Dr. J.S. Anand



Dr. J.S. Anand


Dr. J.S. Anand is internationally acclaimed scholar, poet, educationist, environmentalist, philosopher and spiritualist. Born in 1955 at Alamgir [Distt. Ludhiana, Punjab, India], he hails from Longowal [Distt. Sangrur, Punjab].He graduated from Govt. College, Ludhiana, and earned his Masters in English Literature from Punjabi University, Patiala. Thereafter, he was conferred the degree of Doctor of Philosophy by Panjab University, Chandigarh in 2000 for his work on Mysticism in the poetry of Walt Whitman and Prof. Puran Singh. Dr. Anand has taught English for 35 years and retired recently from the position of Principal after putting in more than ten years service in this challenging position at DAV College, Bathinda. He is still holding the position of Principal at another degree college run by a prestigious educational and spiritual body of Punjab, the SGPC.

Dr. Anand has authored around 35 books of poetry, fiction, non-fiction and spirituality. He has also compiled two international anthologies of English poetry as Chief Editor of Creative Impulse: International Journal of English Poetry and Research. He has introduced several Indian poets to the literary world. He is also co-founder and co-Chairperson of World Foundation for Peace and National Vice-President of International Human Rights Observatory. He has also been a Member of the Senate and Syndicate of Punjabi University, Patiala, and Member, Board of Studies, of Guru Kashi University, Bathinda.

Dr. Anand’s work became visible to the world when an Iranian scholar, Dr. Roghayeh Farsi from Neyshabur University, Iran,  picked up his seminal article Creative Consciousness [his theory of Biotext]and published two articles dilating on his theory of Biotext bringing into discussion such international figures as Homi Bhabha, Bakhtin and Deleuze. This theory has challenged the already held positions in the interpretation of the literary text. His book Creative Consciousness contains his articles on poetic creation and creative art which are original in conception and make a lasting contribution to critical theory. It is worth note that Dr. Anand’s work ‘Bliss: the Ultimate Magic’ has been translated into Persian, by Prof. Nargues Mohammadi, an Iranian scholar and another work, ‘I Belong to You’ is also ready to get into print in Tehran. His biographer Dr. Roghayeh Farsi in an article has compared ‘Bliss’ to Khalil Gibran’s  ‘The Prophet’. Dr. Farsi and her colleagues are now working on his recent poetic work ‘Voices from Eternity—The Ganges and the Nile in Converse’ in which he shares the turf with Egyptian poet and philosopher, George Onsy. Dr. Anand is now working with Dr. Maria Miraglia on a joint publication of English and Italian poetry and bringing out an International Anthology of Indo-Nigerian Poetry as well. Dr. Anand is also Chairman of the International Citizens Council and is writing a book on Political Culture.





Most of the immortal poets have talked about the originals of their poetic creations. I am also tempted to make a few observations in this connection, although I like my mortality.


I believe in that poetry is an inspired creation, and its subjects are sublime. It deals with life, death, joy, pain, and a thousand emotions falling in between. Such poetry is just like downloading if from above, some unknown source. We can call it the kit of imagination, where the best words are used to express the emotions created in the attendance of the fire of imagination. All the words, patterns, images oblige you, as they are waiting by, and at the slightest request, appear in patterns to give expression to the idea which is being churned in the mind of the poet. Here, it is the idea which is in direct link with the creative complexes and both provide a new shape to myriad experiences and part experiences, which are in attendance at that moment of time. What is created at a particular moment does not wait for the other moment, because, to wait is to lose, the eternal flow from above, straight from the Muse. This has been my experience with poetic creation. It may be very close to what William Wordsworth said: “spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling”. But he did not mention that its origin is in the divine mansions of the mind, where the Muse holds its court. There are so many people who cannot hold their emotions and blurt it out. It may or may not be poetry.

I also feel that human consciousness is in a flow, scene gets connected to the scene, word gets attached to the word, feelings in a relay race, hold on to feeling after feeling. It is a fluid procession. Our perceptions are also poetic. Because, they are embedded in emotions. We are emotional beings. Even if we do not write poetry. But when we turn eloquent, and even when we hurl abuse, it is poetry. Poetry is man’s first language, and most preferred. Prose is a distorted and troubled version of poetry, a hardboiled, rendering of feelings, mixed [if not polluted] with ideas. Movement is poetry. Staying is stagnating. Prose is close to staying. Poetry adds wheels to the discourse. Prose is dry. Discourse in prose brings is an intellectual activity, born of mind, and argument; whereas poetry is conceived in inbuilt logic; anyone can write prose; but not everyone can attempt poetry; because, in poetry, ill said things kill said things;

Our ordinary lines have the power to turn into poetic expressions. Only they are to be charged with a context. Our ordinary actions have the power to turn into poetic events; only they have to be charged with a context, a vision.

