Spring Issue: Poems

We are delighted to present to you the Poetry Section of the inaugural Issue of Parcham. My sincere gratitude to Candice Louisa Daquin for the tireless work she put in to curate this issue and to Sumana Roy, whose invaluable inputs and insights were a guiding force. We have managed to provide a platform to poets both established and upcoming, and hope to feature tireless and fearless voices in the days to come. Till then, read on.

Sayan Aich Bhowmik ( Founding Editor, Parcham)

1. Witness – Kashiana Singh

bansuri-

silence scattering

over the snow

meditation-

a rainbow bruises

the sky

your eyes-

a naked moon

drifts away

fortune teller-

tea leaves tremble

in my cup

rinsed sky-

your presence lingers

in scents

embers-

familiar hands

feel cold

hushed night-

freezing of weather

and words

                        inhale exhale-

                        the punctuations

                        within

half dark-

holding your hands

in my cold palms

an epitaph-

the gravity of

a falling leaf

superstitions-

the bird falls

mid-air.

2. Vagrants in Spring– Ritoshree Chatterjee

it’s spring in the valley, and we

scamper with baby-feet

picking up bones and flowers in rubble

i’ve loved asters, but you say i

look like a nymph with daffodils

we cannot choose, so we realise

flowers, like pilgrims, are best left

to themselves –

till eyes meet, and we laugh –

forgetting that we’ve

forgotten who we used to be

gods sigh a little, and in

that one moment of daring –

we strip each other of

homes and cities –

sleeping nameless on the seams of spring

till winter arrives,

and frost makes us whole again.

3. In The Fold of My Hands – Saranya Narayanan

It is in the fold of my hand,

I see the world shrink to dust.

The strains on the cold flesh of my palms

pulverises breaths to fumes,

clouds torn apart to foster rain of insanity.

The seeds that

wrapped up the sunlight,

moulds me into earthen pots carrying

memories dried up in the sun.

The moist air garnishes my neck,

beading pearls of sweat.

The tales I weave out of lifeless nights

surrenders the land to darkness,

sickening and maddening the souls.

I see the land crumble to ash.

4. Spring – Shamayita Sen

Our balcony, a cascade.
The sun, pin-holed into little
radiant buds strewn asunder.

My child approaches the verandah,
arranges flowers in a bunch to gift
her teacher on the first day
of a new school year.

5. Stinking Privilege – Shruti Sareen

Every morning I spit

the phlegm away. Sometimes, I puke.

A man walks through my excreta.

I wash a bucket of clothes.

The water turns black. It is then rinsed

with running tap water. I am happy

with freshly minted clothes.  The water I throw down

falls on a man’s head.

And he covers his body with my shit,

my vomit, my phlegm, my dirty, soapy water

while I create an uproar if the swimming pool water

 is two days old. This stinking privilege

makes me want to puke more. This stinking privilege

makes me want to stop myself from shitting.

This stinking privilege covers me in shame,

in guilt from head to toe, each morning.

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