poem
Poetry / Silent screams
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Poetry / Reminiscent
I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding
POETRY / Not everyone looks at the sky with the same weighted heart
Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one
Poetry / Prompts
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
Poetry / The colour of revolution is red
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
POETRY / Love, when you’re an adrenaline junky
And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall
Review: Literary Magazine / The new speculative literary magazine on the block
Veering off from stories for a bit, Fahim Anzoom Rumman’s “The Secret” was a breath of fresh air. The piece seemed to be a cross between a poem and the kind of fable your grandparents would tell you as a kid to get you to fall asleep.
Poetry / jani dekha hobe
that single spot, shunyo, a hole that is filled to its circumference, I drive and the sun is bigger than I’ve ever seen and orange, look directly into it or, i had to write a poem to go along with the first
Pandemic Nocturne 1: December Dirge
Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.
Silent screams
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Reminiscent
I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding
Not everyone looks at the sky with the same weighted heart
Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one
Prompts
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
The colour of revolution is red
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
Love, when you’re an adrenaline junky
And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall
The new speculative literary magazine on the block
Veering off from stories for a bit, Fahim Anzoom Rumman’s “The Secret” was a breath of fresh air. The piece seemed to be a cross between a poem and the kind of fable your grandparents would tell you as a kid to get you to fall asleep.
Pandemic Nocturne 1: December Dirge
Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.
jani dekha hobe
that single spot, shunyo, a hole that is filled to its circumference, I drive and the sun is bigger than I’ve ever seen and orange, look directly into it or, i had to write a poem to go along with the first
Parting
While I fear whom you’ll become once you hear me, once you leave me.
