Category: Poetry

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Poetry

Deciduous Dreams by Pramod Rastogi

From Public Domain 
DECIDUOUS DREAMS 

My dreams are in free fall.
This year I have not sat beside
My bedroom windowpanes
To watch the autumn winds rise.

Fall is visible along the side lanes;
The winds whip and wound.
The leaves wear a sorrowful look.
Soon they will all drift down

With spasms but without a shriek,
Caught in the currents of the breeze.
My heart skips a beat as it realises
That each leaf was part of its dream.

Soon the leaves will all be gone,
And with them, my dreams.
Like a tree in mourning,
I will have lost my regal allure.

I will be like a tarnished star
That has lost all its shine.
After a pause, though, spring will arrive —
And my dreams will bloom in rose.

Pramod Rastogi is an Emeritus Professor at the EPFL, Switzerland. He is a poet, academician, researcher, author of nine scientific books, and a former Editor-in-chief (1999-2019) of the international scientific journal, Optics and Lasers in Engineering. He was an honorary Professor at the IIT Delhi between 2000 and 2004. He was a guest Professor at the IIT Gandhinagar between 2019 and 2023. He is presently an honorary adjunct Professor at the IIT Jammu.

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Poetry

The Everyday by Debra Elisa

Debra Elisa
THE EVERYDAY 

to break one’s arm in three places
to lie each day awaiting the drip
to feel one’s hair falling out after years of brushing

when the soul lies down in the grass
when i hear those words whirl in my mind and ask them to rest
when your lips curl into a smile and it’s as if blooms come early

out beyond harp music
out beyond the morning’s breaking news
out beyond the flutter on our front porch 

     tiniest wings broken through that immense barrier  
            hatched after 16 days of steady tending

out beyond when the soul lies down	to break beyond
to breath 	pulse 	
                     and lie down in that grass


Debra Elisa believes story can save lives and co-hosts a monthly open-mic. When not playing with words, she enjoys wandering shores and trails with her husband and Cattle Dog. 

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Poetry

Carlos by Tony Dawson

Tony Dawson
                 CARLOS

My friend Carlos is an artist of some renown.
He is well-known locally for his sculptures
and life drawings. A star of the Faculty 
of Fine Art, his work is sought after
in Seville where he exhibits frequently.
He is also a character with an impish grin
that reflects his saucy sense of humour.
Janet and I consider him a lovable rogue.
He is obviously enamoured of my wife,
although he presents no threat at all
because he’s queer and is just teasing me.
Every time we run across each other,
he promises to leave me a piece of his art
with one of his shopkeeper friends
as a token of his esteem. I’m still waiting…

Tony Dawson, an 89-year-old English writer, lives in Seville and has published widely in the USA, UK, Canada and Australia since he took up writing during the pandemic.

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Poetry

Sorrow as a Blanket

By Ananya Sarkar 

SORROW AS A BLANKET

Sorrow is a blanket
That sits in my closet in the dark
On some nights
I pull it out
And wrap myself in its folds
Outside, the stars twinkle in my eyes
Blinking pain and hope
I blink back the tears
And snuggle tighter
But with time
The blanket has begun to fray
And as I lay
The weight became just a bit lighter.

Ananya Sarkar is a creative writer from Kolkata currently living in Bangalore. Her work has been published in various ezines. She loves to go on long walks, cloud gaze and ponder upon miracles. She can be found on Instagram @just_1ananya and reached at ananya7891@gmail.com

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Poetry

Poetry by Snigdha Agrawal

Rasam
Posto Chingri 
RANU VS BHANU

War erupted…
Oh, not the kind
waged between nations
This one, far more ferocious,
far more, algorithmically blessed
A verbal duel, a digital fuel,
a full-blown culinary followers’ fight

From Bengal came Ranu. Calm, yet cunning,
Queen of aloo posto, marching strong,
with four thousand firmly on her side.
Bhanu, from down South, 
popularised her sambar with vegetables sliced
and at thirty-nine hundred, felt deeply troubled.
“This simply will not do,” she muttered,
“I must outscore her score.”

So up went Bhanu’s spicy rasam
on her YouTube channel
with drama, spice, and just enough sass.
But tucked between the tamarind tang,
she made a rather pointed pass:
“Ranu’s dish? AI-made, I’d say!
I followed it step by step…
and yawned my taste away.”

The comment section crackled.
Pickle jars nearly popped.
Was this a recipe review?
Or a subtle character swap?

Ranu read. Her face turned red.
No time for grace or pause
she posted posto chingri, bold and unapologetic,
a dish that would invite no reply
from Bhanu, a hard-core herbivorous.

Then, fingers flying, she struck back:
“Hmm… that ‘original’ rasam?
A sure lift from a Hawkins cookbook,
with a pinch of extra seasoning.”

And just like that, every foodie knew
Culinary lines had split into two.
Between mustard zing and poppy seeds,
flavours blurred and egos bruised

YouTubers paused. Then shrugged, half-bored:
Is this about food, or nitpicking of some kind
One laughed, adding a comment, new
“Why trust your tongue? Let AI review.”
And there it simmered, seasoned with despair
flavour eclipsed by follower flair.

Glossary:

posto – poppy seeds
aloo posto – Bengali dish made with potatoes and poppy seed paste
posto chingri – Bengali dish made with prawns and poppy seed paste
sambar – South Indian lentil-based vegetable curry
rasam – South Indian spiced, tangy soup

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.

