By: Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad Chandelier Waltz The chandelier was sparedin the renovation spreeMarty who sold us the placeripped up wall and plankto clean lines, spartan spacebut for reasons known only to himleft this fixture untouched. a neighbour tells me stories…
By: Anthony Rosa The Eternal Reflection I look into the mirrorand what do I see?A broken man,is staring at me. A meek old manwith a soft, wrinkled mind,a short skinny body,torn apart by time. Where is the boyI used to…
By Chandra Shekhar Dubey Who are they?Shouting slogans, filling the airwith toxic slogans , lies in the streets?Knowing not , what they are protestingExhaling fangs of fire and distrust on the frozen roads to block the flow? Who are they?…
By: Paweł Markiewicz the enticing aspiration is sucha golden Apollonian sunshinemy muse-like tune of a bosomas the dainty cherubic dreamletor it is a tender ringthat shines atthe magnanimous chevalierand it is an embellishmentof the metaphysics the dazzling wishfulness is able…
By: Sandeep Kumar Mishra Books are in restless wintry mood,Their voices seem urgent,What the books whisperwe prefer not to mention in social circlesYet they know more,Have been where we can’t goin the clothes we wear They are unsettled, we are…
By: James Aitchison A poem is a collection of wordsthat don’t belong anywhere else. But don’t let the writing show, they say.Hide the scaffold of structure. Break forms!Have I made an exciting mistake? Some words are scabs to be picked…
By: Joseph Hope Epistle for the dead and Lost 1How dead is dead?When fishing for the impossible, How much hope is enough? How things die?They begin from Genesis, From the swinging cradle 2The morale from the long walkThrough this unvegetated…
By: Alan Berger What stories to chooseWhich ones to tellThey choose youAnd tell you what to sellI’d rather be a year too earlyThen a second too lateRather not be out with someoneThat I just can’t takeRather stay home and masturbateAnd…
By: Robin Long cling to the submitted words, disfigured,like the leather face of plaguewith spices shoved into a protruding beak herbs, to protect and stave off stenchpestilencenoxiousdisease—writing?it never felt like my disease, before only a dressing of another wound. Those…
By: Stephen Kingsnorth Meeting Delhi We drop suddenly,overtaking the ox ploughingbeside the tarmac. Heat-hit,little mascara boyswrest the bags from usbefore, bewildered and affronted,we grab them back. We overload Ambassadors,unsuited cases and rucksacksbulging, over-flowingthe gaping jaws of convoy boots. Soon, undergraduating,…