October 2021

I’m pouting a Fibonacci sequence, a phyllotaxis of impatience, a fern unfurling, the fine pout of a pineapple sprout Don’t you know that the Golden Spiral is just my pout while waiting for you, my pine to uncurl you The

from the ledge George Street traffic throbs vehicles thread towards sunset crowds weave neon flashes noise ebbs and flows there’s peace here among clouds among cooing pigeons returning to roost far from demands and fists a helicopter hovers overhead she spreads her

The distress signals the 24/7 newsfeed daily brings us Of rapes, molestations, harassment at workplace, domestic violence, eve-teasing, dowry-oriented bride burnings, female foeticides, sexual abuse, trafficking, child marriages, enforced prostitution, incantation of a ‘word’ terminating relationships made in heaven blackmail and

‘How did you like the film?’ asked Isha. The morning assembly had just ended; now, the students were filing in queues to their respective classrooms. Isha was right ahead of Prapti in their class queue. Isha’s question made her replay the entire

sHE, Her limbs drawn in patterns Knitted from his egoist Hands, Zigzag, Yet demanded to be Flawless. Remarks of ancestral womanhood Slit her breasts into two, One for Him and other For His child. Clutched, pressed, sucked, What’s left for her More

Did you know that Karma reads all your thoughts? Karma was always watching me vigorously, always beside me. The greyhound sleeping on the doormat will always see through your heart. I couldn’t hide from the glance of the bearded black

White paper don’t stare at me Never crumple you, I guarantee Don’t fly away, When the breeze sways Stay on the old oak desk Tip of the quill is not fake Quill of pain Need you more than I The

Ernie is another one of those characters that I knew over the years here in Frederick. It happened that he was stuck in New York City during his teenage years on a trip from his native Europe when World War One broke

The Espresso Bar in Graphite pencil art by Anthony Gartmond, New Jersey, USA All dressed and out. High heels tick-ticking between hide, membrane, and cloth, barely touching, just hinting. So were the shades and lights, and the froths in the cups

A gold shell portrayal of 1830, Clasps firmly on all motile days, The oozing watercolours of time, And History. In it: A look behind the curtain, Clarifies to the vision, An era of feisty patriarchy, And tempestuous wars. In it: An intimately

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my Korean upbringing. One defining word always comes to mind.Duty; Expectation; Tradition; For the family name. Okay, so I guess more than one word pops up. But my fellow Asians get it. From an early age, my

working mom when will papa learn to part my hair right …. rearranging itself around me patriarchy …. cancelled engagement was I wrong in asking to keep my maiden name …. arranged marriage an aunt hands me fairness cream …. arranged

A wonderfully warped journey into one man’s unravelling psyche, and a joyous celebration of the necessity of story. – James Bradley, author of Ghost Species A phantasmagoric, avant-garde story set in a lost New York, Richard James Allen’s More Lies both entertains

With less ahead than behind she begins to select what will fill this old house past her tenure & what will be left behind for clearance, burning or salvage precise distillation of spirit in the cauldron of words better to prepare

it came again    the vertigo       in blackness on the pillow    pinball eyes a head  on gimbals        stillness            cut loose  from shadow    this rackety slalom of nothings  

I remember the dream on that Midnight. A train passed into my room. Inside my house. Many came in and out, a bunch of Sheets with inks, some blood. Some carried golden pens and Letters. Train named “Dead Poets”, received me that

I came in listening to oak and snow and walking in them. I was closest to having them tell me their names when I was three. Then school started and interrupted me. Made me articulate and write names for things like days

The Afghans Did not rape her or slit her breasts You did Still, you blame the Afghans And the Afghans Did not with iron rods, impale her You did Still, you blame the Afghans The Afghans did not push stones

The flight had landed ten minutes ahead of schedule. Mobile phones came on, and a cacophony of conversation began. No one heeded the requests from the crew about waiting to open the overhead lockers storing the luggage. As passengers on a

The full moon Drags the tides The waves dance To and fro I feel I could drown in a Puddle Or I feel like I could dance In a crescent moon Life is like that At times The fish swim

Title:   What’s Wrong with us Kali Women? Author: Anita Nahal   Page: 94 ISBN: 978-1-954353-88-6 (Paperback) Edition: (2021) Published by Kelsay Books. 502 South 1040 East, A-119. American Fork, Utah, 84003. Reviewed by: Dr Sutanuka Ghosh Roy         The history of Indian