By: Aritra Basak Thin as Eyes I used to enter like a seeker of the quiet—barricaded graveyard, rented peace,an alibi from the scripted day,my breath new. Now the church is bright in a crueler way.The candles burn thin as eyes.The…

By: Khushi Tripathi They always see an angry daughter,But never see her dead laughter,Not her cries, not her tired mind,How she used to fly like the wind. They never see how she is breaking again and again,She is tired, broken,…

By: James Aitchison In the quiet minutes,before the sun dips from sight,the earth holds its breath as a day dies.We dare not breathe either.It is when hatred dissipates in a blaze,when thoughts disconnect from past lives,when we are born anew.Yet…

By: Harrison Abbott I’ve never liked Anna in all the years that she’s been my neighbour. Just don’t like her. But I also don’t want her to be murdered. She doesn’t like me either. That’s why I must be serious…

By: Amir Zadenemat 1. The Eroding Present We live in an era when the present feels porous, as if each moment dissolves before it fully arrives. This sensation is not sudden or catastrophic. It is slow, granular, the effect of…

By: Goutam Roy All creatures arecradled into existenceby the ancient lapof our Mother Earth.Every pulse of lifefound its first rhythmin her timeless touch. Rhythm bloomsin every heart,as she becomesa living cadence—harmonious and serenein every realmshe wanders through. Yet our axe…

By: Richard LeDue “The First Snow of Another Winter” Vivaldi’s mandolin still whispers to meabout those afternoonssitting alone in my parents’ living room,looking outside and only seeinginside myself,so sure no one was listeningthat I could never imaginewriting this poem years…

By: Jahnavi Gogoi Six am, all set for war, dressedin his running gear, he offersme a cup of tea. I accept. He knows I fear drip pots.The lingering ghosts of coffeegrounds. My recycled paper cup is lush with bergamot, as…

By: John Grey RESPECTS AS PAID By a grave, day pulls close the curtains.The air creaks, plays foul notes,like a violin unstrung.Grass is damp and unloved.Trees droop like mourners.Broken-winged angels, cold mausoleumnothing here speaks well of life. Expecting death at…

By: Pat Spencer Generally, I find public transportation to be hours of isolation, interrupted by a neighborly comment or two. So, when I boarded a repurposed school bus for the bone-jarring ride from Johannesburg to Zimbabwe, the last thing I…