The night pulls in and the sky is dark
And the Sun has long since set
The light of the moon behind heavy clouds
Muffled beams on black pavements pirouette
Shadows lurk and impose their gloom
The bite of a winter that’s on the prowl
Sends shivers down your spine
The night pulls in and the sky is dark
It is said that the God Himself
descended on Earth, took Ram’s form;
Was made to suffer hard we hear
by those who willed to break the norm.
Ram would soon have Ayodhya ruled
had He not been sent into exile;
He dwelt in woods for years fourteen
with his wife and brother agile.
She took a moment to stare at herself in the reflection of the glass door of the car. The beat-up Volvo showed a pair of iridescent green eyes – the kind of eyes you would see on a lonely stretch of road, caught for the briefest second in the beams of a car before the animal darted off into the brush. Agatha blinked and her irises returned to their normal dark brown. Control was becoming to her like the quails that darted between the cacti of the Arizona desert irresistibly chase-able, inevitably elusive.
Comes again the winter,
bringing to towns darkness
The Sun covered by clouds
tries hard to scatter light;
The light braves the dense fog
Watch I the brumous sight.
In the earthly realms
‘Neath the vast firmament
Of mountains and valleys and fields
Forests and rivers and oceans
There mingle mists and shadows
That from aeons and ages past
Ever have all creatures intrigued
In some much fear evoking
While others have seamlessly enticed gladly been
Into the myriad swirls and mysteries
The mirror from the antique shop suited Ania’s studio apartment perfectly. It was a large gothic Victorian mirror with ornate black swirls around the centred glass. It only cost her £100. Alf, the man who sold it to her, knocked £50 off the asking price. He said it was too big an item for most people, so he’d drop the price for Ania to take it off his hands. Alf spun a similar yarn to every customer, and it was effective. Alf even offered for him and his nephew, Will, to deliver it the next day.
Indie author Simran Munot is on cloud nine, for her first-ever solo book entitled ‘Cordially Yours’ is now published. Not only is the book receiving rave reviews from various quarters but is also challenging the beliefs of the twenty-two-year-young Mumbai-based writer, who had initially thought that books on letters don’t do well. Speaking to the Literary Express in an exclusive interaction, Simran, who has previously co-written two poetry books, says the plan to pen down her thoughts and come up with Cordially Yours came long ago, only she wasn’t that confident enough. ‘Cordially Yours is basically a collection of heartfelt open letters. I have seen and read various poetry books, different kinds of novels, and novella but hardly one or two books on letters. A book full of letters is rare and definitely a recent concept. So, I was very sceptical about publishing it,’ she shares.
Does not the sky obscure the worlds afar,
Insuring all gods who abide in light?
Summered have we on planet Earth so far;
And we know what’s hard here is for them light.
Mothers have sure mothered billions of souls,
But who begot the first mother d’you know?
Traumatized, she returned home, with her soul shattered and defeated.
Her husband welcomed her back, in the chirpy way he usually greeted.
He told her to freshen up quickly and join him in the kitchen.
That him cooking tonight didn’t mean she didn’t have to pitch in.
But all she wanted now was to cleanse herself with a long shower.
What you must understand is that poetry is not simply expressing oneself – not for me. That would seem more suited to an essay. Rather, poetry is a way of being and of seeing as if it were another sense in the way of taste or touch. And with this sense, it becomes a way of relating to life at its smallest as well as its largest. For the poet, it is every day and everywhere. It is who and how you are. Poetry is, at its fullest, a relationship. And the words are the bi-product of that relationship, that way of being. They are the conversations that you, the reader, are allowed to overhear – but they are not in and of themselves the whole thing. Birds stroke distance through the air, spiders build webs, and in the same way, poets write. The significant fact, though, is that what they write; poems are not about, they are not faint reflections, but rather, poems are, are the thing itself – as is the distance, as is the web.
Answers I have looked for,
But questions still remain;
Chasing me like a cop,
Dim they are sure and lame.
Refrains, they are the quintessential keys
That open up the rhyming Villanelle,
Revealing what the poet’s passion sees.
The nuanced lines, expressive by degrees
Enclosed within the repetition shell;
Refrains, they are the quintessential keys.
They aver fourteen worlds exist, my friend.
Stories untold, unheard they narrate.
And I look at them with wonder;
To nothing much I relate.
Life never ends I hear;
And that there is fate.
I’ve though no fear,
spite or hate.
It was not until author-entrepreneur Christian Warren Freed was deployed to Afghanistan in 2002 that he wrote his debut novel Hammers in the Wind. Speaking to the Literary Express in an exclusive interaction, the fifty-year-old former soldier, who has been to war three times, says that he always wanted to do two things in life: join the army and become an author. Having written over twenty-five science fiction and military fantasy novels, combat memoirs, a pair of how-to books, a children’s book, and several short stories, Mr Freed lets us know that his latest series is a cross amongst Star Wars, Dune, and The Malazan Book of the Fallen. ‘Under Tattered Banners is book five of the Forgotten Gods Tales. It follows the heroes and villains in a universe of seven hundred worlds as they vie for control of it all,’ he tells us.
The warm orange glow of the street lights complemented the humdrum of the city that had just woken up to flashily dressed youngins who graced every liquor store in sight, trying to find the cheapest happiness they could, all encountering disapproving elders that mused on the waywardness of the youth of today while visiting the said establishments.
Author Ian Barker doesn’t remember a time he didn’t write. In fact, one of the school reports from when Mr Barker was about twelve years old says he has ‘an easy style and interesting ideas’. Be that as it may, the author went on to spend almost twenty years working in the IT sector, writing short stories and poems for his amusement. ‘I then discovered that it was easier to write about computers than to fix them, and so, I combined my job and hobby by going to work for a computer magazine,’ says the sixty-one-year-old UK-based author, speaking to the Literary Express in an exclusive interaction.
What if I told you moons two were beheld
that glimmered and shone like those diamonds mined?
I ween the halcyon days you’d call to mind
when we spoke of the sky, stars, acts withheld.
Author Robin Gregory’s first and recently published novel The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman sprung from a desire to bridge the Eastern and Western philosophies and spirituality. Inspired by her son, who is challenged with disabilities, the book, we learn, is set in Western America of the early 1900s. ‘Writing it was part of my own awakening process,’ begins Ms Gregory, speaking to the Literary Express in an exclusive interaction. She tells us that while this book of hers is the first fiction novel she has ever worked on, she has written creative non-fiction and articles for several magazines including Modern Literature, Ginosko Literary Journal, Massage Magazine, and Coast Weekly.