winter issue #6

december 2011

"i lost my wedding ring behind harrod's" by sarnath banerjee

poetry

krishna The night and its peopleThe slope of the sandbar, its casual bulgeof men; they staggered, clutched at hand, at knee.A need perhaps, to know they were still piecedtogether on that falling slope, still firm:affirmed by gravity. You dismissed themas drunk. We left them for a girl at a bus standstranded between crouching trees. Their handspatted the air above her, waving carsinto the dark. Her eyes, cigarette burns. Her hair,was coiled-up smoke. Her heels dendrites, draggingdregs from some corner of the night. Smokinglater in our room, you claimed the ash as agelines. Aging ankles, my dendrites. That thereis nothing to the night, just drunks and whores.****Growing upIt is when you find your body is discrete: your head, a tilted alembic. Your neck, a funnel. Sometimes you hear your voice rising like steam from furnace lungs to hiss nothings. On coffee tables, your hands seem helpless birds. They flutter into air and sputter to a stop, undecided. Some nights, your bones lean weary into your skin. You learn to appreciate their weight. Toes squat like pebbles. You see them settle into the groundwherever you stop. You worry sitting will root you. You never sit alone. You like the idea of not being an island. You find grooves where your face has learnedto set itself in a smile. You find you smile a lot, that there is little else to be done. You findyou cannot remember how to look at the sky any more.***Krishnakumar is a poet who lives in Mumbai. His poems have appeared in Cha, Muse India, Kritya, among others.

maryam The Road, in BracketsTurn the page and leave now!This poems umbilical cord was never cutwith the pen of prudenceand every burnt line, the tight fist of your eyesclaims at the altar of evasionis a virtual incenseto the memory of massacred wordsWho doesn't know?Bullets of coincidence in the dry appeal of cloudsto wail nameless graves and shrouded windowshave veiled the wounded pomegranates of this landTell me,what have you to set the strings of your heart on?A past of dead cells you call me?the vomited pain of these few retired wordsor this stubborn pen that harps them both?Turn the page and leave now!Don't fret over a meager share of the earthwhose blemished red is the envy of all uniform sunsetsNo one told me,in the whispered convention of ragdollsand the mischievous chain of color pencilsno one told me, no one saidthat the blue pen was blood heartedNo one said we had to jump through the loop of firetheir warning fingers drew in the airAnd the hurried life we had to pantin the pathetic safety of bracketshas finally taught us thatthe blackboard was merely a dungeonwhere the anemic ghost of wordspaid their loan of dust to dustHere,cigarette smoke and leftover prayersare merely prophets of curved shuttersTell me,do you still linger on the vocal infection of this page?Come, let me light you a dreamHome is a suitcase of memoriesmuddled at the suspicious borders of longingand weighs by the cold of the sweat in the fingers of fearA surplus of letters you have prunedfrom the autumn of understandingconspires against the consistency of your gazeAnd now,before you endanger the verbal security of this poemI hereby sentence you to an expired word: (silence)*****The Echo of the VoidIn a roomthat is spacious enough for me and my solitudeI sit down to smoke my soulbefore a wallthat dances the shadow of my vaporto meThere is no coffee in my mugNo black craving of dominanceover the white hearted creamMy cup of faithis empty to its brimand the desirefor the chair in front of me has gone coldMy mind is this blue ashtraywith wrinkled memory buttsthat I have to clarify every now and thenOnly an illegitimate thoughtcould become the savior of this worldSounds and voicesare the warp and weft of the empty basketthat my shadow will carry out of this room****Where is the Peace of this Poem?Hey Poet!Let the olive branch liveand liberate the burden of its own bitternessForget the dove once in a while,so it can remember flying without a directionThe dagger is weary of the betrayalsThe scales want to weigh themselves for a changeand the threshold of each page trembleswhen straight mouths count the break of wordsand crooked fingers spell heads into numbersHey poet!Run the last of the puns through the sieve of first intentionsPeel the prudence of adverbs to the core of smuggled silencesInk the blood of adjectives into the heart of all shadowed thingsand verb the waiting of all instant nounsHold the hands of the clock and sway:I was born to humanize words this way!Every living pen is another broken gunPoetry will never diebut perhaps one day,one fearfully fearless daywe shall speak without metaphors.****Maryam is a poet, translator and essayist from Tehran who spent her early years in India. She is the winner of the Silver Medal in the 14th National Persian Literature Olympiad (2001) and was awarded Honorary Fellowship in Creative Writing by the International Writers Program (IWP) at University of Iowa, USA. (Fall 2008). She has also won the Second Prize in the AK Ramanujan National Paper Reading Competition, University of Baroda (January 2009) and the 'Young Generation Poet' Award in the 1st International Poetry Festival in Yinchuan, China (Sept 2011). Her second book of poems, Gypsy Bullets was published by Prafullata Publications in 2010. Her poems have been translated into Arabic, Chinese, Hindi, Italian and Romanian. Presently, she is a writer for the Tehran Times Daily.

