Fall Issue #2

october 2010

read as e-journal

Poetry

shayla hawkins Carambola softas airon my skinsome incorporeal handreachesthrough the nightlifts openmy sleeping eyesguides themto the warmthof your fingerssplayedacross my waistlike a fansome gentleunconscious claimof possessionthat circuitsyour mindevenas you slumberyour handa sweet carambolaon my bodya ruggedfive-point starthat tethers usto each otherglides usacrossthe witching hoursto morning'sbright and open doorMy Beloved's Voice a haikuMasculine musicA lion in the liliesThe sun wrapped in clouds Shayla Hawkins lives in Michigan and won The Caribbean Writers 2008 Canute A. Brodhurst Prize in Short Fiction and the 2010 John Edgar Wideman Microstory Contest.

michael lee rattigan Pictures as DramaTo think this untitled picture from 1956,opens its fiery portal to a time12 years earlier: my toddling mum,coaxed away with chocolatefrom a cinema screen by American soldiersstationed in northern India (Allahabad, I believe);a full 66 years before her telling us all about itin the company of my almost 2-year-old niece. TextYukari's favourite Japanese expression:treasure every encounter, for it will neverrecur. Too fatal in the caseof a lovely one. Too true. Nature NoteCrow's gone out on a limb-so far out and so high up, the world's unbranched. Michael was born in Croydon, England. He has lived and taught in Cancun, Mexico and Palma de Mallorca. Through Rufus Books he has published Nature Notes and a complete translation of Fernando Pessoa's Caeiro poems.

amanda tongper RootsOnly your absence splits my life into halves,I will never be complete.I am the steam that twirls from your riceThe dirt that taints your jainkyrshah The hum that tucks closest to your heart.While you grow old by the hearth, I appear and disappearA city humbugBleached like the jackfruit seeds that lie naked at your roof-top.I can never fill the crevices of my lifeI can only selfishly return to you again and againTo have my fill of roots.StoriesIMouth like papyrus with burnt edges scrolls ripe stories that were plucked from earth.With time, they have resigned into the neat foldersOf your wrinkles.You never unfold them entirely,almost afraid that we wouldnt understandor believe.But you teased neverthelesswith cocktail stories of lightning and cows,of trees and legendary ghosts on top of them, of rivers and legendary ghosts beside themof wars and wed-locks, of forests that open like poolsof metaphors and imagery in whose collectionsYou bury your busy lives.IIYou dont say muchYou only move from kitchen to bedFrom one imagined disease to another.You only complain about how old you are.And if I tell you that the pigment on your skinAre only punctuations in the grand epic of your lifeYou will ask me to take a dip in satans pool.I have learnt to be happy leavingWith only an autograph of a kiss on the cheek.I have nothing to complain.I stayed a day in the shadow of the finest characterThat springs from the story book of earth.What RemainsLast evening I wanted to staple your nameTo the first scent of winterAnd arrange clips of memories like blameless starsIn the sky.But tonight I want thick mist to wrap open woundsIn its satiny hands And wait a while ,For tonight I need to stare at emptinessAnd see how long it stares back.I have faced what is gone Like a sinner who visits his sinsBut tonight what remains staresBack at meAnd what remains is love.And I still want to staple your name to the first scent of winterBut breathing is a must.So I turn off the lightsAnd let my proud arrows kill the night.Amanda is from Shillong. She is currently studying in Hyderabad Central University.

