We write because we must.  Poetry is born of sorrow and joy, love and loss, triumph and disaster.  It is inspired by sunset and sunrise, by spring flowers and winter snow, and it comes to us, almost painfully, seeking a way out, a way forward, a way towards and we wrestle with words, with images, with rhyme and intense feelings until suddenly, there it is, on the page, the poem – our poem, eager to be read, anxious to be felt.

featured poem

by Suchitra Lata

At the crossing
which runs east west
I merge with south north
yet quite apart
green smiles along blue
sun mints a coin
called moon
Miss or missus
scars which are kisses
have inverted myself
into a riddle of metaphors
inventing an illusory phoenix
out of whimsical restlessness
I read the silence in between
the lows and highs
of the graph
making a body
shaped out of stars
again I ask for star readings
amnesia starts early
my shadow sees
storms in every sky
and every once in a while
I see the lightning answer