By: Ron Riekki Poem about the PTSD counselor yelling at me to relax, to just relax, and yelling doesn’t help. And that’s it. That’s the whole poem. About how yelling doesn’t help. You’d think a PTSD counselor would know this,…
By: James Aitchison Few British novelists have captured the world’s imagination as completely as C. S. Forester. And, in the process, his cinematic writing style inspired major Hollywood movies. Born in Cairo, Egypt, in 1899, as Cecil Louis Troughton Smith,…
The 2024–2025 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize has been awarded to Bitan Chakraborty and Malati Mukherjee for their remarkable work, The Blight and Seven Short Stories (Shambhabi The Third Eye Imprint, 2024). The laureates were revealed through the Prize’s official online…
By: Shailendra Chauhan The passing of Vinod Kumar Shukla is not merely the passing of an individual; it is the passing of a language that spoke very softly, said a great deal in very few words, and—away from noise—found profound…
By James Aitchison Nassau, the Bahamas. 8 July 1943. It was after midnight when Sir Harry Oakes, aged 68, one of the world’s richest men, was murdered with a silver ice pick from Simpsons-in-the-Strand. It punctured the side of his…
By: Dan Holt Listening to Leonard Cohen Listening toSongs Of Love And HateTrying to writePoetryThat serves the moment I’ll neverWrite like thatI’ll neverSing like that Every wordMeasuredFor it’s worthSang in thatDeliberate voiceWith allAnd noneOf the emotionAt the same time Finger…
By: Greg Wood Disappearing in God if you sensea certain shinein the shadowsof the trees, you may bea sufilightlyspinningacross thechessboardmirror ofearthand sky. or a sageimmersed inwindswept presence:the beginningof what wasand stillis onenessof being theshine inthe shadowsof the trees. Finding Chris…
By: Cedar Dev To Debra, my girlfriend Your chocolate-tinted cheeks,Are waiting to be kissed.I can see all of humanity,Resting under your eyes,I’ll be your cushion,Sit on meYou be my food,I will eat you,From your forehead to soft feet-Your African body….
By: Paweł Markiewicz It’s a late and warm autumn.The wind gathered leaves up on the roofof the marvelous tavern.The seagulls heralded a memory – an initiation.The old pensioner-captain drank the intoxicant,like the ambrosia of the life.The female pirate Mary mentionedher…
By: Jim Bates Winter’s frigid songCold wind howling through bare treesWindswept melody. Clear cold winter nightDome of stars bright and immenseStarlight streaming bliss. Out comet huntingSaw instead a soft sunsetMagic in the sky. Winter afternoonSunlight hanging suspendedAlmost whispering.