and falsehood. They have assured in crystal clear premises and hyperboles to push me to the edge and ask the subtle differences between Creator and Created. The density and depth of my little understanding of life provokes me to seek the root of our existence, the dialectics of hope and despair, anguish and ecstasy. With utmost humility, my submission is that a dialogue of yore continues with singular vigour and vibrancy to the present moment when you read this foreword. A dialogue is ensued not to find out The Ultimate Reality, but to churn out alternative realities. I dedicate this book to the critically objective scrutiny and wisdom of my readers.Dr. Ratikanta Mishra

I am that perennial cursed self of 'Vishwakarma' who has not seen the 'Vishnu Pratima' he has sculpted. He might have, but has he had that 'Inner Vision' (antardrishti) to see the darkness of light, know the depth of Eternity. These profound questions beg no answers. There lies the hallowed mystique of these celestial metaphors.I am that blessed Self of 'Indradyumna' to proclaim with the courage of humility that this temple of poems is not mine.Poetry loses its poetic echo when the lap of the mother, nudity of the nude, oozing blood of the wound, angst of the anguish, innocence of the child, trembling lips of the beloved, the fragrance of the flower, the murmur of the bee, dew drops on the grass in an Autumn morning et al are defined in words. Should they be treated in such prosaic way? Can any Poet as such excepting The Great Poet theorize such Poetic concepts of sensibilities?Where do I stand and what is my identity? I do not know. This is not my humility, believe me, this is the hard truth. With the wisdom of my beautiful surroundings in view, I dedicate each petal of the flower, each flower of this garland to the critical insight of my readers.Dr. Ratikanta Mishra