Source: Victorien Ameline

Like mothers still responsive to
to the phantom vibrations
of a now
infertile womb, to the uterine kicks of
a stillbirth, and the smiling memory
of a wrinkled grandmother, we
cushion ourselves
in the folds of death.

So many of us
have become the earth that closes
around the graves
of the caskets, we lowered into the
maggot-begotten grounds. So many of us
try to stop the insects
from wriggling over
the undecomposed memories of
once alive flesh.

Our reverence
for the place, we have dug ourselves
deep in
mistaken for misery. Our dyslexia
for the language of the living
mistaken for
stubborn mourning. Don’t they understand

that our vow of silence
is a private matter with the dead; that our
deadbeat eyes
stare into the abyss of
an inhuman world — for which to see,
they’ll have to make
the same necrophagic plunge
as ours

Poetry Sunday


Before you metaphor-ize
the blood warm insides of a sacrificial animal
into the red mist moon
of an obscure planet. Before

the whales are hauled to the shores and the elephants choke in poisoned water and the wildfires jump fences — before the bleeding oceans of a once inexhaustible life cast the die of your pen’s ink, before the personifications, and the similes and those goddamn hyperboles — Stop and wonder What could’ve been if you didn’t wait for the leaf to become ash and the heartbeat to leave the chest. What could’ve been if you didn’t wait for the…

Poetry Sunday

Source: @1amfcs

Like a hellish horde of giant crabs,
climbing on each other’s broken backs,
you’re the uprising. Isn’t that
why you crash the twinkling dream
of a newborn child in your
bone-dried life to light its
dark gaping cracks. Yes,
slide an iPhone in his hands
as your loveless stare
flashes in the blinkering blankness
of that laptop on your lap. Tell him
you’re both playing the eye-contact game. Tell him —
Son! …


People who are suspicious of divine miracles have their reasons. To believe
in their existence would make God an interventionist, and
an interventionist God would only serve to upset the balance
between good and bad
Rig the game for either side. So, to believe

humans are alone and godless in their lives wouldn’t be a blasphemous conclusion. It would actually remove any suspicions of
God being an unjust God, and
his court a dishonest court. In turn,

renouncing the burden of
harnessing all power to the human spirit. And I believe
when people come to this realization
that the burden is all theirs
that they are ruled by a just God
that no miracle is adrift
they harness a spirit that’s sometimes even impenetrable by death.

Source: Raghu Nayyar

Hopelessly prayer-bound in their mosque of self-loathing, miserable
in their happiness, some cities are like men. Centuries of toxic relationships
with conquerors and noncommittal populations, their walls are cracked
and their doors creak still

Hopelessly prayer-bound in their mosque of self-loathing, miserable
in their happiness, some cities are like men

The splintered nightmares of bomb debris and earsplitting bullets,
of human blood, and human rage — do they not quiver the insecure certitude of their plastered walls like the trust of careworn men. …

A poem

Photo by Laura Vinck on Unsplash

On a sickened sunless day, when my heart had shut down earlier than usual, an autistic light crystallized on its entryways, I heard a familiar knock and turned to see a beautiful trojan horse peering through its frozen glass Knowing well, an army of the finest lovers chuckled inside its wooden case, I warmed myself up — just enough to let the Trojan horse pass Better still, when its inhabitants unloaded in the dark numbing night, I blended in to lead their mutinous strides — I was wise but willing to be fooled; hopeless, but bound — bound by this…

Poetry Sunday

Source: Erwin Doorn@erwindoorn

I do not remember vividly —
perhaps, this memory is from another life, or perhaps
it spawned around the time when
God and mother’s womb were having one of their heated arguments
Perhaps, you could not classify it as a memory at all, and
it’s just an ancient tale whispered in a shadow’s ear

But as the myth goes and the tale is told,
it was a time
when my emptiness was a sheet as fragile as glass. …

Ahsan Yousaf

A writer who holds a firm conviction that everyone has a wealth of emotional reserve that’s begging to be mined and inked.

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