When I Make Space to Pause by Shreya Manna So. When I make space to pause, I listen. The bones at the base of my neck are instruments, Clicking and clacking and croaking under the weight of an uneasy head. My feet oscillate. Drumsticks on a d-d-d-d-drum roll. The mind scans and measures each line…
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Hi readers! This is a poem about the sky, in particular those skies that inspire us to just look up in dumbstruck wonder. Hope you enjoy it (see full poem below the image). Twilight Kissed by Shreya Manna Who wove this fabric, this work of art That stretches across the sky? Is it a sheet…
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I’m in a new apprenticeship – Not any intellectual shit, Reading ‘how to be a human’ lit: so flip to page 1, where I find it hard, really no way I can discard, this overconfidence in my inferiority. Too many syllables, (may not be believable) but it’s true. I cannot see the “awesome kid” inside…
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Today is the Bengali New Year (Shubho Noboborsho or Poila Boishak). Since people from West Bengal mark this festivity as a time of auspicious beginnings, I thought that I should write a poem to mark a sacred beginning of my own creation.
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A poem about water-forms.
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Hello again, I’m back with (more) attempts at writing poetry and an update about starting Hilary Term (i.e. Term 2) at Oxford. Since I’ve been gone, I’ve been writing away for our weekly essays about everything including the lives of saints in Old English up until the modernist experiments of T.S. Eliot. I’ve taken up…
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Trees spilling with boughs of white flowers Like bright eyes, shrouded in the waxy palms of leaves I watch some fall, stolen by the breeze, I watch them fall (in love). Petals unfurling, they embrace the dusk with open arms, sprinkling the earth. Hush. Listen to them land: tiny, soft blankets for unseen slumbering fairies.…
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Breathe in Dawn, Breathe out Starlight – some poetic observations on the endless intelligence and regeneration of the natural world around us.
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Sometimes I feel like a waterfall wrestling with gravity I am heavy and torrential and endlessly crashing against granite. Somehow I spill into the canals dug by words, Slowing, a stream, rolling along soft clay. What I see is a stream of consciousness moving forward. What I see is the endless play of elements as…
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It shocks me beyond words to think of the horror that the girls in the Muzaffarpur children’s home in Bihar have faced. This poem cannot come close to expressing the damage that such sexual, mental and physical violence does. Nevertheless, I had to write about it. This poem is for those girls and their immeasurable…
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