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PoemsIndia

The Weight Of August

A wooden rocking chair oscillated quietly in the vexing dampness of August. Its arms turned gracefully inwards, its arched rockers at the base moving ...

By Ridhi Bhutani
The Weight Of August

Childish Fallacies

When we were children and imagined, on quiet sunny afternoons outside the window with the tree,the dresses we'd wear, the homes we'd greet,the books w...

By Adithi A
Childish Fallacies

Swallow

All my mother’s warnings,forgotten. I bring in a fledgling swallow collapsed under the Sal tree. At once, I build it a home in an aged tukuri, lined w...

By Jahnavi Gogoi
Swallow

India's Very Own Version of Halloween and Día de Muertos Is Fading

As a Bengali who grew up in the early 2000s — perhaps the last pre-internet generation — I grew up with ghosts.And October meant huddling with my dadu...

By Aishwarya Roy
India's Very Own Version of Halloween and Día de Muertos Is Fading

Beach Finds

Slow across the empty shoreThere's more to be thankful forA bad poem’s thrown into the wavesA good one washes backA colleague tosses a rope across the...

By Sneha Bhura
Beach Finds

The Last Call

Biking beside a cemeteryin October, I hear the corn stalks rustle in the breeze like a late autumn rain. The stifled sobs of farmers who buried wives ...

By Frank C Modica
The Last Call

The Black Sari

Teen tal tempo tumbles with bolsrunning off the face of the tabla,Thunder claps curbed in each notethrob my boombox membrane.There is cause now for th...

By Jyotish Gopinathan
The Black Sari

Quiet Light

“Are you sad?” A peculiar question to slip out from the mouth of a child. The question comes like a steady habit, like a small pause in the middle of ...

By Grace Aonok
Quiet Light

The Diseased Tree

What grief does to a man, a termite does to a tree- Amjad Islam Amjadit was a green acacia in front of a windownow a powdered stump, a limbed Stonehen...

By Rizwan Akhtar
The Diseased Tree

Teacup from the Year I Almost Died

I. She wakes before the light decides,Alarm splicing the last dreamwhere her mother’s garden still bloomsTrellis and rainwater,Soil pliant as childhoo...

By Paromita Patranobish
Teacup from the Year I Almost Died

Single Red Rose

In an alternate reality,I’m brushing my teeth inParis;my coffee black, cooling besidethe pain-au-chocolate freshfrom the boulangerie downstairsthat wa...

By Ujwalla Bhandari
Single Red Rose

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Birds Of January

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Reparation to Mother

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Exhaustion in Five Movements

Abu Siddik

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A Mother’s Monologue

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