Gopika Nath Birds chirping, pigeons cooing and colliding with window panes; sharp rasping barks, the incessant chatter of guards and cleaners wafting upwards, disabling that first soft hour as the alarm sings me awake. Ignoring this odd symphony, I loll. But cars honk as they tread the tarmac. Doorbells chime. A baby cries. Its mother…
Tag: poetry
One night stand
You and I
An Indian Summer
In the Crowd
Basudhara Roy A crowd is faceless, they say, Anonymous, Homogeneous, Like waters breaking from a dam Or from the womb. It tosses and turns and moves Like a mass of curls From everywhere to everywhere, And I, a random point in its unmapped space Pull out from it Strands of several half-remembered pasts. A cyclist…
The Empire has fallen whither its Clones?
Sandra Colly-Durand The Empire has fallen but its myths we continue to own Values of an era bygone continue to dethrone The Empire has receded but her values still reign They echo and resonate in the brain The invisible wounds of self hate still dominate Man Friday’s Language we negate Our tongues are still in…
MY MEXICAN MUSE
Francis Murillo Emralino San Pablo City, Philippines. Green lights trace the catwalk as the Mexican muse travel with a mask surrounded by catchy phrases flavored with sadness, topped with short delights. She opens up through the microphone: Viva! como esta? And her metered words fell on deaf ears and on the love-struck alike. Behind this…
Modern Indian English Poetry and Tradition
Manash Pratim Borah Assistant Professor in English Central Institute of Himalayan Culture Studies, Dahung (An Autonomous Institute under the Ministry of Culture, Govt. of India) The general consensus regarding the post-1947 or the post- independence poetry Indian Poetry in English is that it marks a decisive break with the ‘tradition’ established so far by the…
A Pain, An Ache, A Drizzle
M Scott Craig Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri Here’s to all that have split hairs, raised hairs, Split colors, becoming an isthmus for lovers To hang onto. The world can only hold so Many of us upward. The rest fall into a trough Where they remain, unexposed. To all the little pricks that run through Amsterdam,…