vivek Nobody I Know Lives in DadarNobody I know lives in Dadaranymore. The streets are full of strangersand not the house I once knew there.Now at the busy hour of foura.m., no guests are coming to the gate.No one leads me to the watersaying bath, bath, you shouldn't be late.And if I cling to the echoes of those speaking,follow them inside me, locatethem near that corridor in the morningpreceding the darkening entranceof the stairs - the air there lasting,the smell fusty like a long sequenceof eyes, nose, face, hair... ifI too fall in to that near quiescence,strained through its sound like a sieve,would I find my favourite cousin, that otherfrail boy in shorts who livedin that time, that place, forever?The address is a pile of rubble;nobody I know lives in Dadaranymore. The bedrock's turned solubleand a pigeon flits through the hall.The sun arrives as a dapplebut then it scorches the strongest wall.The radio's impeccable Englishturns sour in its withdrawal;a fly settles on the priggishbrow of the uncle who complains stillabout the sweetness of the sweet dish;and newspapers tower on the sillneatly folded, yellowed, stiff(no one has read them, or will).***A DocumentYou knew it first as a kind of knot, intensein the heat: the highway was coiledand coiled around its grip, the startling senseof something wrong or spoiled,something that couldn't be fixed. So you crossedyards of lorriesconvoys of white ambassadorspossible dignitarieshidden inside, abandonedvehicles of every sorttowards that stillness, children cordonedoff by curt--lipped mothers, the ring of men now movedoff the road withtheir bundle: hungry, curious, you suedyour way in. And there itwas. One leg crooked atthe knee, hands upat the shoulders, as if in imitation, some art--ful sketch with police tapeseen on TV. The bit of the calfthat showed beneath the trouserwas all yellow; and an off-white zinc colourseemed to coat much of the skin.Only part of oneeye was visible; the brains pinkguts had smeared onthe gravel. Road kill. Like dogentrails. It was toolate to look away. The fogin your head had cleared but now youwere sick. Strange, now the body'dgotten up to follownot the feetbut a wayof looking back at you,fold on foldhanging, like dust on blueair or the handsof a clock, too slow,too slender, in the moment wherethat half-face holds youwith its unsurrendered stare.***Locale Something to be sung, not justfor the music of the streets butmusic on the streets: the fluteand balloon seller with his fourmelodic signatureson the wind. The roar of thewedding band even if by odd trickof historical fate it makethe public private. Anddeep in the dark the chowkidar'sshrill whistle and menacingmutating metronomic stick as ifto announce anotherday come too soon.***Vivek is the author of two books of poems, Universal Beach, and the forthcoming Mr Subramanian. He co-edits the journal Almost Island.

