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

Of them

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 Manjule )

A Poem by Stalina Sugathan


A dog

has no country

only its territory

where it pees


god has many countries

and toilets

all around the world

the floors of which

are stained with the spittle

of injustice and hatred.

Paradise state

Stands tall among all

As the supreme abode

Of the mighty phallus

The naked 'pride'

is worshipped everywhere

which reincarnates

in myriad forms-

as versatile

as secured locks of hymen

and doors thrown open for pimps.

The phallic state

Thrives on aphrodisiac packs

and memory loss pills

Ticklish tentacles

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

Giant vampires

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  Akhil Katyal


To the soldier in Siachen

Come back,
the snow is treacherous,
come back,
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.

Come back.

Go home.

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,

go home,
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 Meherin Roshanara

JNU Hotel

You are a land that refuses
to be a nation,
but in your head is a country where all slogans are always heard.
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.[1]
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 Chitre

False Tooth
(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


Gandhi’s statue
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.’

Jesus replied:
‘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
I’m unarmed.
If I come out
your people will attack me.’

The postman
who stole stamps off letters
franked ‘Insufficient Postage’
on the correspondence between
two eras.


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