m.dale

Poetry by m.dale

Delicate in Nature

We must care deeply for those that care deeply.
Without them, our oceans would be streams and our canyons, mere cracks.

Dark Waters

I see you.
I see the shadows that plague you.
I see the darkness that blinds you.
I see the shallow waters that drown you.
I see in you everything I ignore in myself.

Remains

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
It has left my heart an empty chamber.

Missed Opportunities

My tears, they aren’t collecting for you.
They drop for everything I didn’t pursue.

<strong>m.dale</strong>
m.dale

Amanda’s writing taps into universal emotions and experiences. She is based in Austin, TX, and grew up in a small spiritually-minded town comprised of farmers and yogis. 

Her writing has a hint of melancholy laced with hopeful comfort. As she processes her own heartaches and desires she discovers varying depths of self that are the source for her devotion to embrace a world healing in all forms. 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Survival of the Fittest

Survival of the Fittest by Gauri Deoli

{Content warning: anxiety, self-harm}

i) You’re practising to show how you feel with the chrome blue sky as the mirror
but every time they try comforting you
you smile like the woman from the vintage movie recordings and don’t respond with emotions
you hold their long tender fingers and run your hand along all their rings
and ask them how they feel
until they lay down their heavy head on your lap
that’s why you’re beautiful but toxic.

ii) You want to tell them you’re not
the first child to stay silent on bad days at school
every time they shovel it down your throat that this generation is like cracks in the ceiling after a heavy monsoon passed away
or the holes along windows from
where ants crawl upon you
even brick kilns that smell of burnt dreams
but you speak nothing for a group of crores
who thought you had coffins full of courage
aren’t you like broken promises and fallen twigs too?

iii) You want to make them understand the patterns you see in your behavior which aren’t easy like a cook-show booklet, to comprehend, and they dare to tell you it’s okay because they don’t understand hurt.
Nor do they understand which pants to wear on a Wednesday morning.
All they know is to use sadness and remorse as a prop to convert rants into sad pieces of poetry
justifying everything with stories of heartbroken men and women or sins sages commit, who are now under lifelong custody but all you do is help them climb the pedestal and clap for them.

iv) On most days, you’ve gulped down your bitter tasting saliva every time they’ve been selective and careful about using their words with you,
you’ve seen them go through denials but eventually acceptance because they call it love in their language.
But your scripts of languages are failing to calm the hardcore monster inside the veins and you rush back to being a crazy, intolerant woman who feels no grief seeing them bury the efforts.
because You realize the burial is for the next time they see potential in you, maybe a week later, they can regenerate the organic advice to teach you into a trained artist who controls their rage and instead becomes polite, doesn’t gasp for air while drowning, doesn’t ask for help at all.

v) They call you up at 2 am and ask if you’re hungry and you don’t respond. Instead, you wonder that the last time you checked, love was a two-way street.
Next morning, you see they’re confused and have wrinkles around their eyes for the columns you prepared at 6 no longer match your preferences now. Well, today you’re 20, and guess you’ll never like vanilla ice cream anymore.

vi) This evening too, they walk up the staircase and pause and begin to think if this is the right time to talk to you about your favorite colors, skies, and life lessons. This now starts to feel like bugs crawling upon you and whispering into your ears which ask you questions about your favorite color.

vii) It isn’t lavender anymore.
It’s beige and black and grey, a mix of it till everything is dark. And you call it home.
If you’d tell them this, they would ask you to leave your home and run away with them. But we don’t leave our homes. We stick onto the obsessions of a household and let it carve ambiguous designs on us.

viii) Instead, we invite all those who flutter with belief in us, those who are naive with doubts in their hearts, even the ones who easily rest false hopes on our broad shoulders, who are brave enough to love us, and some who are worried for our beings, to stay with us. Their homes are dark too and they’ve failed as we have. Together, we’re warriors. Tired and alive and toxic more than ever. We’re asked to breed in mud and feed ourselves the efforts of each other. We bite into their skins to survive.

