Jagari Mukherjee
The story of post-independence Indian English poetry can be traced to Nissim Ezekiel’s A Time To Change (1952). Since then, Indian English poetry has grown in leaps and bounds, with luminaries like Dom Moraes, Arun Kolatkar, Adil Jussawala, A.K. Ramanujan, Dilip Chitre, Keki Daruwala, and Jayanta Mahapatra dominating...
Not Garden-Variety
In dirge of desires
fear transacts with
hedge of hesitancy
to keep pace
with striptease
of tides. Come-on
by tits or tattoo
on hineys stir
intuitively.
Primer of pomology
has other clauses
some read
some unread.
Fruition
isn’t for everyone.
Prescription
Towels loll in the sun after mopping
wet bodies, you and I wipe each other
with our skins in lambency in another
episode of linkages. Equipping...
“The maker has no control. This is sortilege, the magic of inditing.”
Hello Sanjeevji! It’s a pleasure to be interviewing you. Let me tell you, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed Nine Summers Later, and This Summer and That Summer, your latest release. I’ve also read a bunch of your newer poems among...
Linda Ashok
Do you have any guess for this deep seated aversion for the “spoken word” in general? Why literary critics and practitioners exclude the spoken word from the scope of their literary pursuit? When the paper wasn’t invented and writing was yet to become a norm on paper but...
A Unique Blend of the Familiar with the Experimental
When you undress a poem with dignity,
delicately like a lover, it will disrobe you
of excess, accessing your inner feelings
(“Conduction”)
In the fifty-one poems included in his much-acclaimed third collection of poetry titled This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury 2015), Sanjeev Sethi manages...
Kiriti Sengupta
I forget the poems I write. I don’t blame memory. Thanks to the two molar teeth I lost in spite of being a dental surgeon. They were badly broken. I had excruciating pain and did not listen to the consultant who had advised Root Canal Therapy. I wanted...
Introduction:
It takes guts to speak with artistes, especially poets. They are sensitive, they refuse to speak much about themselves (here I’m talking about old-time poets, the present clan is more vocal), and it is even more difficult to understand their mood and psyche. When I asked Nikita Parik, assistant...
REFLECTIONS
Those Who Pass
Slowly , slowly they pass by
Those who breastfed and put us to bed
who worked hard to send us
to schools and colleges
those who scolded and punished us
who revered and envied us,
hugged and desired us,
those who longed for our death,
one by one, slowly, slowly.
Slowly ,slowly
A part of us too...
My Guest
There is nothing more important than you, my guest
I will delay my sickness until you leave
And I will cover my sadness with a big smile
I will give my last bread to you and my hungry kids
Don’t worry—
I will fill my stomach with water
Come on in…
My house is full...
AFTER ALEXANDRIA
What an agony not to wake up next to you.
Not to have fallen asleep with your head on my chest.
I made the bed quickly, as you did every day,
sheets that still smell of your hair and skin.
Your pillows, one that you took with you, take
with you everywhere, sandalwood...
Anuparna Mukherjee
In the wake of #MeToo campaign that has taken the social media by storm, it is alarming but perhaps not surprising to see the sheer number of women who have come forward with their traumatic experiences. It is true that there is a large number who chose to...
Balasan
I’ve met the river before, but this is a new setting—
like meeting a parent in their office.
Bala—sand, san—stone:
a river baptised for spitting its monsoonal gifts,
like calling a girl Khushi, to bait happiness.
The mountains that fight the grease of dust
when we look at it from Matigara,
they are here now, my...