Poetry
FROM SCARBOROUGH FAIR '15
My mother dyes her hair on Sundays,
takes the steely grey out of her curls.
All the gleam that framed her so strikingly,
flooded with a youthful blackness,
a fresh shade of ‘carbon’.
Bombarded by wave upon wave of aimless art seekers,
we squeeze between the high-heeled, lipsticked cattle.
Bundled and undone, we bump, we scrape – tripping
along streetcar rails. “Welcome—” it says, “Welcome
to the rowdy-rivered ruckus.” Dragging me behind you,
I walk in skip steps, deer dodging the drunken boys
hoisted upon shoulders, play-fighting in the open
air. We brush by with eyes wandering, tracing parodied
patterns of crisscrossed feet.
You are the sound I spit out
as I lust over vanilla dip donuts —
the “get ready. set. go.” of the boy
I’ll never forget — the stifled
Why do you seduce me so
Sweet October? September sweeps
The summer winds and
You bring in the cold.
A
natural
skyscraper
made of molehills
stands its ground as
it’s slammed with storms
and shrouded with clouds.
A poem by Oubah Osman
stormy standstill woman, a languid, smokeless fire over american planes. what could be of her, her with thighs and many, many hues?
A poem by by Rumaisa Khan
Van Gogh was considered insane
trapped within the cold bricks of his asylum, cherishing each bristle to his paintbrush
that stroked masterpieces of a depressing reality —
a supposed figment of his twisted mind
a poem by Victoria Loder
Come away with me
Build paper lanterns by the firelight
Let them float into the stars and become one with the maroon
a poem by Nazaneen Kaliwal
Ever-changing seasons know not the grace with which you come and go
a piece by Kosan Shafaque
To live in books is to
choose an existence of infinite happiness and limitless emptiness,
recognize that naught is superior to your beloved, papery companions,
accept that real-life people in real-life flesh are now ruined for you,
acknowledge that no place can be grander than the description of it,
believe in the higher wisdom of the spells that spellings create,
and fall prey to worlds that subsist only in dimensions of the metaphysical type.
a piece by John Dias
I am a visitor here. I stand alone on the pier watching a young woman. I hear her speaking in the common tongue; I don`t understand her words, but they intertwine with my thoughts. I try to make sense of her foreign, elusive utterances...
A peice by Sally Vusi
Mine is a problem not uncommon. I feel burdened with the need to speak out but the lack of ability to do so. However, to put it so simply would be a grave understatement.
A poem by John Dias
Dear Stella,
You remain like a naive childhood memory:
One night, stars crawled over the beach as I would,
While I tunnelled my feet through the damp sand.
I thought myself immovable in the light breeze.
But my garments became pennants that were
thrown around when the strong winds came.
I was a tearing pinwheel in their current when I first saw
how fast things could change.
A poem by John Dias
Water wavers in this ceramic cup.
This wishing well that was to be my home
Now holds the tinges of an ashtray.
A poem by Nazaneen Kaliwal
The air is humid, but dry enough to start a fire
to warm the shallow cavities within me.
My lungs are punctured.
You donate air as quickly as you steal my breath.
Winners wear medals on top of pyramids
and look down at the losers,
though some say winners only look ahead of themselves,
always trying to find a way to achieve more,
never content to win once, starving to find crumbs of
the essence of success only to consume it whole and move
on. I escaped from citizenship in order
to speak out, grappling at the hope for freedom and free will.