sergio a. ortiz Only the Rumor I, who have never seen sanity,or a caravan of Siberian huskies strollwith their pack through soft white snow,have no appreciation for winter's twilight-silence,or the ruckus of grizzlies ravagingmy provisions. I ask: Is there anyonewilling to put their hand in place of mineon the chopping block, or their signatureon paper to demand investigationsinto all that has been stolenon my passage through this life? I have not seen tendernessnor do I feel excitement upon observingthe child fed from the safety of its mother's hands.Only the rumors of the existence of distant citieswhere harsh winters outlast serene summersaccelerate the rhythm of my blood. That chill is mine. I, who have never seen reason, have playedwith water and snow. I've wrapped them aroundmy legs, given them form with my hands like a lover. I, who am fed-up with listening to wolvesand sleeping under willows, no longer I tremblewhen they throw down my door to take mewhere neither water or snow exist. Do you understand? It is nothing morethan a short visit to the crying roomof a psychiatric hospital, a showto impress the animalthat sleeps beneaththe sheets.HaraamYou'd draw the necessary patienceto stay, watch, and conquerthe tin man; a personal allusion of the vexed macho in drag.Your body oozes contemplatingthe giving of pleasure. You knowhow to bend, break, and subdue. At the end of the night you areon top of the most manly queenin the show. Your only faultis that incessant need to talk.Sadly, your audience isless than four. So, when you inventedthat bit about a cowardly lion you wereone witness short and I got to givethe hundred lashes and hang the sign: Fairy Tale GigoloSergio is a retired educator, poet, and photographer from Puerto Rico. He's published three poetry chapbooks and has publications in Carcinogenic Poetry, Perceptions Magazine of the Arts 2010, BorderSenses, Offcourse Literary Journal, and Cavalier Literary Couture.

daniel bowman Walking Through the Dream of a StrangerNow I dream that I'm the stranger in someone else's dreamThat I'm walking through the dream of a strangerand the stranger's dream turns out like dreams I had when I was youngwhere I meet a girl on a hillside and she loves meand takes my hand and smiles and I smile toobecause I love her and because the stranger's dream smells likewet birch bark and crabapples trampled in early SeptemberPoem for the UndeadMohawk comeslike blackbirds in February,weaves itselfinto itselflike a twisted weeping willow,its face delicate,curled as ivy,Mohawk comes likesome small creature hitand left for dead,gray eyes fixed,Mohawk eats the hillslike a river,smokes like your kinin the diner in the gorge,hunched over ham and potatoes,hidden like shadows in winter,Mohawk comes.Behind the Steelman's Piece CountWe wandered the valleysarmed solitudebehind the steelman's piece count,behind skull and iceand a rusty swing set,the Tuesday pot roast,an ambush of sacrifice.With promise of springthe nights roseover bluffs on back roadsand we took the laugher's oath,draped by maple leaveswhile the skyturned to winterand the rainto a snow that muffled new footsteps.Daniel lives in upstate New York where he teaches at Houghton College. His work has appeared in The Adirondack Review, American Poetry Journal, The Bitter Oleander, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Midwest Quarterly, Redactions: Poetry & Poetics, Rio Grande Review and others.

lillian oben Roadkillin the end, it lay in the detailsmissed.when someone tells you who they arebelieve them.advice unheeded;ten miles in, you have forgotten the words,they are ants in your rear-view mirrorand you wonder if they were full-sizedstatues once,perhaps the moment before you saw them, yetchose instead to drive on, mow themdown.months later you remember likeit was yesterday, hear it like it wasyelled over a microphone, notwhispered into your ear like a love song:I am afraid I will hurt you.That was your cue to run, get away.Too late, you realize that you were the one, the statue in the road.Miles down peering into therear-view mirror, you see yourselfthat road kill, small as an antfast fading into the distance.The Voyagerthe first time my heart brokei jumped back, scared.what was this blood? what was this knife?who was this person standing, bleeding?then,tis i.'tis me.i am this human, bleeding thing.what a wonder. what a truth;to discover one's self not immune, butfeeling - a living, feeling, bleeding thing -what a wonder. what a truth.i scooped up the pieces and took them home to mend.this piece i laid in water, this piece i placed in soil.soon a flower grew; it looked like me -what a wonder, what a joyto see myself reflected whole. the second time, i nodded knowingly.do not be feared, do not jump back.i know this knife. i know this sword.i looked below, i know this blood. Still, there were shards:tidy big pieces, messy small pieces.i tried not to, yet stepped on them.this is my pain, this is my heart. i collected again, toiling into the night.this piece i laid in warmth, this piece i placed in light. soon a sun ray grew. what a wonder, what a joyto see myself reflected, light;blinding, healing, warming, kind. i cast my boat out to share its good.i rowed hard, through rough sails, smooth sail,clear skies blue. the seas were good,i sailed for long. the third time, my boatcapsized.i did not see the rocks, but i felt the cleft.(there was no blood, so how could i know?)i wretched and wretched and clutched my sides.what is this pain? what is this knife? tis i. tis me. i am this human, wretching thing.what a wonder, what a truth.to time and again discover oneself not immune,but feeling - a wretching, bleeding, feeling thing.what a wonder. what a truth. Lilian is a West-African-born writer. Her short story, "The Other Side" was featured in the all-women anthology, His Rib: Stories, Essays and Poems by Her (May 2007) by Penmanship Books. She is currently working on a collection of short fiction.

