I hear a low rumbling noise, the same my grandmother so dreaded of. They must be at it againโ the worldโs largest pickle factory, deftly manufacturing history. The news of his death lies deserted on the streets; Newsstands are selling the first snowfall in Kashmir. I see the sinews of the earth, moving beneath my…
Mother eavesdrop on the archangels: โIs the burning city short of coals? They gather the autumnal leaves and set fire to the past.โ Cashmere slides from green to โyelloveโ to cold crimsonโ fiery like a heavenly hell. โDon’t you see the sluggishness of the season? The winter is knocking at the door. The city is…
gatherings lost in known thingsโ men, women, children, by time or willful wish, split into pieces. eyes filled with glistening sadness, pouring pearls, turning edges roundโ lips wearing forever-frown. an echo of sighs and woes, wrinkled skin like a crumpled rug, torn and battered from blows of time. scarred hands and a face carrying dead…
The hanging bridge carried me To the core of Vitasta There, my head hung low in adoration. The noise dimmed out; The waters traveled in a symphony, In sync with the tempest in my soul. Gently, we traveled together through life. Her and Iโ dancing to my storms, Till we watched them turn mellow in…
{1} WHISPERS OF A BROKEN SPRING nothing is moving, even solitude seems immobile and infallible. my room has stayed on with the nonchalance of the last winter. ใ คใ คใ คit smells of roasted potatoes and damp laundry. silence walks around barefoot, with a candle perched on its head. ใ คใ คใ คeverything has become more imminent. the air outside is…
We have great facilities here. polished rods, double-coated with grease and oilโ specialized wires for electrocuting; pliers, easy to handle, precisely sharp. and burners, we got rollers made of walnut wood and nails of varied sizes. A machine, portable and specially designed, with valves to insert truth- attached to a pit, through a pipe, where…
The grief of my country is sitting in the corner of my stomach. A pigheaded bacteriumโ it is going nowhere. A garrison in my small intestines;a dogged settler army of worms laying ambush. I cannot throw up, there are razor-wires dipped in my throat. The goddamn grief blocked! From the broken spoon,I have been eating Herr Coloniser! I will digest you; your bones with fluoric acidsโwill dissolve you in…
Stephen Dobyns, writing in the New York Times Book Review, said, โno American poet writes better than Louise Glรผck, perhaps none can lead us so deeply into our nature.โย I cannot love what I canโt conceive, and you disclose virtually nothing… Part I Louise Glรผck is one of Americaโs most honoured contemporary poets. In 2020,…
My son took a bathput on new clothes,left home,riding a horselike a prince;came homeas kilos of ripped flesh. one foggy winter day,some two decades ago,my brotherlost his fingers;an eagle feastedon his eyes. meadows, haunted hamletswhere the grass grows uphill-armed men storm the villageand take men out of their houses,beat themand force them to carry their…
I. why elsewhen elsedo you put our narratives on a weighing scale?exceptwhen there’s your familiar bloodpolitically differentiated from our familiar bloodtogether calling out for help on our streets.(pray ask when has blood ever left my streets?)Quite a time for you to suddenly wake up, no? I heard your reality is throbbing like an inconsolable ache…