Tables and Tales of Human Libraries by Gauri Deoli

How often have you heard of human libraries compared to national archives of ancient history where manuscripts and written records coated in clay and birch bark, if lost, are considered to be a loss? Have you ever heard men say that about other men? How many of us long for protests where scholars fight for modern annexes with ceilings of triangular crystals and dark brown walls, inside which the two of us can sit down and turn pages through each other, mark the ones we would go back to with our favorite tints. I wonder what would men look like after stepping out of human libraries with ink stains, some on the neckline, some on the spinal cords, and the rest of those on the palms. Some of them would’ve danced on the farm-fields or along the coastlines. The others with bookmarks would’ve waited with worry for their lovers to finish and finally love them so they can carry them home.

My eyes are sour from staring at that one table with a war veteran holding hands of the old lady who loves to knit sweaters for her sons. He speaks with agony in his eyes and modulations in his voice which cracked at a lot of places, about children of battles who run with balloons in their hands, down the streets where corpses lie, about lovers across borders who are creating new petitions every day so they can witness love win. He broke it to the old lady that her son, too, died in one such war and later the old lady gifted him the sweater she had just finished knitting.

They’re a family now, built out of a grieving storybook.

On the bench next to them is a group that calls themselves a proud product of bigotry and every time they place their hands on fresh beliefs, I laugh a little until I see four women, who claim to have defeated biases all their lives, walk up to them and in that moment it’s almost like a rap battle till it dies into a tranquil end and everybody walks away into normal business.

I’d safely call this a piece of fiction but a wave, once begun, will be difficult to settle.

I see a 27-year-old skype their parents who are on a holiday road trip and teach them to prepare a yearbook with neon green as the cover and an artifact on it where he doesn’t have his face. They haven’t met in 8 years because anger separated them then, and now it’s excuses. So they share a moment of silence till everybody finds a distraction at the same time and he cuts the call. I see satisfaction in him as he rests his palm on the thighs because at least his family has a yearbook ready and he’s hopeful he’ll find one picture of him somewhere in between during the next call.

This might fit in in a section of unfinished copies. Tell me this will end in warm wraps of hugs and wet kisses like parents often do with their kids. Tell me they’ll reconcile. Tell me separation isn’t real.

Meanwhile, my story is about ghosts I spot on starry nights and practises I do during the sunny day, to learn to call my own name in a kinder way.

You can find me near table no. 719 in the human library of the parallel universe. I’d wave at you when I see you enter. Please wave back at me so I know it’s you.

<strong>Gauri Deoli</strong>
Gauri Deoli


I’m Gauri, a writer hailing from the valley of Dehradun. Besides being a typical millennial child, the youth in me is fond of unconventional aesthetics, a good strong cuppa, and sun-kissed photographs. You’ll always find me struggling to match my denim jackets with Kurtis and my metaphors with each other, and that is how my journey as a poet has been so far. 

My shy self, who often faces awkward silences after someone compliments her, has finally found a way to convey how much she appreciates art through her words and paintbrushes. I enjoy proving how love is overrated and in the next second, you’ll find me observing the changing colors of the sky. That’s pretty much everything I write about. That’s pretty much everything my personality is all about. 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Solo

Solo by Fernando Impagliazzo

I could write you a long poem
About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man
But that would be unfair to me

We were two, he played the drums
And I, the vocalist and guitarist
We hit the big time for a while

Until the noisy sound of the drum cymbals
Bored the hell out of me, his bass drums
I realized something was wrong

I could write you a long poem
About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man
But that would be unfair to me

The drummer remained there, on the corner
Brightening up my life
Then a guitarist showed up

He soloed well, almost like Jimmy Hendrix
But it didn’t take me so long
I got bored with that 1960s overrated rock’n roll

I could write you a long poem
About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man
But that would be unfair to me

The guitarist sat down beside the drummer
They kissed and started to talk about life,
Watching that scene filled me with joy

then the keyboardist showed up
Disheveled, he grabbed the amplifier
And started to play Philip Glass