aseem kaul Before the Attack(Mumbai, 26th November, 2008)people died as usual of cancer, drugs, old age pages turned quietlyin Death's waiting room.***I thought they were fireworks at firstthen realized they were gunshots.Like one who turns at a familiar voiceto find a beautiful stranger.***Believing in no GodI could not pray with youbut mouthed these words to myselfhoping they would answer.***All across the cityan outbreak of news our breaths heldhostage.Tragedy perchesin our living roomsits too heavy wingsunfolding.Half MeasuresHappiness leaks.It's not thatI'm never lonelyit's that peaceis a difficult balanceand my lonelinesshas the weight of pop songs.Do I careto disturb the universe?I tear the heart out of a peachput the other halfbackin the fridge.Aseem lives in Minneapolis, where he is Assistant Professor at the University of Minnesota. His works have appeared in Mascara, Blood Orange Review, The Cortland Review, RHINO and nthposition, among others, and a collection of his short fiction, études, was published in 2009.

jonaki ray Them and UsYou know, were the same people. Its so hard to understand that they could do this to us ~ The Sunday Times of IndiaShe was eight and being yelled atNo more trips to the servants quarters.She swallowed tears and the fact--there is a line between them and us.She went places. Delhi. New York. Chicago.Now, they were the goras, the AmrusWho asked at cafés for-here-or-to-goAnd what are you all--Hindoos?So, she clung to our kind.Happy to wed a desi typeAt least he is not white. Nor a Christian mind.That was the aunties reception byte.Back home, they were the mullahs.The Biharis. The Madrasis. The Bhaiyyas.Who got beaten. By their superiors.It was right. It was them. Why the fuss?The city blazed. Poolside drinks turned toxic.Holed up, goodbyes mixed with promises. Jesus! With Allahs!The rescuers though were stoic.No who are yous? No who we ares.She was twenty-eight and being yelled atWhy were you out? Do you realize that they could have done to us?She swallowed tears and screamed the fact--there was no line. No them. No us.Holding OnThe thing I remember most isyour toothless gums drooling over my arms.I gripped you so carefully, your back pressedagainst my eight year-old belly cladin lavender sprigged with white lace.The air smelled of Johnsons Baby Oil, shiuli flowers,the Durga Puja pandal's smokeand Lakme powder baby pink shade as askew on myhazelnut face as my already unraveling pigtails.We had been roused since six, poised against palmtrees. Your eyes drooped likethe neighboring Calla lilies.The back of my knees mutated into cupfuls of sweatas I pressed them hard on the yellow-and blackleather cushioned footstool.Jonaki is a business development manager with Pearson Education. Her work has appeared in The Times of India, Down to Earth, and Sulekha.com.

