Gossamer magazine pdf free download

I sang of a bond, a vow to keep. A bond formed of bone and sinew and blood, Red like the heart that keeps time. Every part of me, a word. My tongue; heavy licks of curses and croons, All words. My inger-tip tap; as light as light, On your lower lip, A word, The shaken-loose skeins of soul, Which stroke your skin, All words. Words to be eaten, Tasted, savoured, swallowed. A river starts here frozen, blue a lump of ice bleeding water leaking breath, white smoke.

A river that would carry all the six seasons dead bodies, trees, dead birds, rocks, bones, ilth, remains from the temples, time. A river starts here and she washes herself clean disappears into breeze. A river starts here. Right here. The day outside promises nothing Shall we step into the day, then? Only that, the day started like any other- waking up to Facebook, then work, bus rides back home. Even the cigarettes tasted just the same But a knock on my door and we disappeared.

A girl lights her cigarette and smokes out her disgust onto faces of four coughing men who watch her as if she is naked. Old grandmothers in Neb Sarai smoke pot when the day is done. A kid lights a stick and burns dendrite to ight hunger and a hot summer. A construction worker lights her biri before stacking twenty bricks onto her head. No one questions her right to smoke at the end of a tiring day.

She could eat up the spiders with the dust on her neck dusk in her skin night in her nails she jumps and rolls every space onto this street between two cars that tumble high in black smoke. Auto rickshaws in Mawlai are all covered in black robes, eyes hallucinating smoke, umbrellas dripping mud, shivering in rain under a hollow Shillong sky. When heat rises from below, melting stones, covered in tar inside your shoes, leaving you alone, as those cars exhale bad breath through the dusty ringroad under a broken trafic light, and you decide to ly.

Rain, soaked in Mawlai breeze, can send chills through your spine after dark. So, seven passengers share the wind. Faces disappear in night. Only cigarette lights to allow some humour, and some company to hold on to the rain. A Delhi metro bus illuminates like an orange under a citric sun. High on odour, it sleepwalks through the empty afternoons, when the shops are half open and the keepers are all sleeping. Sweat drips from our heads like rain drops that trees gather.

Fingers turn salt. Only a breeze now could turn this into a long walk over a vast paddy ield by the river-sun leaking on to our veins, sleep stripping our senses, dry mud on our nails.

And a distant smell of our mutually agreed poverty for glass windows to melt; and bodies to it in and solve a jigsaw puzzle out of the blue, before the driver decides to start for the station.

Even an ad of a shady private university behind a noisy auto that overtakes yours, may bring fragrances from Karnal, Meerut or Roorkee where the posters are all smiling and students are all serious, and the institutes remind you of erstwhile PCOs in Silchar; as if, learning could heal all our miseries and the tiredness of a night long journey.

A group of students in B-school uniforms cross the road — towards the Indian dream — as I remember, those institutes that morph into crazy motels by night when the bus gathers pace, sitting here in an auto watching the wheels and restless legs who do not like to wait.

I write a line at every trafic jam and wait for the next when the auto starts again. Like a bridge over a river of cars, like a bridge under a river of cars, a lyover stands without a head, on its many legs. People swarm out of holes, cars misbehave, fat trucks bully drowsy rickshaws, workers plant trees, cows do not bother. If horns were saxophones, one could choose to stand in the middle of the chaos, waving hands, holding batons, hallucinating John Cage.

But, like a loop of dreams, where I am always doing the same thing, I sit in an auto rickshaw watching weary faces, the sweat on their foreheads, when the trains have all left their stations and the children are all in school — Grafiti whitewashed in obedience.

Rain could wash away our fears too, but tomorrow has always been just like today. So I count the hours I must wait, before I start for home again. He started his career as a lyricist in the ilm Bandini and worked with many music directors including R. It is diferent rom other three-line forms like the haiku and senryu, which have a certain limit on its word and syllable count and in essence describe one image. But beneath the two there is the subterranean low of another, the Saraswati.

Not visible to the eye. In the 40 years since then, it has been widely disseminated and followed by a number of poets. I have nourished All my poison in my shadow I have tamed a shadow of mine. A pair of bafled eyes spilling over with fear, alarm A vein bulges coyly on the forehead Words choke, the lips part Poised between a thought half-articulated Undecided whether to cry or not in pain Eyes brimming Not all poems speak of you Why then does the same face emerge every time?

He was the leading force behind the recently passed Copyright Amendment Bill that restores dignity to lyrics and music composers and gives them what is rightfully theirs in terms of royalty. Does this tear bear witness To my compassion, my love for humanity?

Is this tear proof Of the light of sellessness in my life? My opponent has made a move And now Awaits mine But for a long time I stare at the black and white pieces That sit on the white and black squares And I wonder What are these pieces? If I were to assume That these pieces Are no more than wooden toys Then what is the point in victory or defeat?

