Sandip Sahoo
Sandip Sahoo is a student at National
Institute of Technology, Rourkela, India.  
Fiction and  poetry  have been his  passion,
imagery and diction his forte. This is his
first appearance in a literary journal.
    HOLY RIVER

    Hot. Warm. Perfumed.
    Sun kissed waters lap feet.
    The conches uproariously proclaim
    To the sky, the Goddess is come!
    And their sounds mingle
    With slokas, bird calls and boom boxes.

    Her chariot on Goodyears
    Comes to halt at the sun
    Kissed waters so wanton.
    Razors shift and wink
    On a rippling river that craves
    To slice and sneak away.

    Young hands, restless for a grip,
    Relieve her of her tiresome posture.
    All hands! Heave-Ho!
    A priest mumbles a jumble
    And the sun burns their backs;
    Their hears loll in heedless joy
    Under the influence of bhang.

    She, red-tongued one with
    Skulls round her neck and tilak
    On her forehead,
    Angry eyes dilating,
    Is hacked piece-by-piece
    By razor sharp waters.
    For self, taking along
    A boy, given the slip
    By a mossy stone.



    REVOLUTION

    When mores are trampled over, gore's a chore, not lore.
    Whims and fancies shall seek refuge
    In the annals of time, not so for flesh and blood.
    For now, prone is the crone before the gaudy whore.

    Megalomaniacs alone, dream of a singular kingdom
    Democratic bums think up new factions.
    A continuum of politics, its jaundiced eyes seek
    Amidst anorexic multitudes, gluttony and grease.

    More autonomy for the few spineless
    There's freedom on a leash for the oppressed.
    Guileless kids wave flags, new sweetmeats for all
    Troubled is the sleep of newly awakened droves.

    Down the aisle, of aimless shame
    Apathy and avarice walk hand in hand.
    Fall by the wayside, pungent promises
    Blooms through concrete; a flower, incendiary red.

    The wind is buffeted by unblemished philosophy
    Pamphlets, bullet riddled drift in the slipstream.
    Giddy on impotence in the taverns of reality
    Drinking up the lies, can't stomach the truth.

    By a muster of arms, by the show of hands
    Follows a pregnant pause, the interlude.

    On the Ferris Wheel, the white rats halt.
    At twilight, don't know, whether dawn or dusk.
    What is outrageous now, was admissible a time ago
    When the mascara's off, she’s still, but a whore.