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Breathe by Genesia Alves
A close friend confided to us, when his baby was only a few months old, that he stayed up at night watching her breathe. Love is like that. All sorts of love. It seems to entail a chronicling of br… Source: Breathe.
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Rereading The God of Small Things
It is like returning to a lover you never stopped loving I pause and linger, rolling words in my mouth, tasting the luscious lusty writing of someone as giving as Roy It is indulgent and selfish on my part After all there are many new books waiting on the to-read shelf Still….. They can wait…
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To tell you the truth
I have been writing poems a lot more than I usually do and reworking drafts of old poems. Perhaps due to my PhD work on the ghazal I tend to spend more time on structure and sound. Strict metrical scales and working with rhymes, refrains, provide me with an effective tool to have a dialogue with…
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Sam Dylan Finch on Being Vulnerable, Creating a Supportive Space, and Going Viral
A conversation with Sam Dylan Finch, a transgender writer and activist who blogs about queer and bipolar topics. Source: Sam Dylan Finch on Being Vulnerable, Creating a Supportive Space, and Going Viral
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Gasps of morning
“judge a country by how it treats their weakest and poorest and also their richest” Last night I killed her. Watched her bleed near the gutter. Left her to rot by the sewer gates. There is a place where they bury dreams. They have headstones. “Here lies my need to fly.” “Loved and cherished, mother…
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Owl Time of Year
Part 1 “I am an introvert,” Owl said. Followed by silence and Robin burst out laughing. “No, really, I am,” Owl insisted. “Oh ya! And, Obama is King of the World,” Robin got up and hugged me, while still chuckling. “Well, in a way he is. And, I am.” Sparrow had her hand over…
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I Go for a Walk in the Evening While the Body Stays at Home by Alix Anne Shaw – Guernica
These wet and windy days aggravate the rheumatism in my joints. I struggle to keep the body at pace with my mind. My mind: the curious two-year old, with the passion of a teenage romance, and the gravity of mid-life. The body oscillates. Move forward, I demand of it, it stays at home. Then comes…
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Suture by Philip Schaefer – Guernica
The moment we say alone we are not. The sun tucks under the mouth of a mountain yet still light fills our skin. Every day a heart is pulled out like a wet plum from one body and placed inside another. Every day someone comes home to a lover packing her bags. It is normal…
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Sita Considers Her Rebellions by Vandana Khanna – Guernica
She remembers from inside the story, inside the forest’s heart (a flush of green): a dowry of twigs. Tree trunks as thick as lies. When she is allowed, she misses herself, covets the clean corners where her bones meet, the dull pulse of her tongue on his. All those misplaced stars, a misery she can’t…