Neither is this necessary Nor is that important If there is no pleasure in a win Nor sorrow in a loss Then what is this game? That only the Queen has the freedom To move in any direction it wants? I wonder If this is the rule Then what are rules? If this the game Then what is this game?

What is this thing that goes on without pause? If it did not pass hen where could it have been? It must have been somewhere It has passed So where is it now? It must be somewhere Where did it come from? Where did it go?

Where did the process begin? Where will it end? What is time? Which hills has it come from? Which sea is it going to? Can it be that time is ixed And we alone are in motion? Can it be that in this one moment All moments All centuries are hidden? No future No past What has gone by Is happening now What will come about Is happening now I wonder- Is it possible hat the truth is hat we are in motion?

We pass by And what we imagine Is moving Is really motionless Moving, not moving? Whole or divided? Is it frozen Or is it melting? Who knows? His poems have been widely anthologised and have appeared in many journals. He has received the Hopwood Award for poetry and a Pushcart Prize. If you are ever walking by a river you feel work is getting done. You look up at the sky. The sky is disgusting. The clouds are broken. The river is a little bit of sky, wrapped across the land.

If you buy potions if you regain health with diamonds your heart may low out across the wide Missouri. Ater high school, he studied microprocessors and resistors until he found the road to writing, which liberated him.

He is currently pursuing English Literature in a Srinagar-based college. I confess. I have seen us, in denial. I am the abstract paintings exhibited in empty halls each painting a dream, each dream a raw colour I am the hours melting like cheap soaps going down the sewer in a gaudy world I am meaning, worn out like lat tyres skidding against the road to the hospital emergency room I have nothing in common with this moment except extinction.

There is no time. A Map of Ruins, her irst collection of poems, was recently published by the Sahitya Akademi. You take the usual morning walk, commemorating a recent resolution to be healthy, greet other walkers at the turn of cherry trees genially, as usual. The streets assume their duty of sounds, cars ply, the sun shines brightly on wilting chrysanthemums; you feed the birds, sipping tea, sharing domestic nothings with a neighbour and complain of the cold that descends treacherously in the evening these days, or guavas that fell rotting before they could ripen; and day begins its routine of being the same day.

You bask in this shamelessness of breath, its tedium of coming and going, and the way it always gathers behind you as your own blind shadow, with all its careful efforts to keep a few lies from coming apart and the imminent failure. You perfectly feign the gravity it takes to commit to a search for words that you believe will bring order to the chaos love has again come to or render its embarrassing insipidity, the depth and greatness of wounds.

The curtains heave in the slight wind, the sparrows chirp outside, pecking at the last marigold seeds and this exercise plays out through the years as the day unwinds, although hours will not pass when you enact letting go of yourself and the world you saw as different for some time with the fading vision of a child. And it settles in, without the least tremor, folding neatly into its night with the hurting clarity of stars. Outside, the orchard fades from backyards, rivers are dead and ishes loat in dark pools of putrid stories and new cars.

The scent of rain is untraceable on stone and pines fall quietly to an irreverence that has grown far older than the hills. I walk a stale dream, the coal-drift of its days in the wind, posing cheaply in the nostalgic brochures bright festivals and hotels luring tourists with what they will never know.

Even sorrow and shame are coaxed into the picturesque here; for every murdered scruple, there is an autumn or a winter, for every right mauled, a kind of rose, a quaint chimney or a mossy wall. At every turn of its familiar streets, light grips my false beginnings and shakes the last earth from roots I do not wish to send into its name anymore.

Who needs to know whether this city would be another, if it had a different name, if I had a different name when trees grow more silent in the fabric of lies, and buildings darken in a curse against the sun? Distance builds in my steps an emptiness even words do not return from; and once again I trust its name for only the sadness it brings through those windows of my house that have learnt to sleep without dreams, a door that opens like a refrain of some hidden childhood, sweetly telling me that if I turned around to see its old face, only a stone would close in towards me like an answer.

She teaches Creative Writing in universities and conducts workshops for writers. Published widely and a winner of several awards and grants in India and abroad, she likens her writing to ginger root, spreading seamlessly. A few have been published elsewhere. Metaphorically, Anima poems are feminist writing in the voice of a persona commenting on the world.

Colours are visible but slowly fading at the lip of tea kettles. The petals shimmer their softness but are now steadily turning into newsprint and crumbs. The stems are coarse hands wrapped around sari ends and dupatta skeins. The hearts of my cities are pollen beds of invisible stings, tiny droplets of blood, and shards from unguarded paths. Where are you night, when I need you the most? This road was on the map the other day.

That street was on the video just last month. My alley has been a gossip for many years dribbling off of mouths of fears and lies. That poet died. He wrote. The streetlamps swung in rhythm. I took a candle for the night cowering inside your ilthy garages, sordid TV rooms, stinking gardens, under your unkempt beds to show her — look night, the day is here. Here are colours.

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