ibohal kshetrimayum My Wife is Away to the MountainsMy wife is away to the mountains visiting her folks.She left the windows guarded with curtains made of her jainsem.Last night the moon peeped in through the protective embroidery,but failed to seduce me as I was secured, in the possessive perfumeof my love exuding from the willful drapes.There are times between midnight and dawn, I dream of an open harbor,swallowing waves of salty ships into her inflamed mouth.But in the morning, when the north wind flutters my wife's curtains,I pity the drowned pirates in their defeats on that adulterous night of stormy lusts.Then I realize they needed a dedicated poet to calm the storms,who can sprinkle the sacrificial blood of his circumcised words,on the cruel crevices of the wild seas.Neighbors visit with ritualistic inquiry about my solitude and well-being,but their keep-watch concerns reveal through cleverly concealed blushes,reminding me of the wiles of threatened wives in tales told on the moors.Before dark clouds solicit the sleeping owl,before an aged crow curses me with yellow teeth,I ought to rush up the mountains to bring her back home, before timeshuts away all the days of my life in superseded calendars.My wife is away to the mountains visiting her folks.In the Hills of Seven HutsIn the hills of seven huts,where War is either a place or surname,and dreams are translated into numbers,and a number became a gambler's sad song,I found God breathing through the pine trees.Orchards in the hills shivered in winter's palms,golden oranges plucked for city bazaars,a young leaf wanted to go along,discontented orange tree held it back.A fleeting rainbow across Noh-Kali-Kai,a glimpse of her precious final steps,before she became a waterfall.Twangs of hammer on hot iron,a dagger hissed in a bucket of water,Mylliem's blacksmiths keep their tradition throbbing.Mylliem's giant boulders,memoirs of the great earthquake,we were cast out recklessly-says a mossy stone.Sunday morning in the church,a pair of long legs walked past a pew,a clergyman sighed in agony.Christmas in Shillong,roast turkey on the table,rush of stampeding shoppers,merchants carol their way to the bank.A dog swallowing the moon,beating of empty tins, chasing the dog away,I became a lunar-eclipse drummer in Shillongs hills.I went down on my knees,and asked God for my Biblical rib,and I found her snoring gently beside me,in the hills of seven huts.GardenerHe knew the story of every flower.He sniffed the earth and spoke to the worms.When dew-drops woke up the buds,he greeted them with rustic songs.Morning sun warmed his garden,with tender rays filtered through pine leaves.He treasured the dust left on his lips,by a butterfly lost in his garden.He loved his orchids and called them:his grafted family. His dog howled whole night long,when a midnight-storm uprooted his plants,and he wept in his dreams.He now lives with his book of poems:gardening dry flowers between the pages.This poem is for Robin S. Ngangon who was once a gardener.Ibohal was born at Imphal, Manipur in 1954. He is a civil engineer by qualification and works as project engineer with State Sports Council Meghalaya, Shillong. Happily married to Susan, he lives in Shillong with his son Victor and daughter Marilyne.

elizabeth myhr grocery outletthe waffles in the freezer sectionof the cut rate grocery storeare the same gold color as the weddingring I used to wear one of two ringsone said your name the othersaid poetry I wear the blank space nowand my expensive purse burns thecheckout counter and I make an effort to be the same but I amnot the same because thing arenot the same not between me and you so muchthat stays the same but betweenthe woman in front of me and themen at the door and the man behind me in linethe man who is always behind youin the line we are finally calling Americawhen the bomb concussion hit the buildingand two as yet unknown white men drove awaycounting on the blame to fall onsomething other than a white manyou see this is why I hate imperialismbecause I wind up standingin this grocery line thinking abouthow your privilege keeps informingtoo many histories that dont belong to itit rained and was hot andrained every day for aweek andwhen I drove over to the capitolto file legal documentsthe place was obscenely gilded and marbledfrom oil money and the guys inthe car probably hated it as much asI did the smell of the leftover flesh wasawful in that weather but beforethose white guys showed upand started the terrorist daisy chainbelieve me it wasnt the heartland it was the mostrabidly mean spirited city Id everlived in and the republicans were juststarting to raise their coppery eyesand look aroundmy groceries come to fourteen dollarsand sixteen cents and I realize thiswas not the right place to buy flowersbut I dont want to line your pocketsfor another second so Ill take the heatand be momentarily despised and justlyso for this rotten momentif only I could sell the ring with yourname on it but nobody can afford to buy it anymoredyckithe polish poet has one sad eyeand one eye that could kill youif it needed to survivebut both eyesprobably only want to lie downin the fragrant lap of the worldbetween the thighs of a womanbetween the petals of a violetalong a bough of a northernarboreal giant eating the midsummerand drenching the air with lemonyet I seekyet I seek the golden applesand the atlas of you anteusin your rocky clay womband I wrestle you andlose and winas the north windbreaks against the bluesound and moans in the riggingfor the sun the platter of the sunwhich other places shrugslike a bored mistressinto a great room on a Sundaylong haired and carelessreaching for fruit of the tropicsand swatting at a greek black flywith her reliably savage newsElizabeth is a poet and editor. She is Managing Editor of Civil Survival, LLC and Marick Press, si co-editor of Web Del Sol Review of Books, and a founding member of Calypso Editions. She lives in Seattle with her family.