Robin Ngangom A History of Manipulation We manipulated many thingsBoth human and intangible.We began simply with daysWhen we turned the SabbathInto a day of liquor and lovemaking,We manipulated watchesWhich became limp on our wrists. Roads leading to trysts in wooded rainWere laid for us.We gave the slip to the moral policeAnd manipulated space The back of a car, a sofa, renovated itselfInto a fumbling den for adolescents.We darkened windowpanes, sometimesThrew dresses over mirrors. One day I excitedly chose the colourOf your intimate wearAs we began manipulating clothes.And buttons flew in air, zips became redundant. We influenced people even.Reduced to accessories who left us an empty room,Or warned us of imminent danger,They learnt new meanings of indulgence. We manipulated the impossibleBelieving that we were charmedAnd could say it with flowers or buy our way out.Until love's long armCaught up with us one rainless evening.***Cymru, June 2011 (for Nia Davies) I see the neat housesof fifteen years,clean shaven lawns, streetsstarved of human presence,postcards all in their neat array,and the light waiting quietly. But the heart, younger now,after watching you,I see Combrogi, gentle farms,stone-crafted fences.I think a nation of feeling,Yr Wyddfas head in its ancient nobility,Bae Ceredigion twinkling in blueand I think lonelinessupended by your flashing smile. And you say bleak farmhouseof your grandfather, and a shrill silence,you say Indian curry. But I saidI don't believe in kissing air. Do not let them shut downschools of the uncertain future,or slash the roots of your villages, andalways have themspeak to you in Cymraeg.***Robin is a bilingual poet who writes in English and Manipuri. His books of poetry include Words and the Silence (1988), Time's Crossroads (1994) and The Desire of Roots (2006).

alicia hello!i am writing you this letter from the place you were born.it is a country called korea.on a paper in a grey box in the stairwell closet of the first floorthese things are listed:a name you can't pronounce (it's yours)the color of your hair, eyes (black, brown)the day you were born (or just a guess)your siblings' ages a promise that you were givennot taken.given, not taken.hold this close on the nights where your knees tremble against the corner you were stood in.remember this, kneeling on the cold linoleum. a hunting rifle, the heavy in your head pulling you towards the floor.listenyour mother was a shaman, mu dang.it climbs in your skin like the pain through her bones, from the spirit she let in for so long.when she was a girl, waist wide, and hair braided to one side, her parents marched a tall brown man up a hill towards her. their's was a mountain covered with green, ocean on all sides.this is where you were threaded. the eyes caught and they pulled each other towards the main land, cold pacific air on the cheekbones.your father had fought in a war, he traveled like you do.without purpose but working. without money but smilingas if the joints that moved his arms were greased with air.thinned, he was a clatter of empty green glass by the door.they lost their first daughter then filled her in with girl, boy, girl.when you came along, you were a girl, but everything about you screamed second son.he held you on his back once, and you sunk your first teeth into his skin to say hello.when you were a loud voice in a tiny room, he was gone.the hospital, and then the groundclaimed like everything in this place by a man with a simple curetemporary, like the steaming broth of your sister's catyour mother once made to dull her pain.****regret.like i was a solidhe came towardsmy damp reflection.two marked bodies, we grew our skin togetherto see what could be savedslim books stacked along the wallbones on twist betweenanother meeting of trees.i am far away nowchewing up old wantsthe only thing i know how to dowith a vengeance.****In the Dreamin the dreamwe are two small girlsquick feet on a square of purple plush.on the other side of the doorknob, hands demand our necksand there is panicher red mouth pressing out a scream.i flutter behind plastic-hangered dresses bought on sale.we climb each other's kneesas if in a box shaped closetthere is somewhere to reach.every time, an escape appears a dark tube in the wallour small brown bodies thread the way outbellies scraping dimensiondolphin kicking to anywhere, nowtwo heavy hands rattle the porcelain doorknobhurry, they're comingi'm pressing my fingernails into my skini'm screaming into her shadow, into her tangled morning hairor into an empty white wall against my bedangry koreans cursing me quiet, from the other side.***alicia was born in busan, south korea in 1983. at the age of two, she was taken from her widowed mother and adopted by a mennonite farm family in Pennsylvania. she studied creative writing at San Francisco State University. recently, she moved to Seoul to teach english to children, and hold hands with her birth family.

