Places

Bombay / Mumbai , India

Bombay / Mumbai , India

« I prefer to use the older name, ‘Bombay,' as it symbolizes the inclusive and cosmopolitan character of my city. »  —Ranjit Hoskote

Plurality isn’t enough to tickle you pink.
I’ve shared magical, misty evenings
with endless seekers via somatic unguents
but not unlimited with the one I wanted,
certainly not when I was a louse...

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Searchlights within reveal the roost of my still

small voice is on a glacis: nothing unusual, I’m

getting on in years. Swizzle sticks are my way

of keeping track in a bar. Nip between us glaces...

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This Summer and That Summer Cover
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Jibbed, old hungers gnaw at your chance
arrival in gelidity. Gleed stirs up in you
my cutty-pipe image, and you laugh, louder
than required, adopting cachinnations as
a channel of expressing...

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Freemasons of all alignments
recognize their ilk
without semaphores.
Need autographs itsaccueil
signing the other
to club of consensus.
Like cygnets
with unuttered woops...

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Three walls of the room are made of tin, but on the fourth side a polished floor opens, running like fabric into curtains of lace, into wallpapers dotted with flowers, into ceilings pierced with mirror baubles,...
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My uncle had a strange habit of gathering people. Not less than 25 he would take on an outing. Like: Aunty Perpetual with her breast cut who would lift her t-shirt every time to show us her story, Avo who would stand...
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Unveiling their shine on the cerulean sheet now pitch-dark,

radiant studs, rhombus-shaped compete with beauty


of bicephalous. When the orgulous are on a night out


in their best bib and tucker...

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To be born into the hubbub of an Indian city, is to be born into a world of multiple cultures and at least two other languages. We boast a staggering number of gods and goddesses and hundreds of...

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Poet Interview #39 – SanjeevSethi Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? At what age did you start writing? Have you always written poetry? Who/what first inspired you to start writing? Who are your favorite...
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My father was the quietest man; his few words made no sense

in the world’s idiom.

Saddled into a marriage

astride a dead horse of tradition he flogged it too many times

for two...

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