A Poem by Nagraj Manjule
A’ and ‘B’
Into the homes
Of men who go missing
There isn’t a single or a proper photo
To give for advertisement
When they go missing.
Those who do not have
A single photo in their homes
Are the men who
Always go missing
~ Poet: Nagraj Manjule
Translator: Yogesh Maitreya
(More Poems by Nagraj
A Poem by
THE PARADISE STATE
has no country
only its territory
where it pees
god has many countries
all around the world
the floors of which
are stained with the spittle
of injustice and hatred.
Stands tall among all
As the supreme abode
Of the mighty phallus
The naked 'pride'
is worshipped everywhere
in myriad forms-
as secured locks of hymen
and doors thrown open for pimps.
The phallic state
Thrives on aphrodisiac packs
and memory loss pills
ensure a toungue - tied obedience -
Constant chants of praise
And paeans pollute the air
The reckless hunt
for upward surge
leaves some endangered species
live their secret lives
in the roaring cities -
where bubbled up
floods of joy
covers their faces
chocking in despair
The skeletons of sparrows
Poisoned with golden letters
Of archaeic bias
are buried in the tracks
of an underground station
shaking in every shriek of pain.
The days and nights are alike-
Filled with soaring horrors
Gleefully roam around
As the land is made
free for them to invade
while the premier priest,
a narcissist merchant -
writes more invitations
Everything is picture perfect
As the structures
Of tomorrow's dreams
Should remain sharp and intact
The mutation will be complete
Once the parasite state
Sucks up all voices
Even the fall of a drop of blood.
A Poem by
To the soldier in Siachen
the snow is treacherous,
they are making you fight a treacherous war,
you were not born in snow,
you do not know snow, come back,
I do not want you to fight that war in our name,
I want you to rest, I want you to be able to feel your fingers,
I want the snow in your veins to give way,
for you to be able to breathe, to melt
into a corner, to sleep.
Go home to Dharwad,
Go home to Madurai, go home to
Vellore, Satara, Mysore, do not stay in the snow,
go home to Ranchi, that war is not for you to fight, that war
is not for us to give to you to fight, let not our name be ice,
let it not heave on your shoulders, do not let us steal your breath,
the people there, the people of the snow do not need us,
they do not need you to fight, come back,
you were not born to snow,
you do not know the treachery of the snow,
to rest, go home to the sun, to water,
go home to the nights of your village,
go home to the sweltering market-place,
to the noise of family-homes, to the sweat of the Ghats,
to the dust of the plains, go home,
may you never
have to see white ever again like that,
may you never have to see
a colour become death in your very palm.
(More poems by Akhil Katyal)
A Poem by
You are a land that refuses
to be a nation,
but in your head is a country where all slogans are always
You are a song that finds its own rhyme.
“Awaaz do”, my lips whisper.
” Hum ek hai”, your tongue draws me in.
We organize eat-ins at each other’s bodies.
I try to educate your hips into a passable rhythm
while you agitate my skin into quick bondage.
Together, we organize chaos.
Together, we ride a gravity wave, broadcasting ourselves through
the windows, shooting off into lands
where inquilaabic spurts are never taxed for sedition
A Poem by Mihir
(First published in Writers Asylum)
I can't tell you how half measures
crowded my life after you left.
Always on the brink of this
or that, if the messages I typed
and did not send were people,
they'd give the Chinese army
a run for its money, and probably
ruin themselves too, as people do.
That I waited for you, all over
the world, was only natural but
hanging in there for a whole year
was stretching it. And in two years
I fell off the cliff
only to find out how overrated
reality is. If someday, I could
show you around this world:
you, still prettier than all sunsets,
should have a Sunday to yourself.
We’ll start with a slow cup of tea -
just as you like it – doing nothing
at all. You’ll then get ready
in a quick stroke of an eyeliner,
and I’ll take you to an overwhelmingly
ordinary place, where there’s nothing
external, you know. No friends
to tell you that I don’t suit you,
no fat managers to ask you
what keeps you with me, and
no rules to wrap me.
We’ll go for a walk then,
and I’d love it, if again,
we run short of money, yet
overspend. After conversations
that refuse to end, we retreat
into some place more private.
I light a cigarette, you eat bread
and peanut butter, come closer,
and tell me how long ago your father
picked strawberries in Srinagar, how
you played basketball in school.
And then the conjuring grin,
hustling past your false tooth.
Poems of Syam Sudhakar
posted a five-rupee cover
to Jesus’ statue:
‘If you have atoned
for all sins
by bearing the Cross
don’t wither in the sun
between two thieves.
Leave the churches
and come here;
my people will protect you.’
‘The sun is not a problem for you
because of your cool head;
rioters won’t attack you because you carry a stick.
You are secure
If I come out
your people will attack me.’
who stole stamps off letters
franked ‘Insufficient Postage’
on the correspondence between