What On Earth

by James Carter

ship lifter
sin washer
loo flusher
world-wide firefighter
life taker
life saver
make a-cuppa-washer uppa
store in tower
hydro power
April shower
feed a flower
I can be ice steam or snow
but just for now i’m…


My WW2 Poem I Wrote At School

by Levi

World War Two is announced,
Chamberlain’s voice can be heard in every radio around,
“England is at war with Germany!”

Nazi pilots preparing to send down bombs,
Parents wave goodbye, evacuees wave back,

Multiple bodies on the floor,
Panicking people scrambling for shelter,
Pesky planes vomiting out bombs for destruction,
Air raid sirens wailing their cries,
Flames growing, burning things to ash,
Buildings collapsing like Jenga tumbling to the ground,
All because of a madman that wanted to rule the world…

Then, all went quiet.
Buildings, life, nothing would ever be the same…

A Letter to the Rain

by Praniti Gulyani

do you collect in the soldier’s boots
that lie unclaimed in moonlit war zones
when the blood rusting on battlefields
crumples into twilit shades?

do you overflow in kitchen vessels
and spread out, so that you can fill in
the dent that seemed to have formed last night
when the vessel was hurled
against the wall, squashing the quivering shapes
of sob after sob?

do you bandage the bruises
on slender fingers, that sift through the breeze
and softly touch you –
do you add another layer
to the layers they already bear?

do you dot the golden sequins –
that stud the glowing tassels
on the soft borders of a wedding veil
a wedding veil, that was squeezed
out of all the memories that had slowly gathered
washed, bathed, and put out to dry
and suddenly forgotten about

do you numb the earth’s aching breast
the anaesthesia of nature
seeping into the scars
on her trembling skin?

do you pour onto the looking glass –
and manipulate the subtle, truthful gaze
with the colors of the skies that weigh down
the delicacy of your being?

do you slither into family albums –
and tarry a while, before mother’s photos
struggling to disentangle moments of joy
pushed into the confinements of plastic

you leave your footprints upon her cheeks
cheeks, that bloomed with the cherry blossoms
of teenage-girl-youth

making it seem as though she was crying
in the few times
when she wasn’t

The Sum of Everything

by Praniti Gulyani

a raw, summer star upon your eyelid,
a crushed grass-blade beneath your heel
the remnants of a dewdrop that clingss to your shoe
a bruise of sky on your chin

the initial sum of everything

you hold an eclipse between your fingers,
like a thin volume of love songs
a shooting star twisted into your lashes
the shape of a song that trickles down your lips
and circles your throat

the growing sum of everything

there is a crater between your brow,
and, the evening’s sketched onto your arm
mingling with the saffron of dawn on your forehead
this rendezvous of light on your being

the combined sum of everything

a shooting star chisels a verse,
picks up your wrinkles, and your clinging scars
arranging them onto the expanse of your cheek
till they read like a poem
something like a poem

the ultimate sum of everything

The Legacy of the Moon

by Praniti Gulyani

bring me one quarter of the moon –
that pulsates on star-strangled skylines
that bears scars upon its cheeks,
yet does not wince, and most importantly
it does not rub barrels of fairness cream
upon its scars, to make them go away
for, it loves its scars

bring me one quarter of the moon –
that is washed upon the seashore,
and is generous – to break its being
like a mother, and puts bits of itself, extends itself
to fill the core of these shells, that hold
the songs of the sea, and the sigh of the sun
as it softly sinks into the sea

bring me one quarter of the moon –
that fireflies hold upon their wings
those translucent wings stamped with
incomplete, crescent-shaped wishes
moistened with the dark, dusty shadows
of father’s footsteps, which have been molded
to the paradoxical boundaries of a soldier’s boots
limited – yet infinite

bring me one quarter of the moon
that lingers on the snowy papers
beneath a teenager’s slender fingers

as the world sifts through her trembling fingers

she draws a girl with bare breasts
with soft dreams on this girl’s lashes
yet on this girl’s fingers there is a crescent
that cuts into her fingertips, carving crevices and craters
that shall soon toughened into hard scars

and then I wonder –
are scars the legacy
of this moon?

Yes, I Like

by Praniti Gulyani

Yes, I like golden, local-fair, glass bangles –
the kind with gleaming paints, glitter-coated
for they assure me, that wet, dark shadows
are not the legacy of all of humankind
and some leave glittery trails
and footprints of shine and shimmer
upon the ground on which they tread

Yes, I like crumpled letters –
crumpled so much, that it seems as though
the handwritten letters are scrunched
into azure bruises, the boundaries of which
I cannot decipher, but nevertheless
I am a prying cardiologist
I shall not rest, till I touch the core
of these letters, which pulsates
like a curling sliver of warm sunshine
amidst these layers of pain that have been stitched
from the frosty threads of bluing emotion and when
I get to this core, the heart of these letters
I shall operate on it, tear it apart, see what’s inside
and finally stitch it so hard, with the tightest threads
so that what’s inside, stays inside

Yes, I like winter skies –
that linger overhead, like a new bride
donning silken veils of fog and frost
over the moon, which is a single breast
protruding from the chest of the sky
as I watch the wind softly whimper
to the sky, like a doting mother
teaching the sky, to negotiate boundaries
with her breasts

Yes, I like crumpling leaves –
rubbed along the edges with the coppery colors
of that evening, when father left
a day that I’d seize in my bare hands
place on my fingers and spiral it around
like a purple, childhood top
till it transforms into a blurry, starry, sunlit mess
and then, I’d observe imprints of that day
rainbow-shaped footprints, shape shifting into nothingness
on this quivering autumn leaf, breathless under the weight
of old, rusting seasons

Yes, I like long conversations –
played to the rhythm of falling rain

about coffee shops and fragrant walls
about long walks and fairy hide-outs
possibly lurking beneath your footprints
that one footprint which twists and turns
still finding its space on the wet mud
possibly lost between what’s yours, what’s mine
frantically questing for what’s ours

about poetry that I hold tight
in the centre of my palm-
so much so, it leaves a shapeless imprint
on the flushed canvas of my skin
and when I attempt to decipher
the shapes it may hold
it speaks to me, and says
in an ice-cold voice, that it isn’t here
to be understood

about poetry I bring close,
to the tip of my tongue, and inhale
the saltiness of the first snowflake
the reluctant sweetness of rain, the sudden spice
of autumn, the sugary-coats of spring

about poetry that shows,
about poetry that tastes
about poetry the scents
about poetry that remains

Writing from Experiences

by Harshita Das

I never believed
In writing within the soul
Consistency is key
Always rules and goals
Till I read a teary tale
I ached inside, my heart hurt
So I poured my hurt to words
Verses upon verses
And I recalled why
I started writing in the first place


by Harshita Das

My jaw aches, it takes
Just a word to raze the fake
Persona I make
For the world, just a mere word
Someone has yet not uttered


by Harshita Das

Inspiration makes;
Breaks our fickle characters
Will is free but we,
Mould, mesh it to imitate
Those greats whom we wish to be