Ravikant Kshetrimayum History of our rice A feeble aroma lingering on my tonguebecomes a poem: a poem about our rice.Hidden and hurting mewith memories: history of our rice,in my mouth. Born with misfortune,of not knowing our rice: my children;our rice is gone, likethe wind that teased them,when they ripened last. I, born in the hay daysof my father's father whoplanted myths inour rice fields, was blessedby growing upwith his story, of rice,my only bedtime story;of our neighbor with weak eyesight, whoserice fields too bordered ours: sowedseeds of Pouren Amubi in our fields, a caseof mistaken beds.Fearing humiliation, in the handsof his arrogant sons, hedisclosed to my grandpa, hisunintended blunder, in hushedconspiracy: pleading for help.A shrewd peacemaker, my old man's father,sowed seeds of Kakcheng Phouin his neighbor's fields. The rice fields, like dancers with golden earrings,swayed like drunken lovers,in December's shivering air. Andthe friends, grandpa and hisneighbor, only laughed: hoping fora good harvest.And then, they exchanged looks,when wrong aromas camefrom misplaced kitchens, andtheir children shookheads in disbelief. There were other neighbors too,less fortunate though, who plantedTaothabi Phou and Huikap Phou,lesser species of rice,which grew floating on theirever-drowned rice fields,roots exiled from soil.They too had stories, offriends, joy and fate:bitter-sweet memories ofsomeone like me, somewhere in a faraway village. But I still say: those were the days,days of our rice and their aromas,soaked in love and brotherhood:with smells of earth and smoky winefermented with stealthy kissesof ripening virgins who winked at starson half-moon nights.Our rice is gone, mutated,to feed the gods in the heavens.Maybe the days will soon come,of rice which bleedsfriends and neighbors,over words spoken in haste.Hearts too will becomedry grains crushed betweenrocks and hard grounds noplough can explore: conflicting lies.What shall I leave behind?For my grandchildren: a bedtime storyof poisoned love,of a vanishing tribewhose people no longer live on ricebut on bullets carved with namesof their unborn children. I won't be surprisedto find a frozen teardrop of my motherwith a grain of our ricehidden in it,beside a bullet with my name on it. Rife with hostility,roots dare not grow in drying mud andwe no longer see startled catfishand lazy earthworms when we walkthrough young rice fields.Perhaps, we should plant guns in our fields,and hopefully bullets will become rice, andwe'll die without bleeding: a nobler wayto end history,for we too will cease to exist, like our rice, andwe needn't knead Chengphu or knit Merukfor no stye will hurt our eyes any longer. Notes: Phouren Amubi: An aromatic indigenous rice variety from Manipur, which is now extinct.Kakcheng Phou: A small grain variety of Manipuri rice, which is also extinct.Taothabi Phou: A cheaper quality rice from Manipur. This specie grows floating on water.Huikap Phou: Floating rice specie like Touthabi. It is called Huikap ( Hui - dog, Kap - cry) because of its hardness when cold so even dogs cry while chewing it.Chenphu: Earthen pot used to store rice.Meruk: Small basket to measure rice. Meities cover their infected eyes with meruk and throw it back before crossing the threshold and enter the house never looking back: a superstitious remedy practiced to cure stye.***Sweet Little SohiongSweet little Sohiong!you should cut-loose from your Mei's arms,for you are now ripe for a man.Do you sleep, while I expire for you the whole night long?I've seen you sleeping before,in your Mei's lap,like a drop of blood clinging to a cut-vein,but you are now a heart, who should be awake,dancing to liquid melodies of love,the whole night long.After friends disperse, when jars are drained,and enemies return to anvils sharpeningtheir blunted swords, thirsty for my blood:with what arrow should I wound my foes,unless your red wine intoxicates my feeble heart?We all must bury our bones, yours and mine on different nights,for an old song separates us between now and never. Ocean's hands touch your dunes clumsily,my shabby indiscretion for which they exile me,was only the sound of a Latin poem,which mocks your Mei's cruel humor.My mirror looks back with a face I dislike,impelling me to bloody brawls over fairy tales, until I scatter three handfuls of earth and hurry away.Sweet little Sohiong!!I'm telling you one more time,you are now ripe for a man, fall and bleed sweetly,before your Mei's leaves become venomous.***Ibohal is a Manipuri poet who writes in English and has lived most o his life in Shillong, Meghalaya. His writing is inspired by both places,their peoples and histories.