joshua rynjah Untitled 1translated into khasi by Kynpham Sing NongkynrihSun burnt years of skin,Buried then shall it cool,Worms wriggling hot claim the dead,By three fistsful of earth awakened to be fed. *********sniehdoh ba la thang sngi da ki snem,ynda la tep te kan sa pjah,wieh ba ksaid ha jingkhluit ki kam iu ba la ïap,da lai kham khyndew la kyrsiew.Untitled 2translated into khasi by Kynpham Sing NongkynrihIn the night of the city's lake,On the pale bridge like a cave's ghost,Stood her alone and unflinching,In the night of the city's lake. And in the middle stood I as herTo taste the final cleansing waterCold dead water to bring life to a dead lifeAnd we both stood sharing sight to sightAnd I was first to turn my back and hear the splashCelebrated crash of the moon's torn mirrorAll because I had nothing to offer. ********Ynda la miet ha Nan Polok,Hapdeng ka jingkieng byrngut ba kum u snaïap kremKa ïeng marwei khlem jingsaliaYnda la miet ha Nan Polok.Bad nga hangta kum ka nga ïeng,Ban mad khatduh ka um sait khuidKa um bapjah, baïap, ban pynim biang ia jingim bla ïap.Bad ngi ia ïeng peit seh iwei ia iwei.Bad dei ma nga ba phai lyndet shuwa, ban sngew ia jingpashait,Jingsawa jam ka ïit u bnai bla pait,Baroh ka leit long ba ngam don ei ei ban tyrwa.Untitled 3Childless she diedshe wanted it soalone and unafraidto that screaming lakewhose waters lapped at her feetChildless she diedshe wanted it sowhen they buried heron that sunny sunday sunsetthe children came out laughingshouting and screamingrunning for kitesall over her grave.Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih is a celebrated and widely published Shillong poet who writes both in Khasi and English.Joshua is a lecturer in the Department of English, at St. Mary's College, Shillong.

howard good What the Sea is Saying The broken wave repairs itself.Life is contagious.The drowned at the doorlook touchingly youngin their sideways baseball caps.You can only dive so deepbefore the places you lovebegin to forget you.There'sa scar where the shore should be.Everything Reminds Me of Me oil fires,arranged marriages,the phone callstranscribedby the secret police,Scott in the Gardenof Allah Hotelmailing a postcardto himself,the daub of redat the tipof a seagull's beak,my dead motheron the cornerwaving goodbye,goodbye, goodbye,her face splotchedwhere the first few raindropshave touched it.BirdsongBarbara,we are love'sbeautifulanarchy,birds nestingin the holesmade by grenades.Howard is the author a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, as well as 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks, including most recently, Hello, Darkness, available from Deadly Chaps.

