Literature - Page 3

I ran hysterically and had no idea what was happening! The village was haunted and dark; only the stars gave me courage. Ghostly silence of humanity, and only a bat flapped its wings, and an owl hooted far away in

After Peter Balakian’s “Eggplant” So much wrapped                                                                      

My mother’s tongue is not her rebellion She has never used it for self empowerment or polarity to speak out against humanity or to construct her identity in the ventures of prose or poetry Her tongue is not her weapon

The bedsheets had different colours with different patterns of creases that spoke of random encounters with a lost and dull civilization. There were nights spent on a lonely continent, with a slowly growing love of the unknown and the foreign, And

Is it 9:00 am already? Each day, at this exact hour, a treacherous beam tricks her fellow rays and breaks free into the dark confines of my room. Escaping the opaqueness of a thick brown curtain through a narrow slit.

You are endowed with a misfit of an olfactory organ- a wide bulbous triangle that can be mistaken for a sign of almost-beauty if viewed from the side. You seem to remember, acquire countless allergies and indulge in the pleasures of

Paint the present With past radiant Preserve the glory With pen or brush Glorious, undefiled by the Proliferation of technology Of post-agrarian times…. Down the lane of memory Revisit, recapture and Resuscitate beauty Live present by celebrating past An anchor to

This poem is addressed to All those patriarchal pigs and crackbrained clerics Who use the whip of male power to punish dissenting women. You keep asking women to stop “exciting” male lust – This “lust” is neither etched into unquestionable biology Nor

I just wanted An unobtrusive Body… One of those bodies You can easily Let a light Linen dress Slide on. One of those bodies That are little more Than clothes hangers And that go unnoticed. Straight and blank Like a table

I have seen you sitting in the wrinkled sack of a home Your moist, savory stories slapped shut in the folds of your earth, Pregnant, drunk, and raining. I have seen the blue-red shriek, the aboriginal music Piercing through your