vineet Clandestine I see her burning brighteach dayduring daytimeshe thinks she is a candleperpetual sourceof hope and light all things movingare exposedto the dangersrelated to motion she burns each daybutmust I remind hershewill be destroyed? some nights,the switchboard tripssteals the lightshe gropes blindlyin the most silent shade of blackthe grip of my hand for comfort.****Lament(i)I remember those summerafternoons that smeared youinto amaltass like mosssunrays speared throughits branches like assegaiskies blue that knewhow to ride the paddy birds backclouds sprinkled sparselike salt in amma's dietgrass that introduced youto your greenest shade of sightcups that whistled vapoursat their own organic delightfields that chimed echoesto the hollers of vernacular songsdirt roads that snaked intothe horizon of oblivion My temperance is often baitedwith dreams of those summerswhen a morning stood valianton the gutted corpse of nightwhere I conquered mango treesat the cost of scraped thighswhere the dew kissed my cheeklike I was its only childwhere brothers met brotherswith love yearning in eyeswhere the family treethronged, deep rooted to their soil (ii) I feel the air thickeneach time the ceiling sighseven the scrivenersare dishonest to their devicehere where I liewhere the evenings risewith the stench ofthe gutted corpse of sunriseat the underbelly of this metroa bottomless pitingesting my shadowdigesting my mind****Vineet's work has been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Nether Magazine, Loch Raven Review, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Fleeting Magazine and others. His work will be featured in The Anthology of Contemporary Indian Poets (March 2012) and The Marplots: Renegade Experimental Poetry (August 2012).

manasi Clean-UpShall we talk of spaces?If I leave, will you notice That there is more space in this world?I want your memory of meTo fill you up and empty you.When you cry, I want you to wonderIf the tears are mine or yours(They will be mine).I want you to keep every trace I left behind The coughed-up phlegm, the clipped toenail ends, The peeled gas stove skin.I want to be couched in your love-songsLike tacky metaphors.I want you to stare out of train windowsAgonising over women who look like me,Mapping the shape of my mouth on the fogged glass,Mourning the moles and crevices on my body,Missing them more than you miss me.Sometimes, I worry That if my chest were to split openAnd blood to squirt out of my marrow,You would simply wash the cushionsWith your dirty laundry.I want to be more than a stubborn stainThat your drycleaner will soak in alcohol.When my eyeballs are crystallised for the blind,I fear that you will not recognise themIn the sockets of the men you meet.You will make a stranger out of me yet.Will you pick out pieces of my flesh from a wreckageWithout gloves on your handsAnd not santise your hands afterward?Will you taste my ashes after I am crematedAnd remember the caffeine-and-rum taste of my tongue?Will you catalogue the endless shapesThat the tea-leaves form in my teacup,Divining my future? No. I think you will open the dishwasher.Forget cigarette stubs and tea leavesAnd tempests in teapots. Will you evaporate my sweat from the sofa?Will you rinse away my spit from the sink?Will you vacuum my fallen hairs from the carpet?Will you deodorise my scent from our bed?What will you do?Will you sluice me out of your lifeWith your dishwashers and vacuum cleanersAnd into the drainage system where dirty things go?Or will you keep my pictureOn the refrigerator?****ScarfaceWatch the geometry of my anger:This blank white canvas,That chord that breaks into unseen tributaries,These diagonals that stave off without edges.There are no circles, squares and hexagons, There are no closed figures.Mathematically speaking, I am open, mutable,I have a beginning and an end.Topographically speaking, I am formless,An unpaid custodian of an unknown legacy. My face is a library of scars that seethe with stories,Windy, sharp breathThat feels like thunderclaps of metal and memory.This metal is fresh and cold and hard,Devoid of rust, untouched by fire.I want these stories to cloud over your joys.Never be happy.Never smile.Never dance in the rain.Never feel joy without witnessing the oasis of my sorrows.Let my tragedies annul your desires.Be kidnapped by hate, seduced by revenge.Don't have children.Don't bring them into this world.Instead, produce an anger like mineAnd incubate it for years.Never rip its umbilical cord.Let it glide across your anatomyAnd poison your dreams.These words are not poems, They are daggers in the shapes of commas and full-stops.Don't call me victim. I hate that word.Don't pity me until you have suffered like me.I'd rather languish in impermanenceThan be remembered for this.There are a thousand waysIn which I can be free,But I have mixed ketchup with freedom(And when I say ketchup, I mean blood)And the sauce of that mixGives me more solace than forgiveness.I am not so broken that I cannot be fixed,I can be sold in a second-hand shopAt half price.But I'd rather dance on skullsAnd find a scale of measurement for pain.I too long to be anchored in sweetnessAnd encircled by that thing that you call love.But I am not one for circles(And I hate squares).How do I forgetThe stories of my scars?****Manasi is a writer and publisher based in Chennai, India. The poem Clean-Up won second place in the Poetry with Prakriti foundation competition in 2011.

