Poem: I am almost home, baba
By Umang Kumar
See, your Jamlo is almost home!
I am not going back there anymore, baba.
By Umang Kumar
See, your Jamlo is almost home!
I am not going back there anymore, baba.
By Raeesa Usmani
A set-up is ready
Projecting a skeletal child
Lying in the heated desert
Counting the last breaths, all he has
Dying of hunger.
By Atreyee Majumder
Italy Spain Florida
I walk the earth counting fingernails
Ensuring the dead have the right number
By Akanksha
That night, I kissed the city
with as much ardor as I did
the boy in the white shirt
inside a black and yellow box
moving somewhere.
By Pooja Ugrani
I can draw a C on your bum
when you stand sideways.
It was after you said this
that I started using
three limp layers
to drown a C of flesh.
By Ananya S Guha
We shake in fear, morning
afternoon, evening
Only night gives respite, but shadows
walk across dreams.
By Yanis Iqbal
He didn’t want to see the wretched people,
Haunted by hunger,
Dying with a beggar’s bowl
Outside the rich man’s castle.
By Moinak Dutta
Death?
Well, we live it,
Lockdown or no lockdown,
Covid 19 or no Covid.
By Aneek Chatterjee
This is the rule of the game.
Spectators sit in the dark, here
The playing field is dark.
Positions alter now and then
A spectator changes
into a player any time,
and vice versa
By Sabyasachi Nag
I fear, you too might die Akbari, all of eighty-five,
tied to the steel bed and forced to choke in this fire
someone else started, somewhere else;
or like Ankit Sharma, first beaten, then shot,
facing the gutter, by the house you were born;
By Nishi Pulugurtha
A reading of the poems in the two volumes reveals the poet working his way through metaphors that reveal his development and growth as a poet handling a myriad of subjects.
By Prithvijeet Sinha
This is his town,
with backyards of open-ended youth and trampolines next to pools.