heather cox One sister would wake the dawnShe would wait while the night was extinguishedShe would wait for every ounce of darknessto soften, for its weight to lessenShe would inhaledeeplystealing the smell of night from the airAnd then she would whisper into the horizonrousing the sun with old words, brittle wordswords that existed in the space betweensilence and soundShe would use her tongue as a ropeand pull the sun from the unseen spacebelow the line of the landShe would wake the dawnfrom its sleeping spelluntil orange warmth covered herand lulled her to slumber.One sister would keep the dayShe would walk on rooftops watchingthe sun steal dew from petals and grass bladesShe would stare into the orange orbuntil her eyes were mirrorsShe would radiateShe would hiss and sizzleshooting heat out of her fingertipsShe would harness the heat of the worldhold it in her palmturning it into the tiniest flameShe would keep the day alivekeeping night at bayuntil the fire in her eyesno longer burned.One sister would watch the nightShe would waitwhile the day's flame was extinguishingShe would waitfor all of the reds and purplespainted during sunsetto dissipateShe would exhalebreathing warm breatheto thaw the starsuntil they burned white hotAnd then she would stareinto the space between starsmapping out her heritage in constellationsShe would use her words as weaponskeeping stronger things at bayShe would weave a web of nebulawith the flick of her tongueShe would watch the nighttracing circles around stars.Heather is a Texas-born, Arkansas-raised writer currently living in Chicago. In 2009, she was the recipient of The Margot Trietel Award for Excellence in Creative Writing. Her poems can be found in Ceremony, Dark Sky Magazine, and Psychic Meatloaf.

cm mclamb ghetto yard saleA little black girl with cornrows and pig tails rolls upat Jefferson Village.Three hoods ask forwater and games whileshe browses through volumesof Shange / Morrison /Giovanni / Hurston /Walker / Angelou. She'sdogged by the hoods, who rollout. And she follows, nowreferencing my toys whensuggesting "You should hookMe up wid dis fo' free."traveling Confederate flag t-shirtswith matching bandannasaccompany the Klan hoodsthat parade around aSouth Carolina parking lotwhile I wait to be the onlyblack man in the Mad Boar Pub. Fuck all you faggots!stains a bathroom stallin North Carolina whereI piss through my fear ofthe accompanying sketch of alynched and castratedhomosexual man. And Virginia billboardsdepict smiling Negroeswinning their freedomthrough a $34.95 phone planwhile I sit in the back seatof a blue 87 Chevypraying to reachthe other side ofThe Mason Dixon. accessionDuring my grandfather's funeralI sat in a chair with no armsin an aisle of the Church that onceheld me as its beloved child,then free to frolic and rejoice,now numb and unable to sing,surrounded by hemiolic sobsresonantly refractingfrom person to person -each held by someone -though I was held byeveryone's eyes alone. cm is a performing and literary artist residing in NYC. His most recent publication was in A&U Magazine.

william doreski That Tragic PostureIn Wilton the spring light feels hardas the steel rails on which a train,six loaded gravel cars and onedusty locomotive, is passing.Strolling down Main Street,the old storefronts all arrayedon the wrong, the shady side,I imagine I'm Will Shakespearedown from Stratford to London,my worn old hag of a wifeand squalling but beloved bratleft behind to soak up the cashI'll shake from the money-treesof the capital. I'm so inspiredby the chronicles of my newlyminted nation I could scrawla dozen narratives peopledwith ladies in silk and ermine.I could hack a thousand sonnetsand sow them like dragon's teeth,engendering a braver raceof lovers, each with a daggerto seal the blood-pact properfor doomed couples to indulge.I could wright a hundred playsfestering with uneasy kingsand transvestite lovers mooningover bloodstained heroinesdreamy with unfulfilled sex.But what a foolish conceit to feelon a windy bright New Englandmill town afternoon, as ifI still felt young enough to sufferand assume that tragic posturethat rarely bothers with a buskinanymore but flops all nakedin the glare, hoping someone sees it.The Shirt of NessusSomeone mistook my old pink shirt,Brooks Brothers Oxford cloth modelfrom the Seventies, for the shirtof Nessus, a smear of poisoned blood.I realize that in summer duskI might resemble a centaur,though lacking the quadruped drive,that sure-footed attitudepopular with women too foolishto see the beast within the beast.No, this is just any old pink shirt,a rag I wear around the houseto remind me of warm afternoonsbehind the Andover museum,America's precious heirs swarminglike salmon, my good blue blazerhung on a tree as I read aloudfrom Antony and Cleopatra,my students too civil to snicker.Everyone seemed so tidy then:blue, pink, or yellow cotton shirts,rep ties almost properly tied.And now I look like a centaur,hoary old monster running downgiggling nymphs a tenth my age.No, this rumpled old shirt's no threatto Hercules, its washed-out pinksad as a Jersey sunset, halfits buttons gone, and the holewhere I received my arrow woundtoo lost in the wrinkles to show.About MeteorsIn the Springfield museum I toucheda meteorite, a tough cold lumpdropped from the vacuum beyond.It teased me with alien sensationsso I scoured the planet for weeksafterward, searching for a scrapof distant worlds, but found nothingbut cinders and pebbles of quartz.I hung around the museumso long I became an exhibit,hired for pocket change to handlethe python for kindergarten kidswho screamed when it wrapped itselfcomfortably around my neck.Later, in the planetarium,promoted from snake-handler,I lectured on constellationsand sketched with the light-pen a fewstreaks of meteor to show wheremy honest allegiance lay.Eventually I left science,or science abandoned me, but nightslike these I often stareat the same clear starlit areafor an hour or more till a flashof meteor assures methe universe is still decayingand celebrating itselfin festoons of gala white.William's work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently Waiting for the Angel (Pygmy Forest Press, 2009).

