Featured Poet

The Seat Over There

You
May call it a chair
Or a vase in absentia.

A
Shadow
Of our rotten flesh

A
Yoke
Or a damn nostalgia.

The Wicket

from
the vine door
of our old house

from
the wicket
and the palm trunks

dropped at the orchard entry
beneath the mulberry

from
the falls of a walking stick
heading a magically reverenced father

I
cast my features
brown.

Like a Winter Tree

Autumn
Is here.

Barely
You leaned over like a winter tree.

Dervishes

     The trouble
is that we grew old
not our playthings.
Big children
traveling between the fleece
and the burlap
drinking up tales
engraved on the face of the roof
and slumber smiling.
     Keep drawing stars
from the very heaven
giving wings to the nestful sins
of our hearts
and as all dervishes
taken by their passion
we let those drunken oboes
     in our blood
arouse the soft bushes
furnishing them with light
a mouth
and roving eyes
to raven the alleys
of speech.

Next - GopiKrishnan Kottoor
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