I saw the cement walls pocked with bullet holes. The shoe left in a black clot smeared with a darker red. The blood you shed. In photos where you carry the bodies of children from a school, your expressions are stricken, but I have to pin this on the breast of your unfairer sex.
Unborn the Cry: The unborn child is crying to be born (the white owl circles, silently listening) razor thin and piercing the cry of the unborn child
Our ancestors appear beyond the horizon offering wisdom, and a reminder that the only thing permanent in the world is impermanence. All shapes and forms dismantle. All shades and colors faint. Every sound fizzles, and every touch is meant to be void at the end.
Ars Poetica: The touch of the land, strewn with blood drops, the burnt, roasted smell of the anthill of poetry.
The sky threw darts, the earth melted into the cloudburst of uncalled revolution.
Landscape Design – Let’s be honest: it was a whimsical idea to plant succulents around the stilts of the house sinking into the delta, betting the river would dry up.
Dying With The Wrong Name: At first, it’s hardly even noticeable – it’s easier, you can move about as an American – but looking back the loss of your name cuts away some other part, something unspeakable is lost.
The Day Liberty Was Disrobed
We plead them, hear us once
just once,
before they carve out the pointy conviction
and chiseled them to suit their needs…
If For Each of Us
I would want the distance to all understanding to narrow just enough to fail at failure.
I would want a melody of chances
to learn to love again what first I dreamed, free as wonder, soft as touch, and of all things simple
to care again for them as much.
Cultural Diplomacy: by Kalpna Singh-Chitnis How wonderful it would be to learn more about writers and poets from other parts of the world, mention them with great enthusiasm, study and quote them the way we are inclusive of the western writers in our interactions, cultural and literary exchanges, and shaping academic curriculums! The above phenomenon…
Gibellina Vecchia, Sicily Creto by Ed Schad Ovid writes of Sicily situated precariously on top of the body of the god Typhoeus. He’s a giant snake. He “coughs ashes and vomits up fire” from under Mount Etna and tries, from time to time, to “shake off the earth’s weight.” Thus, earthquakes and lava. Ovid goes…
Translated from Sindhi by Lajwanti. K. Jaisinghani and Gayatri Lakhiani Chawla I myself am Punhoon, O sister this I have not forgotten I don’t turn my back on this truth,tell me what other I would be In Kutch and BamboreIt is I who dwellswhere else should I journey? People say you have many AashiqI, myself…
A Short Story by Chaitali Sengupta ……….The fitful autumn gusts shake the window panes all night. As if an angry beast in chains wants to break free. On nights like this, Sucharita cannot sleep. A strange discomfort hangs over her. It drains her of all energy, but the thoughts and the memories remain. Getting up…