We can extend the idea to image: from abstract to the base in our daily discourse, there are some moments which are poetic and sometimes, what we speak is so charged with inner impulsive push that it achieves the fast movement of a poetic expression. Our ordinary lines too have the power to turn into poetic expressions, only they are to be charged with a context. In the same way, our ordinary actions have the power to turn into poetic events; only they have to be charged with a vision.
Poetry is born out of a grain of truth. Most of it is fiction. The real and the unreal are in a strange mix. What the poet says is a momentous oracular truth. The poem has its own irrevocable logic. It grows like a seed into a tree. Nobody can fix its form. I don’t think poetry can be written by giving a title. It is abnormal and reverse growth. Poetry is written and after writing a poem, looking at what it says, a suitable title can be assigned. The reason is that the writer does not know what the poem is going to be, and what it is going to say; because the words come from the unknown and get settled on the lines. No poet has a dictionary of words ready with him. No pre-arranged set of thoughts can be made to supply these words and these ideas. Poetry is a set of images selected automatically at the time of creation, and it is the poet’s vision, blended with his imagination, which architects the poem.

Binding the poetry in meter, I know masters have done it, is playing with the internal upsurge of the poetic feeling. Catching it in one’s hand, and then, rearranging it to suit a particular meter, brings the poetic emotion and creative moment to a secondary station; form being more important than the poetry itself. Is body more important than the soul? Who works in a body? I think it is the mind. It is the soul. These are more important. Putting every care on the body and giving it primary important is playing with the charm and joy of the poetic creation.

Real poetry belongs to the ideas of life and death, pain and joy, angst and ecstasy. In between, there are a thousand emotions which find expression in poetry. Poetry which is written for occasions and on demand is poetic prose only, charged with artificial emotion, an ordered manufacture. For that reason, I also find poetry which is made to rhyme by altering the word order, is also hardly a poetic act. We are tampering with the poetic emotion.

Poet is a prophet at whose command lie the divine order, in whose possession are the instruments of gods. The poet reads the text of society, feels its angst, and then, transforms the pain into a work of art, which ultimately gives joy, when read reread and read again and again down the ages. Poetry that lives beyond words, and beyond time, is the poetry which springs from human soul, which approaches the soul at the other end. In between, we have nothing but a river of mortality, poetic prose, passing for poetry.




POETRY Bottom of Form





Let us joy
While the worst is happening to us.
Every moment that steals through
carries away some part of us

I celebrated the loss of several years
By welcoming a new one
Which I knew would only make light of my life

Still..This is the way
If you want light
The candle must burn

If you want life
The time must churn

Thank God…
we are mortal
What is there in burning and burning
Even if it means
Giving light and light?

A coming has a going
Inlets are matched out with outlets

Life is a crumbling fort
Held by a dwindling army
Of breaths

So..let us joy
See ourselves in the light
That we produce
While melting down the drain…





Of the several wells
offered to man
by the forces divine,
the most drawn upon
was hope;
and the well from which
most of the people
drew regularly was ‘hatred’
the well of despair
was always like a festival place
whereas there was
a well deserted
like a cremation ground;
the well of love;

nobody dared to drink
from this well;
any one who sauntered close
to it
was spotted by the people
and brought to the well of despair

people were busy
in making sure
no one approached the well of love
for here was the elixir of joy
and immortality

it was the well of the gods
abode of God
and mortal men were afraid
of immortality



I am the crazy head
I the fallen, the dead

I am the agonized cry
I the helpless gaze

I the armies raised
I the mindless craze

I am the barber
I the bar lord
I the war victim
I the war lord

I am judas
I am the lord
I am the cheated
Burnt at the cross.




I have seen children
underclad in torn clothes
left to dream on the drains
by deficient moms
and uncaring fathers;

when they would grow up
in their tearing penury
how would they look upon
those who did not offer
them a cup of tea
when their mother had
approached them for help;

this plenty; this grandeur
this show; this bounty; this gorgeous world
is an eyesore for those
dispossessed bodies;
suffering long for bare minimums

suffering is god-given
i don’t agree
it is a human ploy to keep
the sufferers in endless servility;

the earth holds plenty of everything;
why people suffer from anemia?
why some hold so much
and others so much of nothing?

God is neither unjust, nor
a blind corporate;
his scales don’t err;
but we play with his bounty
and create shortages
in the heart of plenty.