I could write you a long poem
About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man
But that would be unfair to me

Every day when I see the drummer
The guitarist and the keyboardist sitting together
Loving each other, I give way to my greatest pride

Having been a founder member of this band
The Lonely Men’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
Who are proud of having so many lonely men

By your side
We’d love to take you home with us
We’d love to take you home

I could write you a long poem
About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man
But that would ignore that the career of a man

is always the size of a solo

Fernando Impagliazzo
Translated by Rafael Cabral

<strong>Fernando Impagliazzo</strong>
Fernando Impagliazzo

Fernando Impagliazzo (1990) was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He is a poet, professor, researcher, editor of Toró magazine, and author of Prova das nove (2014) and Promiscuo (Urutau, 2021). Master and doctoral student in Brazilian Literature (UFRJ), researches the poetry of the early 20th century.

He joined the anthology “Tente entender o que tento dizer: poesia + HIV / AIDS (Bazar do tempo, 2018). He has published poems in zines and electronic magazines in Brazil and abroad such as Mallarmargens, Ruído Manifesto, Granuja (Mexico), Sucuru and Alfarrábios.

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Dreamscape

Light by Christie Nicolas

I drive around with the lamps all put out
and the moon sunk. A thin rain
drummed against the roof of my car,
a certain downpouring of emotions.

It was the look in his eyes that
still has me mesmerised. An inch
away from the moment at a brain’s edge
– I just can’t cage it and I am
left in the centre of what remains.

As if you were the fire
Within,
The sun lives within the lining of your skin.
Woven and intertwined,
Between the mind and the soul,
– a cauldron of light.

A Dream’s Sake by Christie Nicolas

I had erased my writing,
Curating only a pile of mixed words.
I had dropped my soul amongst them,
Wrongful and misplaced
For but a piece of invalid comfort from others.

The hope I dreamed of was a dream.
Was not but a dream and now I wake.
Pouring my silent words in soft whispers.

My soul took refuge in all my worries
A pause for a thought could be all it is
In that, life and the world, and my own self;
Are changing for a dream’s sake.

To the Moon I Leave by Christie Nicolas

To the moon I leave,
Whispering thoughts with no reply.
An empty space, past my mind
Where the sky sits,
Caressed by a thick blanket
Of stars to keep it aglow.

I wonder if amongst it all,
A message was ever received
where the sky would have trembled
And rattled.
If there was ever such a thought to even provoke it?

To the moon I leave,
A question pending and recycled over,

What lies past all that I see?

A Kaleidescope Dream by Christie Nicolas

Behind your eyes and mine
are all the unspoken affirmations
of all that we do not have the words
to say.

A kaleidoscope dream,
Where we are nothing but space dust,
Souls drifting on the same wavelength
– A space stretched amongst the stars.

A world behind your eyes was what I was trying to find,
I could wander into the unknown,
A plain of new excitement
And exhilaration.
With colours blended,
So exotic and captivating.
Waiting on blue skies
That was but a figment of my mind.
I thought I saw my reflection in your eyes,
But it was only
An imagined reality,
To colour my dreams.

<strong>Christie Nicolas</strong>
Christie Nicolas

Christie Nicolas is an Australian-based writer and business student. Her poetry seeks to reflect her experiences of the surrounding world. Undertaking a Bachelor of Business, she fell into poetry as a testament to always keep writing, which was her long-time passion. She currently writes on a 1962 Royal typewriter at her home in Sydney. 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

A Short Forever

A Short Forever by Cassidy Weeks

The end came sooner than I thought
We had a shorter forever than I had in mind

Looking back it looked so distant
And that was reassuring because I wanted our days to stretch on and on
But somewhere along the road, we reached top speed
And we all but chased our ending into the sunset

Now that we aren’t together I can see we ended when we were meant to
But my heart still isn’t on the same page
It had made a home for you in the little space it had left
And it is still waiting for your return

And it wants to me to find you
So much so, that I fall asleep on my side of the bed but wake up on yours
Because even in my sleep my body allows my heart to search for you

My brain and my heart have different definitions of forever
My mind knows that forevers are incalculable and depend on circumstance
And though I know our forever is gone I will continue to carry it with me
Because my soul cannot yet move past merging with yours and then having to let you go

Pieces by Cassidy Weeks

I find it hard to give pieces of me anymore
I am unsure of how many of them are left
Too early I gave too many
I gave without reservation
I gave without question of their return
Is there a way to check if you are whole?
When you lose someone whom you gave a piece of yourself,
Is there a way to get it back?

