Star Literature
FICTION / The hawk and the mice
Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save.
FICTION / Ira in my town
After many years, Ira has returned to my town. She hops four towns to get here. We are supposed to meet today. I’ve been ready since morning. We will meet by the lakeside.
POETRY / The ghost of Arun Das
Raise no alarm, if on a night dimly lit,
ESSAY / A surreal graphic novel by Subimal Misra
As I read Subimal Misra–I was therefore seized by the urge to bring out his stories, or "anti-stories", in graphic form
POETRY / October: An unfinished poem
Glamorous lightweight raindrops from the October sky keep
POETRY / Silence
A star fell on the ground in the windy night
ESSAY / On the national anthem of Bangladesh: An apologetic discourse (part two)
The question here should be: Why does the nationality of the poet matter if the sentiment and emotional dimensions are the central focus that keeps the dynamic of a national anthem active?
POETRY / Republic of the dead
As if playing a game of chess / Still the world waits for the next dawn
REFLECTIONS / Utpal Dutt and the new dawn
The audience for the jatra was all any Marxist theatre director in Kolkata could have wished for.
Devi
The first pulse, in the midst of a whipping maelstrom,
Sinking in ink
Don’t you see— I can only write dark.
Unconventional realities and intense friendships
Saikat Majumdar writes with a sharp poignancy that arrows straight to the core of the heart.
Poets from Palestine: Verses written in tears and blood
Resistance takes many shapes and forms, from taking up arms, to facing police batons, to picking up a pen
Storm child
This is the third and final part of “Storm Child”, serialised here on Star Literature
Fall
August, marked with dying things. Summer’s end, / My freedom spent
The wheel of change
Eternity collapses at the wheel of change. / Past is lost
Exiles and memories
Markan didn't have an answer. The word "Arakan" felt distant, like something from a dream he couldn't quite remember
Carpe diem
but i can't. i cannot be bothered to find / meaning behind the faults in my father's eyes
Birth of a poem
Hark! / Busy work of Hands