Whelped behind an old Hindu temple on the road linking the beach of Mullaitivu and the lagoon, she was the lone survivor of her pack easily recognized by her light brown coat, perky ears, pointed snout and delicate feet. The others—her children, siblings, sires, foes and friends—had died in the war or in its genocidal aftermath, from bombs, gun fire, mines, starvation, thirst … [Read more...]
Across the Atlantic
:: Poetry from across the world. Poetry knows no borders or nations. Indian Review bring you more poetry to interact with poets and readers in the border less zone of poetry. Read, enjoy and do share the joy of literature.
The bee in the Calyx | Pawel Markiewicz
there was a tender muse-like moment of charm such an Apollonian tear when the cute bee set down on a noble rose in the kind calyx of the bloom full dreamy splendor the gentle sun smiled at that time at it fairy-like oh a sweet morning gracefulness of rays the owl stayed with the courage that is in the habit of flying into an ancient forest homewards there was endlessly … [Read more...]
Another Year (After Su Dongpo)
I open my window, and breathe the spring air. I gaze at the new moon. Tonight, it’s incredibly clear. I hear the crickets, hidden in the grass, and I’m lost in memories of springs past. Alone, I toast this New Year with a glass of old wine. I’ll soon be fifty-five. The stars in the sky surround me, but bring me no cheer. They are so far away, and they have been … [Read more...]
The River will Flow (Afer Li Po)
I drink wine by the river. I can barely see it, and I hear it as in a dream. Are things as they seem? My wife is now dead. Wind rustles the leaves of a nearby tree. The leaves fall slowly, but relentlessly. What must be, will be. The river begins as a quiet mountain stream. It flows through lush fields and gentle hills. But in the end, it is swallowed by the … [Read more...]
Mount Zion Church, Grant Takes Command | Keith Moul
War dead fell in patterns around craters, and will long enrich the battlefield. Some forever will inhabit the soil. Survivors, like shadows, return to circle the lush grass; argue possible versions of their own history. Since victory, I offer my shame at living; I offer atonement as demanded by our leaders; I offer up partisan fantasies couched with propaganda; I offer … [Read more...]