sindhu Waiting WordsWhenever i've been told to be quiet,left feeling like i had spoken out of turn,heavy in the neck with humiliation,I have thought of this moment -where I am able to saythat there isa motionless world of unspoken wordscollected in the pit of my body.Even I don't wish to speak thembut they lie there -formed and ready and ever waiting.***Conditions May ApplyRight then!You can take off your mother tongueand place it on this white table.Don't worry,it's sterile.We've got a brand new English Tongue for you.Try this on for size -It's designed to lodge itself in your mouthand make you feeltwo inches taller within a few hours of use.If you ever have any questions about what It's sayingjust refer to our troubleshooting directoryor call this toll-free number:1800-TONGUE-IN-CHEEKAll mother tongues are well preservedin our State of Art storage facilitiesand shall be only used for testing if the previous owner so permits.(For which they will be paid a reward).If at any time you wish to revert to your mother tongue,you may visit usand we will be happy to help youRelocate.****Sindhu lives in Bangalore, India, and studies at Srishti School of Art, Design and Technology. She loves to listen, read, write, take pictures, make videos, walk, swim, observe hands, gestures and signs.

gary The Song of Squalor Now in the silence of eventidethere is a plaintive chantof many mourners callingfor resurrection of the senses.Hear voices of sorrowraised to gods of yesteryear,crying, lamentingfor the solitary deathof former hopes.Out of the failing heart of manwith alms of consolationcomes quietlythe spirit of love,to prevail evermore.Sing. Sing. In many tonguesof a thousand ended dreamsforgotten, then rememberedin the chastity of peace.***Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has published many chapbooks and his poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

sharanya That AugustThat August the backyard lay soaked inthe scent of smoke and wet earth;Rain that annoying neighbour drummed against the tin roofand gushed unwelcome through each broken pipe;the house wept -a dog howled -underneath her bare feet, flowers bloomed -but all she could think of was that hungry fire in the backyard,devouring those tragic leaves, dry, disowned - Their crackling haunted her.***Sharanya is an undergraduate student at IIT Madras and was a featured poet at the Muse India Hyderabad Literary Festival. Her debut collection of poems The Tramp Speaks was published in 2010 and is available on thewinkstore and Amazon Kindle.

krishna
maryam
vivek
Robin Ngangom
alicia
Ravikant Kshetrimayum
vineet
manasi
sindhu
gary
sharanya

dennis cooper

prose

naresh agarwal

photo essay City Eyes(2008-2010)Following the urban living, this essay observes the city with a documentary eye blended with a bit of fiction. It offers encounters with unexpected places, juxtaposed in sets of opposing concepts such as the central and the peripheral, the private and the public, the visible and the invisible and the real and imaginary. As a result, the photographs suggests new ways to look at the city as well as to reflect on its past and future.Sameer Tawde was born and raised in Mumbai, where he now lives and works. He received a degree in architecture and later pursued post graduate study in communication design program at the National Institute of Design (NID).Since then he has been working as a freelance art and documentary photographer.

sketches No Frame

i lost my wedding ring behind harrod's by Sarnath Banerjee for Words: A User's Manual at Exhibit320 Gallery . Sarnath is a widely recognised graphic novelist who recently published "The Harappa Files." Now based in Berlin, he continues to create scenes that utilize stories and the drawn image.

pyrta:to call outngi pyrta ban iohsngew/pir:taaverb- origin khasiFacebooksite design bluewhisky_gmail.comFall Issue September 2011Spring Issue March 2011Winter Issue Dec 2010Fall Issue October 2010Monsoon Issue July 2010Sample IssueArchiveAboutSubmissionsComments