By: Ananya Sahoo Dear diaryDear diary,Today, for the first time, it’s not about me – it’s about you.I was seven years old when you were placed in my arms, wrapped in bright green paper and a little bow on top.The…
By: Aruna Subramanian Loners… All that leftto be on its owndo not suffer.Unlike creepersthat need supportto spread & stand,deep-rooted,tall standingloner trees,actuallyarent in agony… ### Guise… In moments ofunbeknownst outlawsshedding the shackles,we pick upour magnifiersto pass judgments.In such momentswe also don’tforget…
By: Roopam Mishra Create hegemonic circles,To feed them against one-anotherProhibit mingling among thoseWho belong to different groups.Be a propagandist,Move in pomp, and show,Be verbose,Shun all opposing voices.When a fairly good number alludesGodly qualities to you,Consider it half a triumph.Instill fearOf…
By: JCK Hnry graying light of morning in the graying light of morningi stand before the riseof a day built on hope and possibility. cold seeps through crumblingseals between window paneand wood. he pats the bed,whispers, come back to me….
By Amrita Sharma Numb When the human touch had lost its feel,To a perpetual cold that embraced within,In a morbid dusk with a timeless trail,A residue rests on a shining slate. The burning frames had left no marks,The scattered hues…
By: Sara Mahmood Ushered into a pathBy crushing crispy grassI witnessed an invitationFrom the wilderness The hanging creepers waving with windGesturing like fingers of a maidenI accepted and went onFor it was a provoking call It felt like a gripIn…
By: Edward Ahern Poets, more than fiction writers, are victims of the idiosyncratic tastes of readers and editors. Each journal nurtures its peculiar vision and spurns work that isn’t kosher. This leads to a lemming-march death rate for the publications,…
By: Okeypoet A Spirit Stirs A song,a stir from within,i am moved;Something touches me,i know I’m alive,i feel life;So much happiness,so much sorrow,the soaring eagle,the simple sparrow;I am lost,i am found;Life, is so profound. ### He’s Back The muse is…
By: Lynn Dowless Once upon a time in the valley of Blessed Nellby mountain side overhang, there stood a water well.I was young,there was so much to see,so sit down and listen to this story one must hear to believe….
By: Josh Brown A beautiful, moving examination of our destructive cruelty The pleasure of Portsmouth Poetry is that we get to meet, to know and to work with talented writers and artists to play a small part in their development…