Call me a Cat and I will purr at your touch;
Heaven and I will open my doors – lay out twinkling stars;
Senses and I will make you drool;
Water and I will be the first rains flooding your parched rivers.
Call me a Poem and I will rhyme my stanzas for you;
Sleep and I will instil smile-provoking dreams;
Warmth and I will be the wool – the winter frost moistening the window pane;
Time and I will rust your tear-evoking memories away.
Call me a flower and I will inspire a painting – hung for display at the exhibitions;
Envy and I will introduce a poet to a painter;
Hunger and I will burn your harvest away;
Thirst and I will dry off your wells; poison your rivers.
Call me Sun and I will never touch the horizons;
Moon and I will be new forever;
Tree and I will lower my branches,
yield you fruits for seasons to come.
Art by Samuel Palmer.
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would talk long and kill the day
and for night long, ask you to stay.
Taking walks on a sunny day,
we would lay down on heaves of hay.
A beauty like yours is not to be found
in a square’s angle and a circle’s round.
A gaze from you from miles afar
would slaughter men – wage a war.
Let alone be your eyes and gaze,
look at me in a hundred ways.
At the horizon when the sun has set
and the darkness has cast its net –
a sight of you is much to see,
the gazers: guilty they plea.
Resting your hand on that chin of yours,
you have me put aside all my chores.
Do you, my lady, deserve this state
of being loved at a lower rate?
I would love you till my grave is dug –
feeds on my rotting flesh the night-loving bug.
And when the night would fall in all its prime,
I would fill our glasses with well-preserved wine,
the filled glasses, with each other, would clink,
nearer to you, my lips, I would thoughtfully bring.
And if you should shy away – a bud of rose,
I would assume it’s the fate which chose,
to bring me near to you at this hour
free will against fate has, but little power.
The graves are a decorated place
but no lovers there are found to graze.
So while we have this youthful glow –
the river in its prime has its flow,
let’s swim in it for miles together,
in the calm air and stormy weather.
Time, my love, holds the final cure –
a pyre for me, a grave for you, I’m sure –
and then it shall end all our woes,
Vonnegut says: So It Goes.
So let us unroll our beds – lay down on it,
and let our mortal bodies in each other fit –
tire ourselves and sweat out,
like a battle well fought;
victory would be ours, I proclaim thus,
if only my love you do not make a fuss.
Inspired by To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell.
Art by Choin Im.
Give me a poem, won’t you —
you post-modern brat?
Little Daisy Minx.
Yeah, keep spinning in circles.
It reminds me of my Indie Dream.
Your ikr and ffs…
Netflix and aesthetics…
In a shower of memes,
you self-cure your existential crisis.
And for some reason,
punctuations and capitalisation
But your privileged existential crisis,
it still does exist.
Oh, you millennial biscuit!
You drive this Beatnik mad.
A poem by Phalguni Yumnam.
Art by Roy Lichtenstein.
Detention post classes
feels like drowning a fish
Writing haikus post class
in the laps of the mistress
Sarah walks in, in blue,
and the blue fountain ink
flushes in her colours.
Let’s fetch some water
from the fountain of our
We have all
“To hell with God,”
for her arms were heaven.
Very clean strokes
in the art of
Art has no rules,
and flicks her cigarette away in style.
50 poems in a day;
I can go on writing
if you love me enough.
Winter is coming,
and I lie in the cave –
the warmth of her breasts.
The smell of her hair
reminds me of
the much-awaited monsoon.
Art by Brent Lynch.