By: Radomir Luza In October of 1986, New York City was something completely different. Crime was rampant. Homelessness was a new problem especially in the subway system in the Winter. Times Square was not a tourist attraction, but a violent underground…
By: Cailey Tarriane She yearned to be desireless, but insteadThe Girl with Wisdom wanted no riches, soThe Girl with Desires desired to destroy gold in her mind-no more would she crave for its feeling on her bony fingersand richness was…
By Ramlal Agarwal Writing about Indian writing in English. Salman Rushdie in his preface to Vintage Indian writing in English 1947-1997 says, “The prose writing – both fiction and non-fiction created in this period by Indian writing working in English,…
By: J.K. Durick Streams Stepping across, carefully, there’s a stumblebuilt into this, a foot on the closest stonethen onto the next and next, till you havecrossed with your feet, shoes almost dry.I did this in a dream last night, like…
By: Jim Bates Choirs singing songsOf peace and joy so soothingLike snowflakes falling. Kids falling asleepSafe and warm with Christmas dreamsOf sleigh bells ringing. Soft lustrous moonlightFills the night with visions ofSugar plums dancing. Children’s laugher ringsWhile old folks share…
By: Ramlal Agarwal Like Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy is not deterred by the constraints of using English as Indo-English writers did before Rushdie. Rushdie and Roy adapt English to suit the expression of the chaotic emotional turmoil of the Indian…
By: Cailey Tarriane A creature with qualities of a bird who can soar high and low,face ups and downs, zigs and zags I am unready for, I, a birdwith the comforts of its nest, well provided by its twigs, self-builtbut…
By: Stephen Faulkner Since it has gained its small share of notoriety over the past few months it has been labeled a “profession” in a sneering sort of manner. One does not go into such a discipline lightly, seeking…
By: Elizabeth V.Koshy An excavator pounds the rock,earth moving machines claw outboulders to make boulder-hills,from the first light to evening twilight. Working to the dictates of the concrete mixeryellow-helmeted automatons, apparitions in grey,collect the spewed out concrete in wheelbarrowsand empty…
By: Alan Berger Do you rememberWhat day we met?What time it was?That my shirt was redYou laughedAt everythingThat I said What we drankAnd how manyThe waiter’s name too? I know you don’tBut I do I don’t rememberThe promises to you…