[Issue 9 / May 2014]

Night ogling at corrections, the tinkle of AC blades, clitter clatter of keyboard – Clapton’s broken w-or-d-s, sewerage pipes flushed with tin breaths, wreaths on cold statues, loudspeakers shut in terse words, flags that divide frontiers, assembly speeches growing as weeds near forlorn rose bushes, the stars trying to find Vinent Van Gogh on chilled window panes, street lights extending their fingers to scribble something on the outer walls, flush of their orange glow drained in dragonfly sorbet…! The cold black letters wet with print ink soak fumes of news. Poetry b…l…e…e…d…s between the gutter separating hundred columns on the chest of a dripping masthead. The dim morning lights – ghosts rising from the cheeks of broadsheets…!



Saima Afreen does not know much about herself. She has not yet reached the field where she can find herself and write a bio. Calcutta is where she grew up, smelling shiuli flowers and chewing different syllables.