Monday, December 17, 2018

Poetry

Devika Basu

The Touch Last night I woke up to a dream. Foam in the sea trying to catch time in myriad forms; my limbs drenched in waves my hands outstretched. A dream touching the timeless Alone The street lights greet me in benevolence when I look at the night with a watchman’s eye. Traffic pauses to think how busy the road is, and I become...

Ananya S Guha

BLOOD 1 I see the blood in hands of others faces of others smeared like fog or smog, I lift myself from clouds a thin line wavers as I walk into the existence of blood 2 I ask questions the voice is silent asks questions can you rape an eight year old, six months the voice is silent of course, only at the cost of blood 3 I saw a...
GALLERIES IN THE NIGHT Abandoned by all kindly lights To gnash their teeth In penumbras of their own making, What half-bitten talk Peoples the dark galleries Between masterpiece and masterpiece, Restrained from lawless combat By gilt-edged police Or the garth of mortar? The greatest allegories of art Are secret journals kept By that gossip Night Whom no historian of art consults As they...

Dah

Birds Every star has a crack This is how the flash releases the radiance of living things To make sense of this is to know that a bird’s migration is the stars magnetic draw the conveyor from North to South and back again. This generates a bright effect on our lives because birds are a testament to the lightness of innocence to the graceful...
Sea-Smart Lion has your tongue A fool sold you pride Buyer’s remorse when eagles scratched three eyes If you only have one bullet better make sure that it’s pure silver If you’re bound to draw your sword just promise me that you won’t drop it Tiger has your tell-tale A spell cast your path Sweetest reward when whales do higher math If...

Ra Sh

THE DECLINING ART OF HEART MENDING Cannot deny that I have a brittle heart, weak and fragile like thin ice! As it happens with hearts that are volleyed back and forth, mine too drop and crack with a crunchy sound, like a bag of wafers. Now, you know that girls make the best cardiologists. The Heart is...
PLAYMATE As kids, you and I Loved red paper lanterns And exquisite Japanese dolls. In winters, we decorated Our flower vases With chrysanthemums the color Of tiny pink cakes. In summers our fathers Took us to drink Green mango sorbet At the same quaint little joint. Springs and autumns were The times for new clothes During festivals as even trees Turned fashion-conscious And flaunted their...
Pinakbet A dish I watched my grandma cook with zest. I was six or seven. Bitter gourd because I’m diabetic, my yearns for sweets squash-yellow. Canola oil sizzles, the air adorned with garlic expressions, wafts of red onion. Drizzles of black pepper, and I wonder if this spice will let me live longer. Eggplant will tell me if...
Jalebi of Mani’s Shop These semi-precious ornaments Of liquid golden hue, they filled it with the sweet sap Of sugar—the very outlook causes watering in mouth That melts and crackles under the tongue and dissolves A forgetful evening. Home-bound passengers from local trains, As they return, all in a hurry like with a puff of...
wisdom fire burning to coals poet looking past embers seeing distant world before existence of light coming of god untitled poet on edge meds not refilled lost in black silence static white noise echoing around skull deafening suffering soul seriously considering ways to kill himself answer me telephone without voice no caller id broken-hearted poet wondering if ex-lover quietly bagging shrink routine family counseling necessary before divorce doctor’s dark office framed degrees on the...
Sanctification The pimples on my face seem to have an identity of their own. As if, those are my sins penalized to be worn. However, they make me look a graceful lesser mortal. Thankfully unattractive like Sycorax. A rose infested by fungi. Oddly, they seek a lot of attention: Hormonal imbalance? A digestive disorder? A passion pimple! A dispassionate cycle? Innumerable diagnosis followed...

C.M. Crockford

Cool Masculine Hair careless tangled; dirt bristling on dried skin. I'll be clean, I'll be beautiful again, a cool, cruel image for someone. I press the glass against my cheek, feel the condensation disappear into natural fires. I'm James Dean in the photos, the film, despite all my disabilities... Let me be him for you: I've got that...