Poetry begins with a bunch of feelings that can mean, if not everything, at least something to everyone universally. Poetry is thus not the slave of professional poets who have penned or who will pen poems the way Shakespeare, Wordsworth,…
A couple of weeks ago while I was packing my luggage for a reclusive weekend at one of the resorts at the Jim Corbett national park, approximately 200 kilometers from New Delhi, I heard the doorbell. A packet was handed…
By: William T. Hathaway Chapter 14 of the book RADICAL PEACE: People Refusing War RADICAL PEACE is a collection of reports from antiwar activists, the true stories of their efforts to change our warrior culture. A young Buddhist novice contributed…
By: Jayanthi Raja Seenivasan When do you ever kiss the blue skies? What do you whisper to the passing clouds? How do you dance to the singing cuckoos? How do you swing with perched parrots? Where do you manage so…
By: Sujan Bhattacharya Presently Kiriti Sengupta is one of the most prolific literary activists in and around Kolkata (India). You may wonder why I’ve termed a competent young author to be an activist! Is it not an attempt of undervaluing him?…
By: Charles “Chuck” Orloski One day in the life of Michael and Alexander Smith A beautiful South Carolina night, insect screams, and an occasional lonely “plop”noise as hungry fish briefly touched surface of John D. Long Lake. Demonically obsessed, Susan…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb Encircling a building a hot chain of dry tongues starts shouting sitting on an unrecognized demand compelling the stony ears- quite comfortable inside the building lying on their pride and contumacy, to stand up on their…
By- Pijush Kanti Deb Flying in the sky, reaching just near to the Heaven the golden lips- painted by the spoon- made of gold utter blissfully ‘WOW’ looking at the luminous fool moon and recite a love poem narrating the…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb The upbringing of a feathery singer bestows a burnt painter with a landscape comprising of two feathery opponents one is dead and found on a heap of garbage and other sings for the composition of epics…
By: Gaither Stewart I am bizarre. No more and no less than my characters. I know that about myself. Who gets into his car with no special place to go and decides on the spot to drive to Istanbul? Where…