I am not sure there is
That is why you have to be wise about who you trust with yourself
You have to wise about who you give yourself to
Contrary to this, I am learning you shouldn’t shut everyone out
I am working on being less afraid of getting close to others
Working on being less afraid to let people in
Because I think the people who share pieces of themselves with you
Could be who make you whole again

To the Moon by Cassidy Weeks

To say I love you to the moon and back would be a lie
Because that would imply that I would willing leave your side
Or that a quantifiable distance could encompass our love

I let you in before I needed you,
Clung to you when my world imploded and my life depended on it
When the dust settled you helped me up
Brushed me off and held me till I could hold up myself
You didn’t leave when it was hard and you didn’t leave when you could
You have known all my cracks and have mended them with kisses
And you knew all of my fears and have nurtured them into dreams

It’s hard to let others know us
But I have waged war on my fear of abandonment
I have bet my cards on the chance of finding my other half within you
And I have conquered and I remain victorious
Because you know me to my very core and still wake up every day and choose me

For your pain is my pain and your joy is my joy
Where you go I will follow even in death
You have made the same vows
And though you alone hold the key to my destruction
I am not afraid

You are in every part of my being
You have touched every aspect of my life
There is not a day where I wouldn’t want you by my side
But if fate should separate us
We would never truly be apart
Because I now hold so many pieces of you
And I revere them so much and hold them so close
That I can scarcely tell where you end and I begin

To say I love you to the moon and back would be a lie
Because love is too finite a word to describe the way my soul burns for yours

To Belong by Cassidy Weeks

I think my trauma had ruined me
My early twenties have been about rebuilding myself
It’s a brick by brick process
That came with no instructions

It started by being vulnerable with one person
And letting them know all of me
Insecurities and everything
And they became my heart
The part of me that is accepting
And that values my individuality

Then that expanded to a few close friends
Who I let add bricks of love
Because sometimes you try to make yourself unlovable
Rather than to allow people to love you
But they fought their way in with the small space I gave them

When they started to add bricks too
The processes started to move along
And suddenly I was house
That could hold dreams and memories
Hopes and wishes
And could allow people in
But knew where to have walls or boundaries

Now I am capable of becoming a home
When before I only had shelter material
And the change occurred by a cascade of events
Started by a vulnerability
Of letting myself have something I didn’t think I deserved

It turned out I was always deserving
I just needed to work on the foundation
And once I let others in
It was easier to see the vision and my potential
To become and make my own belonging

<strong>Cassidy Weeks</strong>
Cassidy Weeks

Cassidy Weeks is a 23-year-old medical student from the United States. She uses poetry as a way to express herself and connect with others. Her passion for poetry stems from her love of reading. In her free time, she likes to spend time with her husband and two dogs. She is honored to get the opportunity to share her words with others. 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the Next Full Moon Comes by Emily Chapa

When the next full moon comes,
I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile.
I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go.
It was so wild.

When the next full moon comes,
May it smile down upon the memories of the last.
While I think of universal intertwining and cherish my bravery of letting one see through me, as if I were glass.

Though the hours were a mere glimpse of something feverish, that last full moon.
When the next full moon comes,
I’ll make a new memory.
I’ll stand as softly, in its brilliant glory, and brush my face with the lace of an unforgettable story.

<strong>Emily Chapa</strong>
Emily Chapa

My name is Emily Chapa and I have been a poet for many years. Most of my work is inspired by Mother Earth and her incendiary messages that she whispers to me while I am in her loving arms.

