By: Ramlal Agarwal A.K. Ramanujan’s translation of the Kannada novel Sanskara 1965 by U. R. Anantha Murthy is a novel that deals with the rigidly codified traditional structure and beliefs of Hindu society and the consequences of their infringement. It…

By: Ramlal Agarwal During my undergraduate and postgraduate days in the early 60 s, Indian writing in English was not a subject of academic discussions and seminars as it was in the 1970s and 1980s. Individual writers like R.K. Narayan,…

By: Veronica Ashenhurst Bulwark: To Jane Eyre My walls, brick and plaster, stand pitiless.So, I covet the far horizon, as didRochester’s wife, groaning in her windowlessThird-story room. But my infirm hipsAnd legs can’t take me anywhere, onlyMuddling across the still…

By: Jack Kamm “Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals”—Anais Nin                  We’ve all experienced change, which can be exciting as well…

By: Dan Fitzgerald A Night of Poetry I can’t write the poetry that you readto your friends at dinner parties.I use too many coarse wordsand phrases for polite company.So I sit in silencewaiting for you to endwith the heavy emphasison…

By: Glenn John Arnowitz “I can’t hear the crickets” I whispered to my wife as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep. It was a sweltering and sticky July evening, and she was already half asleep. “Hmmm?” she mumbled…

By Glenn John Arnowitz Okay, so I have a few guilty pleasures. Well, more than a few. A big one was that I was a fan of the show, thirtysomething, the late 1980s hour-long drama that depicted the lives of…

By: Glenn John Arnowitz In 2005 I met actor Ricky Aiello, son of actor Danny Aiello, at my friend’s annual Christmas Eve party. Ricky and I immediately hit it off. The fact that he grew up with an Italian father…

By: Alison Auch It’s a liquid dinner that I can’t escapethe bones cross sideways as I walkthis path of marigolds, dogs, dust. It’s dinnertime at my house, and thechildren are in bed, stories ofmy camera, my lens, my not seeing…

By: Mike Turner We each live in prisonsOf our own designServing a sentenceFor crimes we have committedAgainst ourselves There are walls, bars, fencesAll to confine usInsuring personal pain is maintainedAffliction is ongoingHappiness and peace are excluded Days stretch to months…