A Poem by Udayan Thakker

( Gujarati  Poem)

In a by lane of Masjid Bunder

In a by lane of Masjid Bunder
lives Manilal,
the rooster.
Showing off his crown
to hens, scaring
chicks away,
having the sun
at his beck and call,

Manilal does not know,
in but a few days, he will...

Even if he were to know
and run off,
he'd be caught on the wrong foot
a few blocks away.

Were he to leave town, he'd be plucked
in the meadows.

Were he to slip into woods, he'd be nailed
by a fox.

Were he to dive into the sea and
Quit India,
he'd be nabbed in the Andamans.

Were he to flatter, he'd be fried.

Were he to revolt, he'd be in a soup.

What then does Manilal do?...
What does he do,
but cuck-doo-koo?

(Translated from Gujarati by Rochelle Potkar)

(More poems by Udayan Thakker )

A  Poem by  Sayon Nandi


Captivating me , by
your illusory face -
fascinating me in
your own semblance..

Yielding me , your
youthful look -
by this, my childhood
did you hook..

Night faringly, I try
to keep my eye,
where you belong-
in the night sky..

Thinking to get you,
when I feel lush-
darkness get disappear,
and you get easily pass..

Heyday of my youth-
gone for a long wait...
because your hazel eyes,
are just alive bait..

I wait everyday,
for long a while,
for appearing of dark,
to see your smile.

And my enchanted youth,
burns like the fire -
to fulfill it's dream,
of getting the admire.

(More Poems by Sayon Nandi )

A Poem by Swati Chawala


New sage, old story

The Indian writer writes of tragedies
Moral, immoral, birthed, abandoned
He writes, lest they be aborted for being too poor
Or too feminine
With the conviction of the chiasmus,
He teaches us of the good in evil,
‘mara’ in rama,’ ‘rama’ in ‘mara’

My mother taught me
A tragedy becomes great
Only if she wedded
And along her husband
Pathless woods
In search of a deer
Or day,
Should freedom come knocking in saffron words
She must desist the temptation
Within the dark skin
Not her own is the Hindu thing to do
And in doing so
If she can prove her innocence,
Then lotuses would bloom in fire and the womb.

So I did all that
For fourteen years and one day
My mother's ashes died
Thinking what will people say.

A bandit once told me
That I was no longer a tragedy
But a great, great moral story
So he wrote of my morality
But the Indian writer writes
With the bias of a mother
Ramayana, Ramacharitamanas, Ramavataram of the banished king
And ordains the daughter of the earth and the gaudy sun
A permanent exile within her own name...

(More Poems by Swati Chawala  )

A Poem by Anand Khatri


I have broken your slumber
To reconstruct you
Piercing the balance of
Stillness in stone brick by brick
I refuse to renew the surface
Of weak fragmented crumbling walls
With fresh lacquers, putty, coloured paints
I will rip off peels of age
On worn out, decayed lifeless layers
I will dig with my chosen chisel
Walls now senseless with age
Carving windows for stimuli and light,
Fresh dimensions and visions delight
Equated new dimensions of space in space
Are now being instructed through
The hindrances of origins, roots, foundations
The collective sleeping consciousness in stone
I shall now awake
For the changing needs of time
As if by a divine design,
Creative compositions arise
Into heights of porches and doors
From exuberant muscular purlins
Fragrant splints and chips from fresh timber sawn
Sacrificial fuel to the chastising yajna
Souls of the house and soaking human needs
I shall thus complete the structure for new needs
With new cells and rooms
Sing poetry to foundations,
Put forms and walls to sleep
I am your Mason, carpenter
Your beast of tireless arduous labour
Trained to balance
the sleeping and wakeful consciousness
in matter and man
An Architect-Sculptor am I

( More poems by Anand Khatri)


A Poem by   Sunil Sharma

Art and body-piercings

on bare branches

about to take a flight
into the blueness of sky


the kinesis and stasis
of the common scene
captured in a series of
fine dots, black

on a slender arm,
brown, at rest
in a salon-chair
before a well-lit mirror
under the gaze of Narcissus,
dreaming of lands
far-off, in that Delhi studio.

( More poems by Sunil Sharma )

A Poem by  Saikh Md Sabah Al-Ahmed


Grandma’s lullabies

July rains;
The spitting July rain
When tiny tadpoles leapfrog to life,
The smoky sky above
Obscures its pristine blue blanket – slowly
As the clouds above ejaculate, I then remember
Grandma’s lullabies
We used to shiver,
As the deafening thunder roared outside
We jumped on to Grandma’s lap;
Her frail body shook,
As we all jostled for comfort zones around her;
Our droopy eyelids slowly dropping curtains,
As we all go into a trance,
And Grandma’s lullabies took us far away into fairyland;
Long before we get embalmed
By her mystical tales in her wobbly voice;
The July rains have stopped now,
It’s November, and we had just bade autumn goodbye,
The clear blue sky has now managed
To pierce itself through its thick smoky blanket of clouds;
I search for Grandma
But she’s not there on her moth-eaten bed,
It’s July again, and I could still hear her
Hum those lullabies somewhere far away,
I yearn to be in her lap,
As the thunder roars once again,
Pelting hail on our supine roof,
I hid myself under a blanket,
And lay motionless till I realise daybreak.

(More poems by  Saikh Md Sabah Al-Ahmed)

A Poem by  Prithviraj Taur
Translated from Marathi

Hiroshima – Not Away

These villages depressed, dejected and gloomy
Drifting through the stream of the Goda
These people like scarecrow
Seated at crossroads
These farms destroyed and gloomy
Getting out of minds.

Graveyard is hung around
Banyan is calling
Aerial roots smiling
Bastions are collapsing
There are screeches
Of old mansions.

Oh Goda!
Which culture are you sowing
Into the tottering huts?
Life has become a sinful battlefield
And without willpower
Men are fighting
Why? And for Whom?

Oh the villages at the bank of the Goda
The soil is slipping away from the roots
Beware! Take care of yourself
Otherwise, Hiroshima is not away.

( More poems by  Prithviraj Taur)


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