By Basudhara Roy
She lost thirst, her throat
turning brittle like fish bones in the sun
Tag: Poems
By Isha Singh
But the country changed, when we weren’t out on the streets,
Fighting for its soul.
Some came and changed its soul to a bituminous one
And now poison runs in its veins.
By Nishi Pulugurtha
As I traverse from one volume to the other, reading and re-reading, finding nuances and tracing patterns, I find an elegance of expression that surely bodes well for Indian Poetry in English.
By Sekhar Banerjee
An empty palm in rain does not hold
anything back; it returns
privacy for privacy, water for water,
solitude for solitude like a forlorn prayer-wheel
left in the courtyard
By Sanjeev Sethi
I tried holding a smoke-filled room
in my palm while you ran out of reefers.
By Gabriel Rosenstock
Gandhiji, oh look
see how downcast he appears
Hindutva’s to blame
those loud-mouthed fanatics
they should stay in bed all day
By Mitali Chakravarty
The skyline fades. The sun yo-yos in play
but, manmade borders, they stay.
Forever slay. Weeping Guernicas
line Kurukshetras and Ayodhyas.
By Nishi Pulugurtha
Weaving expressions, images and feelings brilliantly the poems in this volume add to Jaydeep Sarangi’s poetic oeuvre.
By Azhar Uddin Sahaji
Abba doesn’t understand poetry and identity
He still continues to run that old shop.
By Gargi Dutta
On such days
I count the gashes,
And pledge my love –
To the remains
Of my rapidly diminishing self.
By Mitali Chakravarty
Silences are like the sky.
They stretch out uninterrupted,
punctuated by sounds
accentuating the quiet
By Dustin Pickering
This collection is not for the weak-willed or -minded. Each poem/prose retains a bright reality and sage wisdom. From cover to cover, this volume is intellectually fastidious.
By Gopal Lahiri
On the edge of the chimney and window
a lonely flute man interrupted the silence,
ghost stories leaped from the river water
to greet the ascending stars.
By Sutputra Radheye
We must bring poetry and art to the streets again. It must speak to common people. It must use a vocabulary that all can understand, and thematically, it should spit blood on the face of the crown, the establishment. It must end the elitist cycle of producing art.
By Rini Bhattacharya
I tend to express her sadness, her frustrations of being
A failed wife, a failed activist, a failed poet, a failed mother
By Jharna Sanyal
At the end of the day, I find my words
mending gaps and pores with the vowels.
There are only five.
By Vidya Tewani
A leaf from the Paath Sahib nani would choose
Her book wrapped in silk folds
Placed on a wooden lattice frame
By Meher Shah
Two women separated by culturally different societies,
kept apart by several oceans
each weaving their craft using different tones.
By Amrita Valan
Knowledge is Truth, it germinates
In the soil of free thinking minds,
God’s Holiest Books are we,
Living and loving, weaving parables
By Megha Sood
your face is like a poem
those deep lines
etched for eternity
tells a story
written by the verses
deeply lodged in your soul