We can connect and communicate
only if we know the language
the other one understands;

We feel desperate
when God does not listen to us

Perhaps we don’t realize
He does not understand
English or Persian;

No words can reach Him
nor no hymns, appease;

He is dreadful of those
who, from the rooftops, declare
‘I know Him’ …

He is a feeling
felt in the silence of the blood;

No blaring speakers;
no fighting toms
no attires, nor no pieties;

nothing touches the soulful being
that belongs to the eye;
the superficial eye
which scatters itself on the
surface is reality;

This body belongs to this world
symbols connect us aggresively
with this world;

how can we attain the sky
when we have wedded ourselves
to the earth?

to its customaries
and frivolaries?

Let us turn within
and churn within
The juice of wisdom
and the Infallible
lies in our blood
and flows in our veins






It was a struggle;
struggle for survival;

survival to live

a shameful compromise

to be unyou, unme,

unourselves, something else;

how long can one live

on terms hostile;

with an alienated mind;

and a wounded inside?

i always saw myself

a something;
tossed and tumbled

in an alien whirl;

never myself;

just an object,

a dog or a pig

or at the most a


tied on a manger

and always attended:

like my body
they tried to cripple my mind too;

but i see my neck bleeding

from the attempts

to free myself from the yoke;

a spirit canned

in a body;

a body contained in a system;

which allows only survival

and crops the wings

and bans the flight.





I am born here
and you are abiding there
who chose these stations for us?

someone goes to Harward
others to China
who chooses these destinations?

born here, we end up there
at places we had dreamed not

on which face was written
he would grow up to die in an
accident in Alaska?

people who leave their
are propelled by an invisible hand
which, in the form of a wish,
turns them restless;

i wonder
why the mass of humanity
is moving to a certain
uncertain destination
without any apparent

a flash from the skies
like lightning blows
across this darkling planet;
piercing through the heart
of darkness; shows

we go to that place
where we have left something
to reap;

only explanation
for the restless leap.






The legs don’t like
when an old gatekeeper
holding a pair of lanterns
shouts and stops them

from the chamber on the top
the old watchman
keeps a watchful eye
over the hands
and the feet

and is often seen
tending them
as a shepherd tends his sheep

the watchman has
in the second story
a country cousin
who trades in wishes
and has learnt some
magic tricks too;
keeps the flock
charmed; and set
on tempting things;

sometimes these hands
and these feet go berserk
and are lifted off by unknown wishes
and the watchman sits weeping
but welcomes back
the crying and bleeding livestock;

there is a great rush
at the kitchen of the country cousin
singing dancing going on;
tempting songs playing
lightful chambers
brewing in life;

blind are these wishes
which keep the heart aglow;
and the old man sits alone in his barrack
in a dark cavern, covered with snow.






Why you love the cool water
Which is meant to quench thee

You know the flame
Will not spare you

Yet you leave all doubts behind
And fall over burning earth
In quenching…lose thyself..

have you no will of your own
can’t you stop your self
from burning O flame?

and water!!!!
can’t you stop short of blowing out
a fire?

where is thy will???????
I ask??????

You have no will?????
Only your nature???
which you canst deny????

O wind!
bloweth thou?
at whose will?
do you get a gatepass from gods?

O earth?
I find you so helpless
throw a seed, it sprouts up.
bury a corpse; a new life comes into being.

O sky!
the ultimate cover of all
that happens on this earth;
you just look over everything and smile.
Unaffected. Unfazed.
by man’s mad destiny.






There are a thousand temptations
Which beguile the mind
Off from the reigning deities of pain

And rivet my attention
On the flowers that flutter
Across the rose laden lanes

A high voice from across the seas
Rides over the highs and lows
Of life
And beckons to me
To turn away the gloomy mantel

And receive the freshness of the roses
With an unpasted mind
Chang ing my gaze
From the shady realms of past

Towards the glowing towers
Of unseen joy

My body resists..my mind wanders
But my senses have
The last laugh

The voice enters my being
And returns to me the realms
Of keen joys
Which winds of time had gathered
From my body and fled.






You do not belong to this earth
Nor are you responsible
For the bruises
On the hands of humanity

You did not inflict pain
On anyone
Rather you took the sting out
Of murders
And turned them into events
Of aesthetic joy

There is nature for you
To contemplate
God might have been less kind to you
Here and there
At the most…the deepest pain
He might have caused you
By not allowing your heart’s wish

Carry on. There is nothing
Which could stop you from enjoying
The scenes of nature.
The murders the crime
The injustice of this earth…
The cries of the innocent

Let it be…you are
Busy in enriching the future
With your verses
Don’t worry about the blood
Dripping around your feet.






