The Bombay Literary Magazine

New Stuff

Ravine Ghazal – by Anvesh Jain

Beauty in stillness, evinced by dead flowers in milkjugs. I found untold power hidden at the ravine. November in Toronto is a shameful grey, with slurries, and piss, dour hiking trips to the ravine. Man on the bridge: You’re not welcome here. Bring immigration papers—he glowered from the ravine. Suspicion begets suspicions for truth seekers. […]

Death in February – by Huzaifa Pandit

Once upon a routine death, February snow wears a cold night in its cataracted eyes, and sets out to meet fellow occupants of fresh obituaries in stale newspapers. Obituaries That seek asylum from winter drought in lost samovars of salted tea served with warm butter at funerals of young militants to thirsty mourners. Thirsty mourners […]

This Poem is Deliberately Untitled – by Dr. H S Anupama (tr. Kamalakar Bhat)

If my clothes get torn, I mend them If soiled, I wash them If I find no clothes I will walk nude like you, Akka, but How do I wash the dirt on a dress not worn? If my sandal’s straps come undone, I’ll repair them Left with a single shoe, will put it away […]

The Mud Fort of Khiva – by Priya Sarukkai Chabria

Crenulated by ancient toil this wall of sand stands against the sky and stretches. At night it turns homely: restaurants light up its alleys. We get drunk on its shrunken size and our escape from the guide’s intoning of its history. Especially the slave chambers, ferret holes in which they were shoved, stacked and sold […]

Four poems – by Avinab Datta-Areng

Sunday Sunlight and anxiolytic flora drink themselves silly; an eastern pinch of sky blurts like it forgot to take its pills. The worm has wept all Sunday while you were reading the newspaper. Of watering the taste of a fleck of midnight fruit between your teeth. Of the hummingbird, disturbed by the sound of hideous […]

Anti-Body Poem – by Yamini Krishnan

Have you ever tried to slip out of your skin? Not in the way that means sad girls and nights of warped mirrors shoulders shrugging into themselves— this is not a poem about my body. Can a poem secede from the hands that write it? I am welded to myself, to my ones and zeros […]