I am a mother of two beautiful children residing in Tucson, Arizona. I am a Tarot reader and Crystal gazer by day and a poet at all times. 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Father Too

Father Too by Terra Vagus

Father. Fathers. Two or three.
I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.

Made to believe each new man
was a father to raise me in place of the last.

No man. No man could love me in the way
he loves his own kin.

I am a mere casualty of a past life
a mother was in.

Father, father, I am your kin. Why was I cast aside
while you made way for your new life?

Three you created
yet chose one to love.

I’m left like a bruised fruit on the shelf. Until picked up out of pity
to play the role of second best,
trailing behind
each of the rest.

I don’t blame you for loving your child more than me.
I don’t blame you for leaving a bruised fruit behind.

Father. Fathers. Two or three.
Yet no fathers created for me.

I am my creator.
I am my father too.
I find strength in me, as fathers do.

<strong>Terra Vagus</strong>
Terra Vagus

Terra Vagus is a lover of coffee, tea, and anything that has the scent or taste of rosemary. Writing is their first passion. The paranormal is their second. 

At this point, they’ve lived in six states and more cities than they can remember. 

They can currently be found in the Southwest. 

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Orpheus

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log. Stream an unstrung washing machine; leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

Orpheus

Orpheus by Ryan Mahr-hale

Don’t look back she said on the wobbling log.
Stream an unstrung washing machine;
leaves traffic cops redirecting the light.

The forest was magic that day. There were surely
more people about than you, shyly envying
how your brutal extraction from the world
of organic geometries and green enabled
the hot rush of return. You pitied them,

the spirits of streams and trees, because
they were not you today. The log threatened failure
of the enterprise. You laughed. Looked back.

Two Aspiring Saints Interface in a CVS by Ryan Mahr-Hale

Her hands writhing, she says
“I can sound good but not be good”

as you fiddle with a mascara wand
in CVS under lying lights

instead of answering. She picks up
her can from the ground. “I’m going

to smoke a cigarette,” she says. You nod.
She paid for that Monster energy drink,

curlicued and carbonated. You slip
the mascara wand into your pocket.

<strong>Ryan Mahr-Hale</strong>
Ryan Mahr-Hale

Ryan Mahr-Hale holds a B.A. in philosophy from the State University of New York at New Paltz. For his money, the most compelling philosophical question is whether (or in what sense) we have free will. He has worked in retail and human services and lives in Kingston, NY, with his wife. His poetry has appeared in Neologism Poetry Journal.








Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.

A Time Traveler’s Tale

A Time Traveler’s Tale by Aishwarya Roy

I was nine when the tectonic plates shifted between my parents.
The buildings collapsed all around me, as I held my mother’s hand at 2 am, and slept at my neighbours. My body shrank inside the warm blanket as if I was lying on a crescent-shaped moon.

/the moon kept eating my darkness, and became full/

When I turned thirteen, my home taught me the principles of dictatorship, long before my History teacher could.
The women around me lived under their men’s rules and roofs, a lie of love, but liberated themselves in the commas in between the lines.

/they needed a bigger heart than the sky, because they multiplied with each sunset/

A not-so-sweet sixteen-year-old me realised how a bus ride was a perfect metaphor for this fleeting life. That’s how quickly things pass you by when you’re not looking.
My elbow kicked a middle-aged man when he rubbed his bushy skin against my waxed arms, in the crowded bus.

/we will always be in constant motion, even when we stand still/

While an eighteen high on endorphins, I read a scientific fact, which said that because light takes time to reach us, eveything we see is in the past.

/maybe that’s why I felt like I’d already met you before, when we’d only just met/

Twenty-one pilots and a few heartbreaks old me built a house of cards once. And heaved that sigh she’d been saving for the final glimpse of what lay before her.
And just then — it all fell apart; within the time it takes to blink once.

