By: Md. Saber -E- Montaha The Bicameral Mind -Hush, stop that noise-It’s not me-Who’s it then?-It’s me, you, and it’s we-Tell it to stop then-It won’t listen to us-Stop it I say, I’ll kill it otherwise-It’ll only make the noise…
By: Vishakha Sen I am not in Love; Love is in me.I wish to turn into rust now, but it is my old ironsmith.My mother had instilled it in me.From womb to the world, it has chiseled me.I do not…
By: Kyle Singh What stood beyond the negatives were the damped reflections of my astigmatism.They spread upon the kitchen table between my mouth and a lighted candle.I spoke my piece and described my memories with automated reflexes. Curdled cottage cheese…
By: Ajay Kumar Nair Rama’s Exile maya stands by the banks of sarayu –the flesh on her feet only grains of sandthat waters of time lick & spit anewas she waits to hold again rama’s hand. what thought of his…
By: William Tubman On the outskirt of west africa;where flames of fire are more than hell,stood my land in the middle of nowhere. Citizens are caged with agony in their own land like a police celland the masses are not…
By: Paweł Markiewicz and over and over my most lovely dreameriesthe marvelous time will prophesize the philosophyalway the Erlking ensorcells my soulonce more the heart longs for gentle remoteness of poesyand time after time the meek Apollonian bliss-like tearsagain I…
By: Bruce Mundhenke Songs of Yesterday In Nogales we drank tequila,Sang songs we were meant to forget,Wandered the streets all nightTill the roosters crowed,Then crossed the border and slept.In the daytime we showered in truck stops,Slept on Mount Lemon at…
by Markiewicz Paweł If it becomes darkly in methe meek dream comes into being almost neverthe mind sleeps in the Darkthe night unfolds its wingsthe dreameries are dyingthey are jonesing for the lightsI-Apollo am kissing the nighttimeso that a blackness…
By: T. R. Bates “My hands are warm,But my knuckles are cold,” Barbara announces.I tell her it’s because there’s no blood in your knuckles.This is an example of our conversation these days.Her world has shrunk and getting smaller.Observations are minutely…
By: Shelby Stephenson SCAG BALLET My son covers his face streaking with grunge.He edges the leaning pole with the Scag.The lime and vines fall good and hard with sludgewhen he hits the clean path, a surprise packed into stretches of…