[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Utsav Kaushik – Issue.XXXIV : November 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]sounds that reason…[/ultimate_heading]

Utsav Kaushik’s voice is deep set in the grey shades of North India. Those voices that have been silenced, his poetry boldly speaks for those. His poems have been published in LondonGripThe Paragon JournalAshvamegh…the Literary Flight, InkSweatTears, Indian Ruminations, Linden Avenue Literary, Hawaii Review and others. He has recently published a collection of poems called, “The Silent Hour” (Authorspress publications, New Delhi, which will be distributed online in November 2017.)



Between these two sides,

There is my land:

A little wet and a lot of grass grows around

Nourishing it deep red.


In the last week of every month, my land regains its fertility.

My periods have never faltered by God!

Though I am ready to bleed for it.

Yet the market hawks for cheaper.


There are no customers during the day

Because a lot of eyes face the sun.

But at night dew drops

And see blur.


During the scorching heat, it itches me a lot.

Such days offer me no good produce.

By mother what good is sweat!

Then I survive on my savings of the last night.


I work night and day that too without pleasure.

On top of it, owners like me

Renting their land for domestic purposes

Speak soar words and spit curses.


Is it my fault that men prize my exotic land?

At times their husbands too.

They have rented my land and ploughed it

(What do I get, only the rent) but they reap the harvest.


Who am I? Who cares! But my job is to speculate:

Where to offer my land

To be worked upon.

(By the Lord, I only get the rent!) But they keep the harvest.



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