It was the end of 2013; I had read an article about Lydia Davis, who won the Man Booker that year. Before reading that article Lydia Davis was an unknown name to me. The writer wrote in the article that “Lydia Davis doesn’t complete her story!”. That was the punch line that struck me and… Continue reading “I like to speak plainly without putting a barrier between me and the reader.” – Lydia Davis
Our thoughts are often clouded and gnarled by our environment; our concentration and feelings can be affected by whether we are at ease or not, or by the attitude of peers etc. So how does one “clear” the mind, as it were, for the purpose of poetic receptivity?
When the Taliban’s poetry book was published in the UK this month, many found it very strange indeed, but someone who understands the culture and lifestyle of Afghans knows how important poetry is to Afghans. On a visit to Jalalabad during the orange flower blossom celebration, I have felt the power of poetry within the… Continue reading Afghans and Poetry By Reza Mohammadi
“It’s too bad she won’t live. But then again, who does?” The words echo across Rick Deckard’s mind as he steps into the elevator. Having just taken the lives of two replicants, he begins to truly contemplate this question. Deckard was a once Bladerunner, a cop specializing in “retiring” or killing replicants. Replicants, genetically engineered… Continue reading Replicants and Racism: The Struggle for Equality in an Unequal Society by M Stuart Persson
Curry spices, patchouli and fresh cut marigold blossoms thicken the air. My gut twists. I close my eyes. Stomach ailments are so common in India that I ignore my own for several weeks until I am weak and sad and dangerously thin, and then a little bit longer, until there is blood.
Callum Mor walked directly to the edge of the fell. He did not look for the child but for the direction animals would take for shelter. He was very still, his keen sense of nature’s rhythms directed him. He searched for signs of sheep,
She sat in a corner. Her eyes fixed at some uncertain point in the infinity;
I remember you and when you first walked into our house. It was late at night, cold, and dark. So dark, I couldn’t make out many of your features. I should be asleep. A “friend” of mother’s, that’s what we called you. You hugged and kissed our mom as you entered.
Our life started in the deep mountain recesses of a cave, somewhere in the world, we cannot quite recall the exact location. Nonetheless, we have a vague feeling of how it was before it all began, the shapeless freedom, the promiscuous joys of belonging to a layered rock. Then came the cold shock of being… Continue reading Crutches by Tiziana Soverino
The tree appeared out of nowhere. We just walked past that old deserted garden and found it standing there. It was a huge tree filled with green leaves – a green so bright that it made every other green look pale.