Fabiyas M V is a writer from Orumanayur village in Kerala, India. He is the author of Moonlight and Solitude. His fiction and poems have appeared in Westerly, Forward Poetry, Literary The Hatchet, Rathalla Review, Off the Coast, Structo, and in several anthologies. He won many international accolades including the Poetry Soup International Award, USA , the RSPCA Pet Poetry Prize, UK, and Merseyside at War Poetry Award from Liverpool John Moores University, UK. His poems have been broadcast on the All India Radio. The Lunatic Holy Man Hole in the ozone layer of his sense increases. He mutters to the tomb of his father, while clumsy expressions flash on his face. A hundred fools watch him with awe. It’s paradoxical they chant holy verses. He has a big sedimentary belly formed from offerings. He heals the insane, rustics say, patting on their crests or tying black cords around their waists. There’s a panacea for peace for many in his absurd mantras. He became a holy man after his dad’s death with the privilege of birth. Lunacy adds charm to his character. Fame’s sometimes a friend to folly. Even the distant mother comes with her daughter for a cure. There’s a relief in belief. Endosulfan Rain It wasn’t monsoon but toxic rain. Diya drenched in the doldrums. Her head bloated, brain turned barren. Her body curved as a cashew nut. Her legs and arms dried. Aches and anxieties grow up in the cashew farm. Sad sap oozes out of her mouth. Her doll lies dead. Now she isn’t a girl but a remnant on an empty mat. (Endosulfan is a deadly insecticide.)
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Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India. He has has been writing and publishing poetry for the last thirty years. He has seven volumes of poetry to his credit and his poetry has been widely anthologized. He has been published in Gloom Cupboard, Art Arena, Other Voices Poetry, Glasgow Review, Osprey Journal, New Welsh Review, Dead Snakes, Dissident Voice, Poetry Life 7 Times, WritingRaw among many others on line journals and print magazines/ journals in India & abroad. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. In March... In March when dry winds arrive, and the stooping woman still continues to sell last vestiges of her fruits to the haggling, irate buyer whose bitter mouth would savour that one last taste, touch- when school children will shed off inertia and behave like this irksome wind, I will sit by the window and dream of poetry in hour glass in a transparent house of books, words, shelves with a dancing elf, and the wind's legerdemain hoisting boisterousness to write a poem, with these emerald shaped hills, standing in vastness of monoliths. History unceasing, high priests calling; the dahlias fading, and streams bursting into seams of violet hues. The winds will whisper of evenings and encrypted souls who lived in this hill town traversing history like gladiators in a war of hope. I will go to the monoliths again to see their ancient inscriptions while those sacred groves remain in muted silence, horizons of distant skies. Rony Nair slogs as an oil and gas Risk Management “expert/ director/ Vice President/consultant”-up on the greasy pole! He’s been 20 years in the industry since starting off as an Industrial engineer a long time ago. Extensively traveled. Dangers fronted often. But that’s his day job. The one that pays for bread and bills. He’s been a worshipper at the altar of prose and poetry for almost as long as he could think. They have been the shadows of his life. (They’ve been) the bedsit at the end of a long day; the repository that does the sound of silence inimitably well. Not unlike a pet; but with one core difference- the books do suggest, educate and weave a texture that marginally provides streams of thought that are new. And one of the biggest pleasures of his life, is certainly holding a treasured edition in one’s hands. Physically. Rony’s been writing poetry since 1985 and was a published columnist with the Indian Express in the early 1990’s. He is also a published photographer about to hold his first major exhibition and currently writes a regular column for two online journals; one of them widely read over South India. Rony has been profiled by the Economic Times of Delhi and has also written for them. He cites V.S Naipaul, A.J Cronin, Patrick Hamilton, Alan Sillitoe, John Braine and Nevil Shute in addition to FS Fitzgerald as influences on his life; and Philip Larkin, Dom Moraes and Ted Hughes as his personal poetry idols. Larkin’s’ collected poems would be the one book he would like to die with. When the poems perish. As do the thoughts! Caress The more certain the ambiguity, The more certain the truth. you're out there, knowing, the way i feel in solicitude. the more i feel sequestered the more i sense your presence walking the streets adrift alone. the only lay is in riposte the only death by raffle the only snakes we embrace are all deadpanned as one. the only truth stays filtered through a hundred different lies the only broadsword slaying the beast lays sheathed. in deceit. the only response is silence the only rage a game. the only faultline lies buried beneath. Falsehood. Blame. there’s only love. buried amidst the refuse. the rubble. the delusion. the hate. freeform. Rony Nair works as an oil and gas Risk Management consultant. He’s been 20 years in the industry since starting off as an Industrial engineer a long time ago. Extensively traveled. Dangers fronted often. But that’s his day job. The one that pays for bread and bills. He’s been a worshipper at the altar of prose and poetry for almost as long as he could think. They have been the shadows of his life. (They’ve been) the bedsit at the end of a long day; the repository that does the sound of silence inimitably well. Not unlike a pet; but with one core difference- the books do suggest, educate and weave a texture that marginally provides streams of thought that are new. And one of the biggest pleasures of his life, is certainly holding a treasured edition in one’s hands. Physically. Rony’s been writing poetry since 1985 and was a published columnist with the Indian Express in the early 1990’s. He is also a professional photographer about to hold his first major exhibition and has previously been published by New Asian Writing (NAW), Semaphore, The Cadet, The Economic Times and YES magazine. Rony has been profiled by the Economic Times of Delhi. He cites V.S Naipaul, A.J Cronin, Patrick Hamilton, Alan Sillitoe, John Braine and Nevil Shute in addition to FS Fitzgerald as influences on his life; and Philip Larkin, Dom Moraes and Ted Hughes as his personal poetry idols. Larkin’s’ collected poems would be the one book he would like to die with. When the poems perish. As do the thoughts! FLICKS AT 41 by Rony Nair flicks at 41 lean to the side as a bat swing takes you away for that moment when you forget that ache, the finality of the rejection, the turning away. the urge to seek the toilet seat and retch as the ball comes into view again and the bat swings at your 3d head and misses where you hope it’d hit and India sneak a rare win. as then the ache hits you. Blocked on LinkedIn too. i mean, your enemies wouldn't bother. She would. USE AND THROW by Rony Nair there's always the wait, in connections, that have turned away. Redundant, in a global age. where you're drawn closer, and then spat out. like the gutter. the vomit a guilty pleasure to use. And throw. it is always the one who discards, that is loved. BATTERIES by Rony Nair would transitory memory be better or batter for the actuate the real. who remembers places revisited other than the emotional spike of it all when you glimpse a letter or trail that leads me back to where it all began round a culvert inside a bend with you on one side and at the other side, The end. TOTEM POLES AND BIRD SANCTUARIES by Rony Nair the old totem poles an imagined sanctuary. the birds still know it all. the views from the station look like that day. your favorite corner was rancid. Alone. Extant. I remembered the tale the movie “chamatkaar” take an actress saying no when she meant yes. the only question then, was when! the birds could look after themselves. It’s different now the same birds stay on. They linger. They rub it in. The birds still give me the bird. And you are of course, long gone. |
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