Archive for April 2014

The Post - Rovel Sequeira

Is slow today
It knows
That it is being waited for
But is coy, like love,
Hiding under carpets
And movie scripts
Plotting its release
Just in time for Christmas.

So it tries to get lost
Not wholeheartedly
Maybe like the bride and groom
Lifted on chairs in Mangalore’s weddings
One running after what he already has
One running away from what she already fears
And loves.

It has its tricks down pat
Has learnt them from those slim books
That describe fluttering eyelashes
Three flutters per second.
So it will enlist the maid’s forgetfulness
And will end up in another’s apron
Or be used as a wedge,
Propping up the third stubby leg of an old table.
The weakest link in that old sack race.

Will it find its way
How do these things work?

Perhaps it knows
It will wound
And doesn't want to be the bad guy
It’s fated to be.
So it trips up the post-man
Slips into the secret compartment
Of a many-pocketed bag
Only meant for keys and spare pennies.
Or hides behind pension plans
And water park coupons
Only valid till life or summer ends.

Or rings the bell precisely when
The one waiting has decided to
Use the loo, the Japanese kind,
With lots of sounds to obscure the lots of things
That go on in loos.

What sound did she pick finally?
The sound that deadened its arrival
Scatology and love only mix in tragedy
But, like old friends gone sour,
They do produce
Timely comic relief.
Because, like all words,
The post will find, somewhere out there,
Its audience.

- - -

Rovel Sequeira is studying Literature at St. Stephen’s College, University of Delhi, for an MA degree. He is constantly interested in the links between Literary and Political discourse, particularly in the use of narrative and rhetoric in debates on Gender Rights. In his spare time, he attempts to come up with something approximating poetry and day-dreams about writing a novel.

Oxfam Queue

My tummy stood still; a statue of a stomach that paused as she passed by
to get into the used bookshop line to pay for her basket of titles and authors I'd
no idea existed, but I'd be willing to learn and read and not breathe until I had
enlisted the use of Wikipedia to find out a one fact about each of them so to break the ice
and breach that border of conversation, because I'd want to tell her in some Woody Allen
way that her eyes were nice and that Cambridge could be ours tonight if she wanted to.

Council Failure

Train platform woman,
brunette and wide eyed lonesome
left alone sat scared.

Lackluster green tree
cenotaph: Christmas failure
shit county council.

Travelling home now,
through window pane scenes of you
I see no way out.

The Body Takes Over - Namitha Varma

I stand in awe as my body lies in another’s arms,
I watch in wonder how it rests in another's curves.

There was a dream once,
Of a firm shoulder and a warm breast,
But like everything else,
Dreams shifted in their place.

Like the tree that welcomes four seasons
And the river that carries new memories every day,
My body embraces fresh smells and skins,
Shedding them like snake-moults every night.

It delights in the contractions of lust,
Unabashed, it screams in joy at each hurt.
It becomes a saint for the day and the whore of the night,
It laughs at the moral farce and flirts with carnal desires.
It challenges the heart, beats the logic of the mind,
And like wanton breeze,
Slides through faces and deep-seated drives.

All the while, I stand in lost thoughts,
Unknowing whether to admire or despair.
When my body walks ahead of me,
What can I do but follow it lamely?

And yet, we come together for a while,
Before the nightfall, before the taste of sweat n blood prevails:
She tells me that she loves me,
And I say, so do I.

One comforting hug, and we fall apart,
But I know her feelings well,

And she knows mine.

- - -

Namitha Varma is a media professional and a self-proclaimed narcissist based in Mangalore, India. She is a voracious reader, a music enthusiast and an opinionated social observer. Her works have been published in eFiction India and can also be found

Pain - Semita Raj

You used to be my reflection,
An unknown silence in my every action,
A grin during my anger,
The fortune in the miser
You were the one I treasured
and flipping my life upside down
Now you are a pain unmeasured

- - -

Semita Raj was born in Delhi in 1995. Semita is an avid reader or Anime, and spends her time getting high on life and writing poetry. She is a first year student of English Literature at Ramjas College Delhi University.


If you’d just hold out your arms and lead;
force feed my feet to eat up the floor and once I - promise -
find that rhythm I will tip the tables and turn them so you’ll
be led in a waltz around the place, until your head is hidden by your hair and the dub-step-house-trance coming from the speakers turns to Mozart’s fifth, a symphony that features woodwind and strings in an endless kiss.

Will we dance to all four movements? you say,

Yes, until we become a dance floor nuisance, something more than a blur and an illusion and we're asked to leave.

Homebase Feature Walls

Tables decorated with chairs,
the kitchen light above her displaying
tightrope, loosely-knitted hairs against
the mauve feature wall behind.

The chorus sang, 
            You said, "Driver, please don't go that fucking way"
            You said, "Just let it go away"
            You said, "Just let it go".

You sang,
            It's never the facts, always the fabrication.

And I said,
             I felt like my dad and you said that was a good man to feel like.

Take Your Hands Away From My Eyes

for Flight MH370

Wake me up when all the funerals have passed,
when the last war has finished
and the final plane has crashed.

Take your hands away from my eyes when the lashes on the backs
of those working in thigh high filth have had their wounds attended too.

Touch my thigh to let me know you're next to me
before whispering the headlines in my ear,

Shred the papers and compost them,
because that's all the news is worth.
Make up new ways for  me to live longer on the Earth,
because so far we've been warned that cancer lurks in:
                                                                                    oral sex,
                                                                                    large heads,
                                                                                    plastic bags,
                                                                                    first hand smoke, second hand smoke, third hand smoke,
                                                                                    Worcester sauce- somebody stop me.

Can you guarantee that all the lost children will be returned,
and that my future salary will earn me more than just money,
because I'm tired of being a slave to cash points and four digit pin codes that offer
nothing substantial like confidence or the ability to sleep a whole night through.

Will you kick me in your sleep unintentionally as I regularly assume you're dead because
your breath is sometimes so delicate I can't feel it on my cheek.

Then can you can tell me with tired eyes it's okay to eat because all the hungry stomachs have been filled with something other than mosquito nets and empty promises.

The Human Condition - Donal Mahoney

Did I forgive her, you ask?
What a silly question.
Why wouldn't I forgive her?
The mother of my children,

she's been dead for years.
Our long war died with her.
Did I attend her funeral?
I'd have been a distraction.

But I pray for her, 
the repose of her soul.
She belongs in Heaven,
no denying that, up front

in a box seat after all 
she's been through.
If I'm lucky, I'll find 
the side door to 

Heaven unlocked.
I'll sneak in quietly
and if Peter doesn't  
throw me out, I'll sit

in the bleachers.
The question is, 
will I wave if she 
turns around?

- - -

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in The Galway Review, Revival, The Stony Thursday Book, The Linnet's Wings, ROPES and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at