It is life which helps us
Be a part of this world
It is a subjective universe
Good or bad are people
Not the objective reality  called world.

Useless to blame God
Parents only create
Rest is ours
Good or bad

We see everything but ourselves
And then the mirror image
Confuses left and right.

No need to complain
It has been and is our choice.

We can change our destiny.
We can undo the past.
Can’t we understand
We live a fraction of the world
And make claims taller than God himself.






I was lying in pain;
devastated by a horde of hooligans
who had deprived me of my belongings;

taken away from me
my faith in this world of man;

then i heard the cries of a million people
and realized
it was a godless universe;

nobody had time to stay by;
everybody carried his cross over his head;

in this motley world crowd
of insensitive people;
i found the poet
singing to the nightingales;

i stopped him;
it had hurt me most;
the poet was singing a happy song
although bleeding at heart;

i looked into his eyes;
rivers of sorrow
stared at me;

still he was singing;
odes to the nightingales

then i saw;
the cocks did not stop creaking
even when their friends
were boiled in the couldrons;

i looked around;
there was no reason to be in despair;
and very soon
i too started singing;

of the nightingales and the moon;

Between me
And the wastes
Lies a thin wall of breath.

The walls have a double personality
A rugged exterior
With a loving inside

A child is dribbling
With a ball
In a vast background sown with bombs






Let us together
In the name of our Maker

Night and Day
Mind and soul in a balance

You and me
Yours and mine
Are all His play

Bodies differ
But souls and minds
In unison say

I am God
And God is me
And mine is all that spreads away.






Why this body
tries to get the better of my soul
Wants to steal you
And turn you a whole

My soul where you live
Finds my body complain
Of your absence
From my physical domain..

how fulfilled i am
this question divides me vertically
the soul smiles at the
body’s worst cravings;

the matter declares
i am empty
the spirit calls it a liar;

whether present or absent
both your avtaars
come together to define me;
for you; and you for me.






You want me to be a good chap
Fit for high society

And you want me
To say see feel and don’t feel
As you think proper

I am pro-progress
And a worthy society man

Let me not call the dark dark
And the white white.

Mercifully I have not
To take sides
And expose myself

A time has come
When I do not know
What I think

Everything that is going on
Is dictated by the worthies

Silence and speech
Are dictated.
To ensure social good.






She asked me
If I was wearing a Talisman
I said no no

How misplaced was my reply

Because soul for a soul
Is a talisam of sorts
Which stays
In the breath like life itself

I find
My body my soul
My very being wearing a talisam
And it is your presence
All around me

Your memory is the talisam
For this soul of mine
Which is
Safe and sound and
In your love ever bound.






You come with a great passion
And strike your head
In the stones

Your stomach is full of some joy
Or is it some pain
You want to share…

The wind ruffles my hair
Comes flying
Carrying your emotions
Sweet and sour

Spreading to eternity
You reduce yourself to waves
And try to touch
Upon my feet

What is this mass of despair
Which hangs heavy
On your mind

Day and night
Whether I am here or not
You keep striking your head
on human shores

Wishing they listen to your pain
Share your sorrow
So that you could turn light
And to the skies
take a flight…

O waters! Listen
Even if you turn gas
You will return to this
Chamber for penance…

As we are doing
Unaware of our capacity
To turn back to the Realms Divine!


2 thoughts on “Dr. J.S. Anand

  1. Dear Dr. Anand,
    Reading about you, your essay on the art of poetry and your beautiful poems has been a treat for the senses. You have written so beautifully on subjects ranging from mundane to the divine. This shows your total grasp on poetic idiom.
    Although I have not read your book but the very thought of the term ‘ CREATIVE CONSCIOUSNESS’ has set me thinking about the nature of creativity and how does it bears itself and roots from the Freudian term subconscious which was finely categorised by Karl Jung as Universal consciousness. I consider myself a novice in this field and leave this subject for analysis and dissection in the hands of scholars like you, I write poetry because it occurs in the realm of my subconscious in a purely abstract form to which I add words as per my conscious perception. I basically write in Urdu and have 6 books of verse to my credit. I also write in English and have published a small volume of my English poems. Mr. Muhammad Shanazar, a distinguished literary personality and a poet from Pakistan has translated some of my Urdu poems in English which have been published under the title A TEMPEST IN SILENCE.

    • Thnk u JAGDISH PARK ASH ji..your view of poetic creation is quite appealing. You can have a look at Creative Consciousness at Amazon.in…I will try to append it’s soft copy here so that it can be easily accessed. Thnk u…may I know from which place you hail?

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