Poetry
Topiarius
A man in Derbyshire,grows trees into chairs.Oak & willow are tiedto forms, pruned to complyto templates that determinetheir utility & usagelike children bound bytheir parent’s..
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Poetry
Showing 433-456 of 691 pieces
Poetry
Trial & Error
Sometimes late at nightwhen they’re done their roundsand I’m sure no one is listening,I speak to Sylvia Plath: You’ve died before I had time—we’re much..
Poetry
I Want to Be Myself
Today a man, a woman, and a child much younger than me asked me who I wanted to be I responded with – Is that..
Poetry
A Shadow is a Gentle Lover
The shadow is the ice melting down ravines of drowned hipbones, beadings strung in the sunlight. It rubs its head between two stones, peeling back..
Poetry
Witch of the Night
The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.
Poetry
we’ll always have Terracotta Warriors dusted in Han Purple, never looking behind
“Drinking mercury to the mystery of all that you should ever leave behind…. in time.” “Ava Adore,” Billy Corgan My purple skin projects royal essences..
Poetry
Love As Told
And as the sets reverse, to bring age to each step, Every sordid moment worse, lost is the night to its solemn shroud And as I were, softly..
Poetry
One Way Back to Babylon
“Can I go home yet?” Such a small voice for a big statue On a grey stool in the cornera British Museum guard yawnsand turns away..
Poetry
Fibrillation
“Do not touch this. You will only have troubles and problems.”– Archeologist, Iris Love, to Getty Museum officials on the prospective purchase of the Statue..
Poetry
Indian Generation
~After Naipaul’s “Tell Me Who to Kill”~a thank you, to those who made the journey, before They built the train tracksfor memory, brakes to stop..
Poetry
Bad Woman
I feel my mouth go dry in terror whenever I hear a cricket. (Denise Duhamel) I have lived in the front yard all my life.Like..
Poetry
Ma
The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.
Poetry
In Nani’s House
I push my weightagainst the sturdy swing-doorof Nani’s house.My eyes catch white and grey: Nana’s pebble gardenwhere we would discoverfat pieces of rock. Khadiya. We would..
Poetry
the night jaygopal found a swastika on his window
in my dream, my brain talks about brainsbeing more or less the same, resembling kidney beans, sprouting web-like dendrites, wired for synaptic connection,passing signals cell to cell through axons,rosette-tipped, purring like..
Poetry
Yet Leafless, The Tulip Tree Readies to Flower
The blooms have each waited inside a small, tight bud all winter long. Each a sex-nub, a tender, excitable mound of tree-flesh rousing to sunlight’s..
Poetry
A First Poem
It would be so easyTo be lost hereIn your armsIn the windBy the river. I don’t hear the hawk,Though you do. All I hear is the Almost-roarOf..
Poetry
markings on the wall
When we packed our things from paint-chipped cupboards, and made peace with stains of wine on the carpet- too permanent to move out with us;..
Poetry
Still Life of You, Remaining
quiet & beloved memory—serpent swallowing mouse wholea vibration of the tail—warning of appetiteI collect your worst flaws in a jar, colorfulI taste them—candy, I loathe..
Poetry
It is a good day!
The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.
Poetry
Fool’s Errand
Not far from near future, we bendlight around corners. Down periscope.Up and away from you all. Take me at my word: they’ve outlawed affection.We lock in,..
Poetry
Excuse me, your privilege is showing
You and I flush it down the toilet many times a dayBut it crawls out wrecking our just-mopped floors.Reeking. ‘Bloody hell!’, we shout in lingua..
Poetry
A Yellow Iris
Van Gogh stops byIn my garden. Death feels chilly so he wants a morning back on Earth. I told him I admired his iris paintings. He thanked me, didn’t..
Poetry
Headless Martyrs
Headless martyrs are riding caribou intothe international forest again. Fairies sippingnectar from hyacinths chuckle at this scene. They remember why bushmen lick beehiveswith honey-coated tongues..
Poetry
Skin Under Water
draw a bath.with crayons?how does one color water? clear does not do justice,the glisten of droplets on skin.I’ll draw us a bath, you said, and I sawan..