/we built a relationship, and you wonder why, I’m still holding my breath?/

Today, I’m an eighty-five-year-old woman, immersed in self-love, wearing a black bindi, lying on her deathbed.
I see the war raged against the humanity getting over, the summer sun settling behind the oldest building of my city, spreading shades of rose. The leaves detach themselves from the tree, like a child losing the firm grip of his mother’s palms, and getting lost in the crowd.

/the yellow taxis bring home missing-person(s),
And I lie back and wonder how, somewhere between the fear of love-bites and love handles,
I grew up/

<strong>Aishwarya Roy</strong>
Aishwarya Roy

I’m Aishwarya, a messy poet, from Kolkata, India.

The engineering student in me reduces the probability of sadness to near zero, by feeding itself salty newspapers of memes. The artist in me reads classics and scribbles art on forbidden walls.

I’m still the same little girl, who would write stories of love and wars upon the palms of her hands, walking around, arms outstretched, asking people to read them.

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
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Read submission criteria here.

If You Ever

If You Ever by Tamoha Mukhopadhyay

If you ever remember me,
By the falling of raindrops on
Our forgotten words
Do not let me bleed in pain,
Make me bleed in poems.

If you ever see me,
By the bend of our path
Do not let a barrage of words
Impede our love ,
Let them caress me .

If you ever feel me,
In the edifice of all our unaccounted memories,
Do not let me feel untouched ,
Ink your fettered words in my heart.

If you ever ask me,
In an inundated road
Do not restrict yourself from the rain
Let it drench us in all our unspoken words.

If these ifs fail to arrive
Do look at the sky,
My heart will always beat there.

Extrication by Tamoha Mukhopadhyay

Don’t bother me now
I am busy drenching in all the unexplained metaphors.
humming the fatuous onomatopoeias.
For once my heart is not faint with a hundred stitches,
I am not abashed for my rumbustious self.

I run wild, barefoot in the shadowed woods
Magnolias aside
My lips are not blanched,
soul not shackled,
hair not rough with excruciation

I dance around, amidst the thorned roads
In the glinting moonlight,
mirthful memories,
The clear sky,
untethered from the strings of life,
Forever

Your Evanescence by Tamoha Mukhopadhyay

When you came,
The night had not seen the moon,
The sky had not seen the bees cavort.
The garland of my soul had not seen her flowers bloom.

Then, you left me
in the cacophony of life.
The flowers that you gave,
On a fooled autumn evening
Besieged me,
As I saw them get putrid.

you left me with a quavered heart,
You left me with a barrage of conjectural questions.
You left the world, except mine.

The moon glinted in her her glory,
The bees buzzed in exuberance.

But the garland of my soul was withered, forever.
When I was leaving,
I saw a part of your soul,
Lying by the riverside,
I consorted it,
On my way to the inevitable path of silence.

<strong>Tamoha Mukhopadhyay</strong>
Tamoha Mukhopadhyay

I am Tamoha Mukhopadhyay, a girl of 15 from Kolkata, India. 

I have always adhered to writing in my darkest of times. My poems are mostly melancholic, but buds of hope never fail to rise from the greyness. My poems celebrate pain, love, extrication.

I often feel tangled in the strings of life and the darkness seems to pirouette around me and writing is a form of untethering the strings and starting all over again.

Izzy Thomas

Bird’s sweet song daylight squeezing through the crack in the door There are lines imprinted on your face
Read More

m.dale

Withdrawal from you is like removing all the blood from my own veins.
Read More

Solo

I could write you a long poem About the loneliness of the HIV-positive man But that would be unfair to me
Read More

Dreamscape

I drive around with the lamps all put out and the moon sunk. A thin rain drummed against the roof of my car, a certain downpouring of emotions.
Read More

When the Next Full Moon Comes

When the next full moon comes, I’ll think of a perfectly peppered smile. I’ll think of the wool that held me in close and how, for once, I let myself go. It was so wild.
Read More

Father Too

Father. Fathers. Two or three. I’m left with confusion on what you are to me.
Read More

Read submission criteria here.