By Gopal Lahiri
Basudhara Roy’s ‘Stitching a Home’ is no doubt an important collection of poems, one to applaud for its beautiful craft, its display of skill and its light formed of longing.
Tag: Poetry
By Gita Viswanath
This Land This People contains translations of more than hundred poems by seventy-one Rajbanshis poets, a marginalized community within the already marginalized and mistakenly homogenized population of the Northeast.
By Umang Kumar
what need of ceremony,
when the ritual of life
is over?
By Nayyar Hilal
In the Dal water has turned to blood –
I tried to write with it but
my hands are trapped in barbed wires.
By Sunil Sharma
We are the fodder, the 99 percenters, for the one percenters of the world – chants the massive crowds in the old public squares, the world over.
By Ashley Tellis
I wanted to trace the veins on your forearms,
lick your pallid skin, hear your blood gurgling
through the green trees across your chest, barely covered
by that tight shirt, its buttons bursting.
By Nishi Pulugurtha
What comes out clearly through the poems in the volume is a keen eye, of being able to look beyond the obvious, of reaching out into the known and the unknown.
By Quratulain Qureshi
So, while we pray for your olives of Filastin to flourish,
We ask you to pray for the olive of Kasheer to wither.
By Swati Moheet Agrawal
but the only time she will believe
she’s beautiful is,
when it is said by
the man she loves;
By Mitali Chakravarty
Can wrecking, destroying
erase an ideal, revive the dead,
rewrite the past?
By Basudhara Roy
She lost thirst, her throat
turning brittle like fish bones in the sun
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 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.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday 