A Poem by  Kalyanee Rajan



Some divorces
Are more than
Mere detachments
Lawsuits and documents
Or breaking of bonds
Of roles, clothes and codes,
Or dividing the assets,
Financial, physical, emotional,
Or drawing circuitous lines
Around petty, everyday things,
Or naming and renaming,
Oneself, the house, the .Org,
Or claiming the greater shares,
On the bed, the dining table, the market,
Or dissecting affections,
Into myriad shapes and directions.

Some divorces
Are deeper than
The surface, the skin,
Go beyond the specifics,
Into redefinitions
Without all the paperwork,
With freedom of thoughts and Will
Sans the spacing out bit,
Revelations of selfhood
Minus the breakage or the brokerage,
Spurting creativity stale or fresh
Through newly found old chinks,
Stolen moments of delights
Withholding the summons and the decrees,
Of trances and fusions
Outside the shots and the guns,
Of poetry, plain and ornate, coupling and revelling, long and short,
Nesting in the still blank margins of life's diary,
Concealed in broad sunlight
As in caves of a ravenous night.

Some divorces
Are simply gentle,
Settled smoothly,
Ex parte,
Without the wigs and the collars and the big black coats,
With far less fees and lesser clutter,
With flesh and blood,
Singing the eternal song
Within the Self.

(More poems by  Kalyanee Rajan)

A  Poem by  Aakriti Kuntal


Froth of blue sky,
inheritance in ice veins,
froth of blue sky,
regurgitation, stillness or both?

Froth of blue sky,
a memory only measured in gasps,
froth of blue sky,
the lungs' ceaseless need to continue

Froth of blue sky,
the eternal hiccup,
the silver water curling in palms,

never receding,
never succumbing,
the endless eye of time
where all things are as dead as alive

Froth of blue sky,
where questions are singing mockingbirds
and the truth is a volatile tooth,
destined to fall or decay

Froth of blue sky,
unknown, unknown, unknown

Froth of blue sky,
a river curdled in gray visions

Froth of blue sky,
a home, a home, a home
nothing lives,
nothing dies,
nothing escapes

(More Poems by Aakriti Kuntal)

A Poem by Gokul Krishnan G.S.

I want to be.

Dub Dub, the cold stethoscope pressed
against my warm chest.
A masked figure looked at me.
I want to be a doctor.
Boom, the Mumbai city burned,
The cap of Taj on wild fire,
Helicopters roared, black clothed commandos rushed.
I want to be a soldier.
Blood pools on the street,
The mother lost her son,
A man dressed in black robes spoke for her.
I want to be a lawyer.
A man behind the glass, counted notes.
He was fast, perfect and rhythmic.
He handed the currency to me.
I want to be a banker.
Who am I?
An average of the last five people I talked to,
An average of last five movies I saw,
And an average of the last five books I read.
Who am I?
Am i just another privileged brat?
To hell with me. Yes I am.
I never wanted to be sweeper, janitor or cleaner. They matter.
Today, I do nothing,
Just sit and stare and stare and sit.
I will break this cocoon.
I will. I will. I will. I will.

(More Poems by Gokul Krishnan  )

A Poem by Christina Pacosz

a Silk Tree*

Not convinced
By Missouri’s temperate
Spring you remain
Brown and bare Your
Allegiance to sere winter
Clear in your refusal
To flout green leaflets
Whose fronds fold
Each night like hands
At prayer.

It will be almost
Full summer
Before your frothy pink
Blossoms appear
To scent the air
With a spice
As rare as one
Imported from old
Persia, your birthplace
Shab khosb**

All your greening
Is yet to come
The season of brown pods
Clattering like long
Knives in the fury
Of a cold wind
Is not upon us
Your fruit
Filled with many trees
Waits its turn to be

*Albizia Julibrissin

**night sleeper in modern Persian

( More poems by christina pacosz)


A Poem by   Meghna Prakash

'Chai, Biscuit Aur Hum'.

It's been years
since I've worn that dress
it hangs upside down in my cupboard
even if I throw it away,
rip holes in its mid-seam.
it has a way of crawling back to my room
every night.

He slid his hand up my thigh
and told me I am a moon-flower
I'd bloom,
every night,
in his arms.

I crossed my legs.
grabbed his hand into a fist.
offered him a cup of tea
and smiled.

My mother appeared behind me
wondered why my hands trembled
and left to get biscuits.

Wish she'd known,
he wanted me for breakfast.
for dinner.
whenever she wasn't looking.
even if he wasn't hungry.
He told me
"the only way to a man's heart
is from his stomach".

So he ate me inside out
outside in
with the moon blooming,
my petals bled.

I met his daughter
when she was as old as me,
when he first tapped my chest
with his fist, a loud knock
on an empty door
thoroughly examining me
for signs of growth,
he wanted his teeth to be
my body's welcome mat.

'Atithi Devo Bhava',
he whispers
'our guests must be treated with care'.

His little girl was
hiding under our bed
hoping no visitor knocks on her door.

"Don't worry", I tell her.
“I'm entertaining the guest tonight”.

I see him once every week
I serve him milky chai.
My mother gets him biscuits
And I smile.


( More poems by Meghna Prakash )

A Poem by  Mithun Murali

Paper Plane

I wrote down all my dreams
On a crumpled piece of paper,
And now a paper airplane
Is flying to the future.
Lashed by winds, it twists and turns
And somersaults above the birds,
To touch tomorrow, to let go of today,
For the past is a whore and she comes back to say:
“You won’t get far, you’ll die today.”
I wrote down all my dreams
On a crumpled piece of paper,
And threw them in the dustbin,
Sooner, rather than later.

(More poems by  Mithun Murali)

Two Poems by  Nithin S Dev

Cross word/Word Puzzle

1. Upwards- Waves
2. Downwards -Water
3. To the Right -Agony
4. To the Left- Silence
*Friends don’t try to solve this for getting a prize.

From the slaughter house

From the slaughter house,
He reported for the media
“......Here are only
Some shoe flowers
inflated balloons
coloured sweets
toys and
loud laughter
which flow
obediently through
the ditches.......”


My Voice | Poetry At Our Time | In The Name Of Poetry | Editor's Choice | Our Masters
Who We Are | Back Issues | Submission | Contact Us | Home