In this Issue - Poetry

Kavita A. Jindal

Where the river bends I’ve made my home

Sauntering quotidian on the towpath

From Hammersmith Bridge, clad in green and gold

To Barnes Bridge, steel-grey-painted;

The colour of the water beneath.

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Kavita A. Jindal

You were brought here caged

then let go

you stayed

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Chiang Yomei

 

When light strikes the point of reflection

everything falls into place:

you and I are no more

there is only one space...

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Anuradha Gupta

 

I should have kept it –

the tongue I grew up with,

the language of my mother

and her mother before her...

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Amlanjyoti Goswami

 

Memory is a desert, she takes us

to the dust of construction sites, a broken trail of

bricks and Banksies, hiding on the corner wall....

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Reshma Ruia
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Ravi Shankar

 

The woodpecker’s catechism, doctrinal, drilling the house,

is the discordance between thinking and thought,

is the candelabra of your hand, there, effacing thought,

is the clock’s cluck-clucking: What is the chief end of man?

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Ravi Shankar

 

The fossil air stiffens into breeze, into heat, folds light

over itself in waves, impossible to trace without smearing

the instruments with agency. Particularising whatever will be. 

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Judith Huang

 

I can imagine the look on her face now

filled with fright as something clutches her

from somewhere out of nowhere, catching

in her throat, just as you enter her, the look

on your face printed in her eye. In there, in that eye,

you will see my face, my ghost, glaring back....

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