ananya guha TreeNow I am alonealone as the treedrooping, leaves falling,touchingthe ground, as leaves do;planted for timeless yearsas worms crawl, eat into gravesteeth gnashing, eyes dancingnear the window of an ancient househouse, that wills slow deathnails a coffin, wind-likecaresses the sun, buoyant hillsmoon and speckled starsresonating in darkness and light The tree stands bewilderedrefuses to mingle with the ambienceeven when stormy skiesthreaten to shake rampartsin the maelstromViews landscapewith its gnarled, spreading branchesmelting into fistful of sprinkling tears We are alone the two of usWaiting patiently for the hawk.Love StoryI haven't yet thoughtof the curtailed riverbearing fangs, with snappingteeth, guffawing deliriouslywith its possession of beastly humans I haven't yet thought of the tornadocresting on its fulcrum, tearing thingsanimals and men, to gory death I haven't yet thought of the ghoulish monsterintruding halcyon dreams to create a death knell I haven't yet thought of the manwith leprous feetrefusing my indolent stare of pity Yet what I think of is youwith your marigold run-timehair, caressing the undulating slopesof these ancient hills into a one time Love story.Ananya lives in Shillong and works in the Indira Gandhi National Open University. His poems have been published in The Telegraph, Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Poeisis, Poetry Chronicle, New Quest, The New Welsh Review and Other Voices among others.

nandita jaishankar Broken The day beginsbroken,like clean white lines of bonepiercing through the cloth of skin. Harried clouds mergewith sweet rain slowly moving,each splinter of waterreverberating off the leaves,spattering demons of the night spentpushing dreams through unopened windows,seeping through bed sheets whippedto a frenzy of froth. As if from a lakeI surface for air,mirrors and ripples embracing methrough layers of sleep.I greet the chilly dawn,newly-born each morning,cracking through the fragile eggshell air.An Ode to Georgia O'Keefe Red,the colour of anger, or a poppyframed in black,its size encompassing a stark white wall.It is a chrysalis growing,an enigma, an explosion,like a stain of bloodwith a dark core. It is hypnotic,its rough-edged swirlsthe perfect mantelpiecedrawing you closewith its magnetic pull,a vision to behold for hours on end,the light falling just so;the last thing you seebefore sleep falls harshly, deeply,in paralyzing crimson petals.Nandita lives in New Delhi where she works as an editor. Her first book of poems, The Memory Bird, was self published in 2009. She has also contributed to an anthology of poems, Writing Love (Rupa & Co).

brittany turski

If She Had Lived I Would

call her by her first name, instead of mom,

remember her mullet hair cut as a child

forget what day in September is her birthday,

buy my aunts less presents on the holidays,

laugh at my brothers request to buy him beer,

be embarrassed for inheriting her loud laugh,

feel guilty for sleeping in on Sundays past noon service,

change my favorite color from blue to yellow,

change my last name after marriage,

never notice the beauty of a graveyard covered in fresh snow.