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Poetry

Two Poems by Jim Murdoch

ELOQUENT SILENCES

Silence is not silent. Silence speaks. It speaks most eloquently — Sri Chinmoy

Some seek to fill silences
which is strange because 
silence is surprisingly full. 

(I suppose they mix up its
absences with emptiness. 
Kindred spirits and all that.)

From 1840 to 1980 interest
in silence waned but now, 
now the tide has turned. 

Maybe the Earth's constant
humming is finally getting to us. 

FADE TO GREY 

Sit by my side, and let the world slip – William Shakespeare

I used to turn my love up to eleven:
grand gestures, poems, diamonds,
the whole shebang.

These days, though, I pretty much
just have it on in the background.
Y'know, for company.

Jim Murdoch has been writing poetry for fifty years for which he blames Larkin. Who probably blamed Hardy. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.

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Poetry

Poetry by Malaika Rai

Malaika Rai 
BHERA STOP 

My winters are steeped in grey, 
My streets are silent, with nothing to say. 
My arms, as they wander and restlessly twine, 
Wait constantly for yours to be tangled with mine.

Every branch in my neighbourhood asks of you.
You’re my Sun in the morning, my evening star. 
My blossoms, my roses, they thirst for your grace, 
Seeking the light of your Spring face.

Even in wings that are severed and shorn, 
The echo of your name is the cry that is born. 
This city I walk in, this life I call mine, 
Is nothing but a shroud wrapped around me, a funeral sign.

If you ever return, I would have you know: 
Our cities aren't distant, the maps do not show. 
The tragedy is, in the lives we have spun, 
People share the same house, but meet with no one.


Malaika Rai is a poet and Clinical Psychologist from Lahore, Pakistan. Her visceral work explores themes of anatomy and resistance, and has been featured in multiple magazines. 

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Categories
Poetry

Three Poems by Jared Carter

From Public Domain 
                RIVER 

Is a river alive? A cloud?
          Who knows? And what
Is the right thing to do? A crowd
          gathers with bats

And clubs at the gate, to demand
         that something be
Strictly obeyed. Who gives commands,
         who bends the knee?

Clouds dissipate, though shadows surge
         and slip below;
The river contains things that merge
         within its flow.


               EKSTASIS 

Those gone before admonish us, 
          who shelter in 
Uncertain refuge from the gusts
          of angry wind;

They testify not for what seems,	
          but what holds true— 
Trees that give shade, and flowing streams
          that beckon you

To step outside the self—where shade,
          now one with tree,
Flows far beyond what is displayed,
          or thought to be.
From Public Domain

A folk belief in the American South and Midwest
held that if someone tears down the web of a yellow
garden spider, it will write that person’s name in the
rebuilt web. This could mean misfortune, illness,
or death for that individual.

       FOLKLORE

An accident, he said, her broom
          brushed it away.
It was rebuilt, and in that room 
          where she would lay

By evening, we recalled her name 
          in script within 
The spider’s web. She died the same
          night. “But again,

You don’t believe—” I saw the line
          of letters there,
And so did she. I misjudged time,
          and she, despair.

Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.

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Poetry

The Arithmetic of Change

By Snigdha Agrawal

From Public Domain 
Stand still in a forest long enough
And you will hear it…
The quiet arithmetic
Of change:
Leaf to loam,
Bud to bloom,
Green to gold.

What falls away
Feeds what is becoming.
Nothing truly leaves.
It just changes shape
Like an old banyan tree,
Hunched over 
Making new connections

And so, it is with us.
We are not fading,
We are editing ourselves.
Occasionally creaking
Like dignified wooden doors,
Hinges rusted,
Announcing ourselves to empty rooms
With whimpers and groans.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes with a bang
But making our presence,
Felt nonetheless.

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is the author of five books and a lifelong lover of words, writing across genres. Based in Bangalore, writing and travelling continue to remain her lifelong passions.

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Poetry

Poetry by Tim Tomlinson

Tim Tomlinson
GOLDFINCH
                     That’s it.
                – Chase Twichell

I’m upstate New York, something like  
a hundred miles south 

of Chase Twichell, a Zen poet 
I greatly admire, and once actually met. 

She hated me (some poets will, 
other poets…?), but that doesn’t matter.

What does matter is, I think, 
that goldfinch there—the first 

I’ve ever seen—on the disc of a sunflower, 
pecking away at the seeds, 

cracking some, dropping others. 

That’s the way it is with seeds.


  AN ISLAND IN GREECE

         Whatever had been there must have fallen 
          among the soft corals …
           – Donna Masini 

A former girlfriend posts a photo 
of the view from her desk window 
on an island in Greece—

all that blue … 

You could imagine a hero falling 
into all that blue. 


TRUTH

              A strange old man 
              Stops me,
              Looking out of my deep mirror.
             – Hitomaro (tr. Kenneth Rexroth)  

how elevated 
the Japanese masters 
apprehending truth 

in so few syllables 
whereas I 
fill paragraph after paragraph 

page after page
with words and more words 
and now and then 

some punctuation 


QUESTION

If you ask me 
you’re asking the wrong guy.

But what?

Tim Tomlinson is the author, most recently, of Listening to Fish: Meditations from the Wet World, a poetry-prose-photography hybrid collection concerning the perils facing the world’s coral reefs. He is the director of New York Writers Workshop, and he teaches in New York University’s Global Liberal Studies. 

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