Tuesday, May 26, 2020

Poetry

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...
THE LIGHT SINKS LOW Here, the light sinks low as a meandering river, into the threshold of my windows when I bake half-grown weeds. My nails are black with smoke. I clean the air around me with my overgrown hair. My kitchen sink is on the other side of the green balcony. It tells me the story of a...
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...

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...

Manu S Kurup

Tarmac Labyrinth Have you ever forgotten a road only to travel through it years later? The old smell of it coming back, the same branches leaning towards same shadows designing it weaving nets The same emptiness and potholes. Doesn’t it make you reminisce about the things you passed? Left behind? Glanced at and Ignored? If you haven’t tried to recollect the stops you made...

Joan Leotta

The Widow’s Nights “Days are not so bad. My volunteer work. Lunch with friends. Gardening. All of these fill the daytime hours. But it is the nights— they are so long, so very long.” I don’t know how to respond. We smile at each other in a moment of silence. Then, she adds, “If you have any alterations you need done, bring...

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...

Josh Dale

Haiku 1 The flowers have bloomed and the locusts devour any sign of life. 2 Oily dressing with the pit-marked spinach leaves on my baby-blue plate. 3 A doe has died on the searing blacktop. It still continues to smile. 4 My gaze, downward, with all the plastic faces here; coffee stains shirt brown. 5 Break up in tiny distinct pieces. Now, your heart is not the same. 6 Please and...

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...
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...
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...
from DARKLING (1) The sea is one nocturnal emphasis: I speak to you across distances like a code in war. The mothers of the universe are your whores. I am your daughter, and you are roses in bloom. I know this because I was an empty blossom holding your tongue in eclipse. Science doesn’t attempt. I...