Unperfection, A Poem

Unperfection by Shreya Manna Teaching myself how to unperfection Reminds me of that time I tried to do A water slide and chickened out only To sheepishly return because The queue I spotted on the other side Was way too long. And I was hoping To return to earth sometime very soon. In the little pod, waiting for the ground […]

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Sapling in the Woods (A Poem)

Beneath my feet are crunching leaves, martyrs to the world’s law,  And above me the canopy, shaking leafy branches in a tribal dance, Like a million green eyelashes in the sky’s eyes  Nobody is listening. The gnarled limbs of the trees spread to claim the sky  Gather the sun like gold, loot, I look up to them Like greedy kings. Crouching in wonder at the feet of these tyrants, listen carefully to the sound of leaves whispering in the breeze, saying soft first words on earth.  From the cold bed of the jungle floor tiny shoots peek through their wooden chambers with the sweetness of a child, peering from behind the curtains shy, curious, drawn to the colourful show.   Onwards they grow, leaving the warm clasp of home – daring  to absorb the sun and its boundless kingdom.  Never complaining, the small pads of their leaves  unfurl like miniature flags Never losing the hunger for light Soaking the small stripes and flecks that filter into its open palms.  The seed does not question the silent Work of pushing feeble roots into the worn earth. Is it celebration?  Is it tragedy, the merciless struggle for survival?  The questions of a human, once again trying to believe that butterflies emerge from cocoons and great trees from humble seeds and once again remembering that life can go on. By Shreya Manna (c)

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‘Unaccustomed Earth’: Lahiri and The Subtle Art of Short Stories

It is rare to find that one book on my reading list leads so effortlessly into the next one, but no sooner had I emerged from Hawthorne's 'The Scarlet Letter' did I stumble upon 'Unaccustomed Earth' by Jhumpa Lahiri, opening with this vivid epigraph (above). Long having claimed her place on my 'Favourite Authors' shelf, Lahiri brings her skill with the short story form to a life of travel and rootlessness.

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