The Bombay Literary Magazine

New Stuff

Category: Poetry

First Public Fighting, After Dark – by Tammy Lai-Ming Ho

i. Almost always, I think of you fondly. Like: clouds think of rain; Like: words think of sentences; Like: women think of orgasms. ii. But sometimes, dead from the shoulders down when we aggressively silently—Chomskily— protest to one another: You’re wrong. You lie. We wonder if others notice. They must. Our animosity obvious as the [...]

Review of Mihir Vatsa’s WINGMAN – by Medha Singh

Recently, a combined bundle of chapbooks by Mihir Vatsa, Nandini Dhar, Usha Akella, Manjiri Indurkar and Arjun Rajendran were released through Vayavya and Aainanagar at an event ‘Reading Five: An Evening of Poetry’ at Moti Lal Nehru college. It was a refreshing visit, that took me back to my college days when we, as English [...]

Rongtong – by Sumana Roy

The houses protrude from the hills like buck teeth. But this is no mouth. It’s like Siliguri’s rolled-up sleeve. Pink, yellow, anaemic blue – the houses, the molars. They’re like leaves, competing for light. I notice their stillness, how they never shiver from the cold. The windows rattle, I know, though I can’t hear them [...]

Dear America – by Emma Mooney

(To listen to the poet read the poem, click here.) * We ken we’ve said aw this afore But, please, lend us yer ear fur a minute. Aye, we’re jist a wee country, But we’re a wee country wi a big hert, An when Thomas Hamilton Stormed intae a schuil gym An shot dead 16 [...]

notes on trains and planes – by Priyam Goswami-Choudhury

(1) our first phone was born with me, my mother always said; my first memory of distance also comes from the phone. my father, on a Friday, calls home and tells me, “I cannot come this Saturday.” I am two. He is thirty nine. What about Sunday? “Not Sunday either, darling. I will come next [...]

Church of Our Lady of Good Health – by Sabari Nathan (tr. Vivekanand Selvaraj)

I like country churches While chicken play around in the porch, on the steps sit little girls, passing their time picking lice And almost always locked are those sacred chambers in the holy presence of drying bloody red chilies Indolently swayed across the front, dried palm crosses Resident in roof tiles are vagabond squirrels The [...]