New in the Journal: October
Hello!
We received some fantastic poems from our poetry community for this month for The Alipore Post Journal and are eager for you to read them:
POETRY
The passing view by Kashiana Singh (from Four Window Poems)
it is a train running past my dimmed night
a river skimming the surface of afternoon
aches, a windswept tree holding my mood
each morning when the sun slants into its
broken bark trunk, squirrel yawning just as
another evening spreads itself wide, a bird
fluttering by my window, the suffused sun
dissolving light in a golden array of honey
convulsing into a nothingness, its sparkle
breaks through the dead waters, gathering
everything around, it moves like a waterfall
I pick at the ivy, shaping calligraphic stains
framed like palms around my window sillsRead the other Window Poems by Kashiana here.
Seasickness or I am sick for wanting you by Shivani Kshirsagar
Despite the various ways of erasing a name, the body never forgets,
Like the ocean taking to bed, men and their stories,
Where neither skeletons remain, nor hulls,
All things reduced to salt, sand, and echoes
Trapped in shells
Listen
Listen closely
Do you hear them cry?
I wonder how drowning feels like
No, not in misery, or grief or loneliness
(Can one drown in happiness?)Read the full poem here.
Cooking with Anthony Bourdain by Vijay Matheswaran
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Tony,
as I begin dinner this warm evening.
With a paring knife and plastic-wrapped meat,
pale potatoes and tired tomatoes
and wilting bunches of ugly spinach.
I saw you, Tony, hovering by me,
horror in your eyes. Disgust creased your face
as you seethed, ‘This is not the way to eat!
Screamingly fresh fruit, pristine pearl onions
and cold cuts and cumin and curry leaves
slapped with gooey, smelly French cheese – now that,
my friend, is how you learn to cook and eat!’
I heard you tonight, Tony, as you said
those words, and images ran through my head.
Chopping and peeling and sautéing and
dicing: images of hard work indeed
that stayed with me as I got my car keys
and floored it to the closest pizza place.Nelumbo nucifera, the colour of Panthera tigris by Simone Dinshaw
The holy river
Once ablaze with diyas
Now bloated with bodies
Winds on unassumingly
Grief the colour
Of embers on the pyre
Of the fading bruise
Of the very last sunsetRead the full poem here.
Putting words in my mouth by Chirag Mehta
I caress the contents of the menu card
I like to pick and choose
My mouth must water
I want it freshly made, just for me
Now, I'm asking too much
but the Chef does not mind.
I want something light & bite-sized
I ease my way in, I don't want to rush
I'm afraid of choking
Slowly, I bite into it
My mouth is full of phrases.
Bring it over, gently
do not spill or leak on the way
This soup is precious and
seasoned with wordsRead the full poem here.
Photo by Irfan Simsar Care, a Shroud by Lina Krishnan
Leaning into the pool
The bougainvillea
Is much admired
The blossoms though
Are not water-enamoured
Perhaps, desert memories linger
Excess begets foliage
Enveloping, suffocating
A little neglect
Brings out the magenta
Vivid, spread across the skyExodus by Ajinkya
maybe everything is an exodus from darkness
to darkness. fingers goaded by a third eye grow
accustomed to the shape of the wooden handle,
wrought iron railing, dust, rust and finally, light -
disloyal dot, mischievous stranger skipping dreams,
trailing desire between fingers. We remember, always,
the start, and grope with the impossible barefaced trust
of children discovering the form of purpose.
love is the moistness of skin whispering
with the undercover orchestra of memory,
not feeling; soft palm cradling the contours
of comfort, but not quite, like an ill-fitting dress.
even words stand at the door of experience,
out of place in the ostentation of flourish.
when it turns into testimony, after all, it is lost.
Darkness allows space for discovery, to find the edges
of your own voice. one could find the embrace of a life
by carving out the moonrise from the infinite excess of night,
rationing light like a physician bloodletting survival into the world.Read another poem The Traveller by Ajinkya here.
Linocut by Bronislaw M. Bak For Millennials On The Eve Of The Apocalypse by Megha Rao
even on the eve of the apocalypse
you will get off bed, brush your teeth
no loss can keep you down
no horror can quell your sound
every step ahead is resurrection, every breath is revolution
I know the lure of agony
I know in your personal underground, there is familiarity
comfort in staying broken but you must be wise
enough to rise
fight it, climb the mountains you were born to conquer
clean the hurt repeatedly, your tragedy is not your identity
do the small things though they seem futile or take the longest while
bring out your paints and playlists
play with friends on computer screens
I won’t promise it’ll change much
but at least it’ll break the age-old pattern
of drowning in grief
and repeat after me, a brand new prayer:
I refuse to be swallowed.
I refuse to be swallowed.
I refuse to be swallowed.
Repeat after me,
I have seen the warm womb that darkness offers,
and I have learnt to say no when it calls.Read the full poem by Megha here.
summertime;
mangoes stain
your wrist
your chin
sticky sweet
trickling down
to the hollow
of your throat
where flowers
sometimes grow
watered by kisses
in the garden of my home
Read the full poem here.Silhouette by Tiyasha Chaudhury
Here is my body whose curves
I draw on with dust.
Sometimes I forget,
a piece of skin can be a marked territory.
I let him take a Photograph of me—
It was in film.
When things are captured in film,
They look like they are in mourning.
The body basking in the light.
Solids melting into particles.
A sly effort.
All photographers tend to play the game of show and hide.Ode To An Old Home by Samin Sayeda
For all so much, the house said nothing
But brought along some small joys
More centipedes arrived, like friends who always lost their way
The stairway bulb flickered and fused
Yet no one missed a step.
In June, we watched the rains uncover crimson sunsets
From the chipped terrace that held us when we were sad
And once during a drunken soiree
P asked if the mesh of wires are Diwali lights!
Last December, we packed our bags to leave
Unceremonious, we forgot to thank the house
Or write a soliloquy
But once we reached our new address
We remembered the gate that was always ajar
We longed for those who came and stayed the night.
Read the full poem here.A Dream or Not by Sasha Mishra
She finds herself alone
On a dark and empty street
And moments after
She is ravished like a meat
Oh wait, this is merely a dream
Or so it seems
Read the full poem here.
ART
Born in Shanghai and currently based out of New York, Dawei Wang is a master at visual storytelling with colour pencils, ink wash and mixed media. He grew up doodling on the walls of his family home in China since the age of five, and was sent to art school to receive a formal education in the arts. Art school changed his life, and made everything a potential subject in his work. But no matter what the subject may be, there is a sense of calm and awe in his work. This is particularly so in the colour pencil works created over the pandemic, often depicting solitude and stillness.
Full feature here.
Keith Larsen | Faces In Places
American artist Keith Larsen creates art out of the most boring objects - from toasters and sinks to walnuts and tomatoes - in his ongoing project Faces In Places. Keith uses ‘pareidolia’, the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern, to his creative advantage and illustrates characters and gives them poetic backstories to bring them to life.
Read all about the project and Keith’s creative process here.
See you at the end of November with a whole lot of new poems, interviews and photography series from our journal.
The Alipore Post is also a weekly newsletter on poetry, art, music, photography and all things creative. Curated with love. Designed to inspire.