Latest news with #LopamudraBasu
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03-07-2025
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Vivimarie Vanderpoorten
Stories written by 'Why do we submit? / to fracturing?': A poetry anthology of South Asian women's traumas An excerpt from 'Sing, Slivered Tongue: An Anthology of South Asian Women's Poetry of Trauma in English', edited by Lopamudra Basu and Feroza Jussawalla. Lopamudra Basu , Feroza Jussawalla , Vivimarie Vanderpoorten & Soniah Kamal · 5 minutes ago 'War? In this land? / Who told you?': There's a new anthology of Sri Lankan poetry in translation 'Out of Sri Lanka: Tamil, Sinhala and English Poetry from Sri Lanka and its Diasporas,' edited by Vidyan Ravinthiran, Seni Seneviratne, and Shash Trevett.
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03-07-2025
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Soniah Kamal
Stories written by 'Why do we submit? / to fracturing?': A poetry anthology of South Asian women's traumas An excerpt from 'Sing, Slivered Tongue: An Anthology of South Asian Women's Poetry of Trauma in English', edited by Lopamudra Basu and Feroza Jussawalla. Lopamudra Basu , Feroza Jussawalla , Vivimarie Vanderpoorten & Soniah Kamal · 4 minutes ago Girls from good families do not write such stories 'How could I have such vile, such vulgar thoughts? Was I trying to be sensationalistic in order to become famous and rich? Was I trying to impress the West?' Soniah Kamal · Mar 01, 2015 · 07:30 am
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03-07-2025
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Feroza Jussawalla
Stories written by 'Why do we submit? / to fracturing?': A poetry anthology of South Asian women's traumas An excerpt from 'Sing, Slivered Tongue: An Anthology of South Asian Women's Poetry of Trauma in English', edited by Lopamudra Basu and Feroza Jussawalla.
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03-07-2025
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‘Why do we submit? / to fracturing?': A poetry anthology of South Asian women's traumas
White Roses by Lopamudra Basu Today, I click on Kolkata Gifts Online and order thirty white roses in a vase for you. Ma sends me the photo of the roses and tuberoses and the jasmine garland all adorning your face today. Two years ago, in that May of hell's heat and destruction there were no garlands. Flower sellers banished from the city like vermin thought to spread the plague, dying of thirst on the way, walking hundreds of miles, sometimes with no shoes Today, life goes on as usual in New York, New Delhi and Kolkata – do people even remember that there was no firewood or earth to bury the dead? No flights from Minneapolis or Chicago not even a phone call to hear you in the hospital. We have said often that we have to think of it as a natural disaster, an earthquake or a cyclone like Amphan that tore you away Except, it was not a forest fire and more a Chernobyl with many forewarnings. Two years later, so many names whispered by the wind, and so many lives like leaves blown away. So many souls still unmourned and some like the white roses in the vase pressed forever in memory's folds. Fractured by Feroza Jussawalla A purple pensiveness falls over me, as I contemplate fractured bodies and purple passions. Who will love me now, at sixty-six, with lumpectomied one and half breasts and a bulging inguinal hernia caused by moving boxes after the radical hysterectomy of cancers past. None will hold women broken and fragmented, afraid to touch cracked glass, like shards of crystal glassware, resulting from being, dropped in the deliberate abandonment of betrayals, wrought by those who should have loved us. Why do we submit? to fracturing? Grief is too painful to contemplate in purple pensiveness. Can we be Kintsugi'd? Using gold, to fill the cracks of my life, has become too burdensome— I will remain, 'feroza,', scarred with pyrite, copper turquoise, they call it in India, Nishapuri, like my Persian origins, Sonoran gold, in my new desert home, where sand pours through cracks like a sieve, unrepairable! Parrot (Trincomalee, Sri Lanka, ten years after the end of the war) by Vivimarie Vanderpoorten The woman who lost her son in the war shows me his framed photograph. But in his smile there is no hint of wrists firing a gun nor the shadow of hands hurling grenades in his clothes, no hint of a striped uniform. Like the parrot she now keeps caged and in whose wings she has clipped. there is no trace of the possibility of flight. But as the parrot hops around in his iron cage you can see the memory of freedom in his eyes a home land, branches and green fields in his now non-existent wings Evening of the 4th of July by Soniah Kamal She applies lipstick to her reflection in the dark of the computer monitor her face the bones of shadow play the color mute as she drags a red pencil she'd brought from the dollar store clearance bin to keep her lips in though she will fill them up like padded bosoms with a clear plumping serum that shines and winks no matter how dark the screen that conceals the peacock blue and green; the bruiser kiss She did not want she could not stop.
