Inaugural Issue

The most abstract mountain
Out there, amidst the clouds
Is in fact the most grounded,
the most concrete
Just like my sorrow that is
masked with joyful dancing...

A dry land seeking liberty
to get drenched wonders
about the quiet after this storm.
The roads are familiar to it. 
The smell of the air isn't.
The trees no longer liaise...

FROM THE DESK OF ETHOS LITERARY JOURNAL

We are proud to launch Poetry India: Contemporary Poetry in English and Translation, a project that aims at curating poetry by Indian poets or poets of Indian origin. Although India claims to be the world's second-largest English-speaking country, according to the 2011 Census,...

Always
my sister will repeat in anger
what Amma says more subtly: that I am to blame
for all that goes wrong
in the bedroom.
Everyday, in the bedroom...

So, the field wasn’t even there,
crossing which, all those days,
we had gone to that village.
My own people stayed in that village
When we went there,
carrying umbrella of sunshine or rain,...

Hanging between two towers –
a swimming pool clasped
within the Infinity Loop –
floating web - a wire mesh
called the cloud – Deya –
causes architectural shivers..

When a person crosses the bar,
becomes a sinner.
In the dark evening, the road I am walking on
is full of dirt.
The evergreen forest gets burnt
when there is no love...

I have seen these lines being used in love letters. I know how dear these lines are to the young lovers, in particular. But whenever I read these lines, I feel that I hear the voice of poetry. Poetry, as if, whispers in the ears of a poet, words which are intimate, seductive and smell of the aroma of new birth.

'I'm one of fourteen siblings,
 I found out all of my siblings have the same birthday,’ my father said.
Some of them were qawwali singers
Others were magicians;
Specialized in curing grief, and agony.
‘I loved all of them –...

Lips on lips, the gaze towards nothingness
Would it matter delving in these wrong verse business?
Nothingness is the Scorpio moon-sign, the lips quite unaware
Hair waving in the air, tight jeans, oh the desperate lover
Imprinting the lipstick mark, those lips keep quivering
Passion boils up, passion spills over...

I thought I heard a soft thud
At the door
I opened it, but there was no one there
The street was empty as if the people
Had with one accord
Sought hibernation...

sit on the banks of Benares 
with Sant Kabir in my lap 
breathing the ancient scriptures.
The air settles in moist colours 
of marigold desires.
My soul is smeared with sindoor...