December 2017 Vol. II No. XII
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
If good coffee (or just the concept of coffee), great books, sharp wit, and great authors excite you, we are for you!

Sentimental Poetry edited by Anthony Watkins
Father
Standing at the doorpost
Father peeps into the abyss-blurry past
The old banyan tree in our neighbour’s backyard
Can’t forget its pain
The last episode of the last odyssey on the verge
Father says
It’s hard to forget those loose-faced, hump-backed folks.
This is the place where he sits all day long to yawn
His eyes yearns from the thick lens to touch mother’s breathing
He longs to recapitulate the reels of some unsettled issues
He tries to exhume the coffin of history
The scruffy and taciturn torso slings into the desert solitude
The migratory birds return to the nests dog-tired
At dawn the young siblings practice high-jump
My absence hunts him as a static curse.
Time speaks an unknown language in gibberish words
At the last phase at the cul-de-sac
Father is a foggy phantom, a flickering flame
And may be a lump of vacuum space
A wayfarer there winds up the journey in the stroll of smoke
A fisher man longs, waits and cogitates, for a good catch
A tandoor looks tattered and shabby at a nearby hotel
The station approaches
And the last unsung song sung twangs in jollification
All baggage is heaped like debris
Father doesn’t hear why mother’s eyes shout
Only one thing he says, they will meet again in heaven.
Body
Night wears a see-through, deep-black and low-neck couture
This whole fortnight
The moon light is a silver love wrap in this groove of solitude
Here and there the pristine porosity a balloon of solace
The disproportionate anxiousness down our spine smells the heavens.
After years of separation I knew how your presence in me
Looked just like the inside righteousness of a coconut
Your body smelled of the bur flower flavour
And mine aggressively smelled of innocent faithfulness.
Breaking the barbed intrigue, a gulf of conspiracy
We oscillated to the other world through our rebirth
Sweating, frothing and drooling day and night never stopped
How did the bosom of the spring smell then?
How did the hungry wildness softly seduce us?
A tiresome middle-aged standstill sweet breeze swathes us
And the absent eternal divinity meets at the doorpost
Our first night's disheveled breathing, perturbed bodies
Look something beyond the mimicry of ephemerality
Our monotonous heartbeats and age-old thirst get a facelift.
Pitambar Naik grew amidst paddy fields hearing heartrending folk songs and playing kabbadi in Odisha in India. He toils hard and sweats as a copywriter with words and colours in an advertising studio for a living and dreams audaciously to be a writer. His works have appeared in The New Indian Express, Hans India, Occulum, Bhashabandhan Review, HEArt Online, Coldnoon, Spark Magazine, CLRI, Indian Review, Wordweaver India, Indian Ruminations, Brown Critique, Galaxy-IMRJ, Tuck Magazine, Indian Periodical, Phenomenal Magazine, Metaphor, Dissident Voice, Muse India and elsewhere.
Summer Evening Blues
Smooth jazz, iced decaf
warm, humid, windless hour before dusk
I am perched beneath a sheltering canopy
and a thousand grey clouds ready to burst
Ash trays on empty tables
vacant chairs for no company
A tall girl with an orange barrette
her short, white, cotton dress ruffling out
just above the top of her pale, thin thighs
walks silently through double doors
Nothing else moves but prairie grass
planted for atmosphere
two feet from yellow-covered power lines
and an endless parade of cars driven by the faceless
For one moment I don't care
I am a sullen child craving succor from external saviors
I ache for autumn
I Could Be
write me a cool night, windy
jacket zipped, sleeves pulled down
hints of yesterday's storm drizzling
nothing really
call it solitude
beneath a starless haze
add a distant city bus
and a thousand tires
rolling through downtown
an omelet
made with butter please
an iron table
a black sandwich sign near the curb
swinging just enough to be noticed
a green canvas purse
on damp cement
looped to my faded denims
and me, wrapped in darkness
and streetlight
entranced by a white screen
and an obsessive desire
to recreate one moment
this hour, i am poetry
​
Heidi Baker