Brittany is a Midwest writer who thinks of her best work in a sublime consciousness before falling asleep. Her main focus is long fiction, but likes to come up for air by composing bits of poetry.

shayla hawkins

michael lee rattigan

amanda tongper

sergio a. ortiz

daniel bowman

lillian oben

aseem kaul

jonaki ray

ibohal kshetrimayum

shayla hawkins

michael lee rattigan

amanda tongper

sergio a. ortiz

daniel bowman

lillian oben

aseem kaul

jonaki ray

ibohal kshetrimayum

Prose

Photo Essay

Sketches

Local

On the Streets of Rome

A true story (seriously). A man is walking his three dogs down the road, one is a Scotty (terrier-like, black with tufts of hair sticking out of his forehead), one is a Labrador, and the third is one that looks like the end of a mop, as if you could attach a broomstick on top of the dog (like those annoying, apparently fashionable, Lhasa apsos). The happy group reaches a traffic light and is about to cross. The man becomes engrossed in something - he's lighting his pipe. The mop-dog escapes from his leash and darts across the street. Then he scoots back, taunts the man from a few feet away and starts bolting all over the road. Dog-owner is still struggling with his pipe; now he's slightly upset with the dog, because he just wants to light his pipe and doesn't particularly care if he loses the dog (most mop-dogs and chihuahuas are handbag adornments for ladies anyway, he doesn't have much use or affection for this one, I guess). On the road, there's another guy in a small car, one of those really small cars which look like oversized toys (from which, in the movies, it's inevitably a giant who steps out). The Driver (who's alone in the car) is animatedly talking into his phone. He sees the dog running across the road, and though the dog doesn't really obstruct his car, he seems quite pissed at this general lack of order. "Fuck the snowman", he shouts (which is equivalent to What the Fuck in Rome, even five-year-olds have been heard yelling this at their baby-sitters) and swerves to a stop next to Dog-Owner. "Oouu" He calls the dog-owner (that's the same as the clucking sound one makes in Bombay to call out to someone, heard often on the streets but never in living rooms). "Yes," says Dog-owner, his pipe now lit. "Is that your dog?" demands the Driver. "Yes, so what?" "What if I had run him over, would you still be smoking your pipe so calmly?" Now Driver is quite agitated. But he continues to dangle the phone next to his ear as well. He probably wants whoever's on the other end to hear this encounter. "First you kill him, then we'll talk," says Dog-Owner. Meanwhile his mop-dog is going berserk, shooting between cars, around buses; by now traffic is actually disrupted. The Driver who's stayed on, keeping his plans and his phone-conversation on hold, hasn't been affected but cars on another road on the intersection skid to a halt. "Fuck misery," The Driver says (which is a slightly more intense variation of fuck the snowman - the object of fuck can get increasingly more outrageous till you reach the ultimate, which is fuck madonna - that is the original madonna; no one uses fuck madonna on record, not even an atheist on his deathbed, so our landlady says), "I had to swerve out of the way to avoid killing him. Almost bloody killed myself." By now, Dog-owner has also braced himself for the fight. He's twisted his two remaining leashes around his wrist, clenched the pipe firmly in mouth. No one cares about the mop-dog anymore, except the two other dogs perhaps who are looking on very enviously at all the mayhem the mop-dog is creating. "With that car you're driving, you couldn't kill a dog even if you wanted to." "Hey, fuck you, don't insult the car. It's my mom's." Now the group that has gathered around the duo pipe up, "Hey, don't talk about his mother, " Come on, not Mamma" The two shake hands. Mamma saves the day. Behind the traffic, a lady bouncing on six-inch stilettos across the cobbled streets is chasing the mop-dog, her handbag greedily open. Thus, universal truths are imbibed across cities - Ma ko beech mein mat laana. Kaushik lives in Rome. He works on rural development and policy issues and is writing his first novel on stolen time.

by Kaushik Barua

pyrta:

to call out

ngi pyrta ban iohsngew

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/pir:taa

verb

- origin khasi

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