Poetry
Smudge of Fingerprints
Our story is a window. Stroke by stroke my body remembers that life & cries for the missing parts of itself
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Poetry
Our story is a window. Stroke by stroke my body remembers that life & cries for the missing parts of itself
Poetry
I am not sad I can’t see the blue of your iris, that a shadow obscures
Poetry
and only I know how their hair curls almost scentless around their ears, what kind of silence pleases them.
Poetry
I may be soggy with sleep and the wispy, leftover fragrance of night jasmine, but let me be luminous. Strut with the fawns.
Poetry
Sometimes it takes just the right window. With enough sunshine, and not too much water.
Poetry
C. P. Surendran gives us three poems from his new book, Window With a Train Attached from Speaking Tiger.
Poetry
The Poetry Cast showcases the reading of a poem. In this issue, Dr. Abhijit Khandkar reads the poem What Happened of Maruti Kamble
Poetry
But I don’t have to say a word to the trees. They already know everything.
Poetry
TBR brings you two poems from Kunjana Parashar’s debut poetry book They Gather Around Me, the Animals.
Poetry
Finally, we compromised and replaced your biography with this poem.
Poetry
Chewing Bengali paan, mixed with spices and lime, runway girls follow him to the town hall, for a symphony of molten desires.
Poetry
Lesson learned; I will stop counting, but you’ve taken my booze, taken my music; I’m only a man after all.
Poetry
Your signature phrase so Britishly conditional, the words cross-grained with hope and irony,
Poetry
He smells like Irish Spring and lots of it. I offer him an agnostic smile.
Poetry
when suddenly our dog swoops in like a hungry kestrel burrowing deep sniffing your sweat
Poetry
Sinduraruna is a translation of the Dhyana Sloka of the Sri Lalita Sahasranama.
Poetry
Elevated into the high rafters of heat,
Poetry
TBR pays homage to the last of the Beats-poet Gary Snyder, who turns 95!
Poetry
After dinner I hear the music of the ceremony across the street.
Poetry
You board another train, but it’s another season, maybe even another year. You travel quietly. Pairs of eyes sit across in varying degrees of kindness.
Poetry
Plant mother to plant mother, I get it The sun shines on, dutiful and tired And I am tempted to break
Poetry
On Hamlet’s flute old bones of Elsinore shook and shuckered up the graves they died and dyed the earth in.
Poetry
The dead mattered more than the living. One night, the fire alarm didn’t go off.
Poetry
And the rain swept in a little fast for her liking but there was no helping it was there And nobody picked up the phone when she called