Sakamoto In Motion

The rain had presented itself only as a drizzle that night when Sakamoto left the restaurant. His shift had ended an hour back, but he would always hang around for a conversation with the owner accompanied by a bowl of leftover ramen broth and vegetables. He would listen to the owner talk about the day’s...

Empty Suitcase

Fruit basket full on the dining table,Racket of the mixer grinder and herQuestions from the kitchen—remindersOf the trips to home and back,Lie on the couch and slack, while lovinglyAppeared on the table in front,Juices, snacks, and a magazine, a softPlonk on the other end and a gentleTouch to the feet; such were the pleasures ofSummers...

Message In A Bottle

Has it ever occurred to you,Lying on the bed on a Monday night,What would it really feel likeTo receive jade-coloured bottle,Tightened with a cork and made of glassAnd enclosing a tiny piece of paperAnd nothing else? Wouldn’t it be strange if that bottle,Jade-coloured bottle, yes, just appearBy the windowsill and just sit there?Staring at the...

Borderline

At the beginning of eons, an expansion ensuedWhat was clumped, swiftly spread apart,For ages the universe sprawled itself likeRelaxing on the bed on a Sunday morning,There was always enough space, and thereAlways will be ample time to bask at ease,Just as the heat dissipated and life beganSo would the chance for all of us to...

Morning Rain Forgiven

Wind-swept by the lighthouse, black shapes Unsheathed in the pellets of rain, jaded hearts Undaunted by the sea’s inclemency; their embrace Opened up to the turquoise inquisition, lashing Claws at eternity’s rocks, breaking shards a sign Of pent-up resentment; bitterness echoing To the thunder above and underneath a leaden sky Rain sympathized with a fervor...

Sakamoto at the Park

Most of us live afraid of time passing us, cheating us, favouring us, or abandoning us. Sakamoto simply gave up his time in the very hands of time.

Poetry Review: The Poet as a Poet in Veronica Forrest-Thomson’s “Through the Looking Glass“

Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels “The world is not something static, irredeemably given by a natural language. When language is re-imagined the world expands with it.”Veronica Forrest-Thomson, Poetic Artifice: A Theory of Twentieth Century Poetry Link to the poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/143680/through-the-looking-glass Writing this review seems to be inviting a direct admonition from the poet since in her own words...

The Variety Theatre Audience in Bulgakov’s ‘The Master and Margarita’

https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380373889i/727673.SX540.jpg ‘The city folk have changed greatly… externally, … have [they] changed inwardly?’ Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Maragrita (Penguin Books, 2007), pp. 122–123 The question posed by Maestro Woland as he is called in this scene resounds solidly even today as our society moves from one technological acquisition to another so fast that while we...

Faceless Love

Your warmest smile inundates my shores,Your voice a carapace for my fears,Ebbing towards me from miles afarClaims a sigh and a longing for more,Perhaps aspects that we hold so dearIn the realm of this ephemeral art,Where signals and cameras transmit woeAnd noise is a deafening silence,Where happiness counts its interestAnd dividends go pending as vows....

The Rap-Tap Trap

A long day has passed. Eyes get tired yet the mind is not. Excited to ramble and eager to express, the sea rages on. As the waves crash on the shore with resounding roars, I passively accept the ocean within. Too tired to protest and definitely a slave to the music of the raging sea...