Once the goddess is believed to have “accepted” her share, the bhog is distributed among the devotees.
I should collect all the chits from these people so I can calculate the amount of pain in the world.
This city has become an inferno. Name a place where we are safe. Can you?
Will we meet on the auctioned banks of our boats in mid river of unspoken news?
Franca Mancinelli’s poems, in John Taylor’s translation render the ordinary, the natural, many-hued and wondrous.
What is hope amidst struggle? Marzia’s story looks at this bartering of hope in a big city.
The poignant poems of Rafeeq Ahmed, deftly translated, touch the veins of village life at Kerala, negotiating constantly between tradition and modernity.
In this second part, we glance at Deepti’s resilience in keeping her dreams alive in a hostile familial environment.
Huzaifa’s heart-rending poem speaks of the angst, the silent, frustrating, regretful wait of entire generations.
Perhaps only a God-man could explicate who this land belonged to.
A city like Hyderabad was not as small as our hamlet. Within the city and its outskirts, many things happened to which we were strangers.
In Ronald’s poem, life is a state of ever-wait, layers of hope and sadness chipping away at the corners of stillness.
Douvre’s poems are short moments on the surface of life, scattered like breaths over observations both searing and bright.
Resolutions remain, in the end, ephemeral promises.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves.
Nostalgia, longing and pain wrap tightly as the poet ruminates on the steady loss of his childhood home.
