June 2017

Dear readers,
Welcome to the June issue of the Wrong Review. We feature three poets this month: Amulya, Aekta and Yashi. Yashi’s poetry has a brevity to it. One of the functions of poetry is to inspire, and her poetry does that well. But beyond mere inspirations, they are also beautiful and bear the scars of linguistic cutting down. The short lines and even shorter one word sentences add to the atmosphere of unspoken losses in her poetry. It is within this frail sky that the stars in her poetry shines through.  Aekta’s works are clever and certainly possess poetic imagination. It is often difficult to contemplate how a singular object has an an overwhelming presence in our lives. True to her obsession, the poem “Red” is an experiment on these lines and crafts the various iterations of red in our everyday existence. Her poems let out a beat and rhythm that is like a mantra or chant. Amulya’s poems are intelligent meditations on love, freedom and poetry. The images of the metal and its evolution across “Storage 101” is interesting for cultural and poetic reasons. Her poem intervenes and fashions metal in its own cultural colours and the poem shines through as an elegantly composed work. The second poem “Angulimala” is more complex. The poem speaks about female freedom and reminds us of the monstrous figure of Angulimala who undergoes a transformation on meeting the Buddha. However in the poem, Angulimala is more a rebel than a deviant. He becomes a symbol of resistance. The third poem is very poignant in considering the poet-figure and derives its strength from its refrain. Hope you folks enjoy this issue. If you would like to send poems of your own or wish to give us feedback feel free to email the editor at thewrongreview@gmail.com

Three Poems by Amulya B

Storage 101

If physical contact is to determine the extent of love
The yellow metal is as lonely as the deity in the sanctum sanctorum,
Only to be touched by few: briefly, ritualistically, in abysmal frequency.
After all, the precious metal is not behind the cupboard doors,
But in the kitchen, used and abused by aunts, mothers and grandmothers.
The stainless exterior has withstood your terrible twenties;
Despite being thrown across the floor, it still remains stainless–
With the names of your relatives whom you have never met, shining under the April sun.

I’m told, all that glitters need not be love,
For, only on the stainless steel can it truly last.

I am Angulimala

On days,
When the summer heat does not yield,
I don’t have to step outside
To hear the voices of bare-chested men
Telling me how I need to wear
Something that suits
This respectable residential community.
As if their respectability depends on
The length of my skirt, the sleeves of my shirt.
On days,
When the rain does not stop
I become a superhero without a sidekick
Fighting the anonymous asshole on the
Other side of the screen, sharing gifs of
Women being beaten to death by their husbands.
They quip in smug confidence, “Chill, you need a dick to suck on,”
“Give me yours”, I tell them, “Give me yours,
So that I can cut it off of you
And make a necklace out
Of it,
And wear it like Angulimala in the wilderness
And dance to the rhythm of
the
Music, that my neighbour would disapprove saying
It is unsuitable for a girl.

There’s Nothing Here

If you’re a poet, I’m told, you must have had your heart-broken.
No such luck, I say, to the agents of cheer, who disbelievingly
Move towards their next artefact: Slipping their cards while
Sipping their drinks. My heart’s still intact—and it seems
It is bad for business.
If you’re a poet, I’m told, you must have had your heart-broken.
Oh yes—I tell them sometime: when I’m bored (so to have some fun)
Or when I’m craving (for a connection).
“The hammer did strike, but nothing was broken”.
Many things were indeed taken (This is perhaps true).
He walked away as well as I: The see-saw broke, right in the middle.
Dark side did not take him; but, saffron did—and it’s pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?
If you’re a poet, I’m told, you must have had your heart-broken.
Oh, I honestly do not know. My heart is not made of glass or earth to shatter like a star.
It is Vulcanized rubber: insulated from the thrill of electric charge,
Impervious—nothing goes in or comes out. As isolated as Nemo.
But, apply heat in the right places and see the muscle crack.
All it needs is an anchor—to hold it in the right place,
So as to not stray away. Beckoning sand misses the beat—
Repeatedly. (I can play skip rope with it)

If you’re a poet, I’m told, you need to live passionately.
Ah, passion is a fool’s fruit.
I live cautiously:
Skull and the bones light my path and hence,
I might have missed my shot (to go for the shores).

Amulya is a recent graduate of MA Cultural Studies from Goldsmiths, University of London. Her prose and poetry has previously been published in The Orange Frame Literary Review, E-fiction India, A Literation among others. She also writes in Kannada and enjoys the process of translation between two languages.

Three Poems by Aekta K

Leave

I want you to leave
Unfold yourself
Stretch your arms
Touch your toes
Pack a few clothes
Fill your pockets with lost memories
Let lose of hope and faith and belief
Wear those torn dungarees
That white t-shirt that smells of milk powder
Leave the left over chocolate bar behind
The one that tastes like me and more coffee
A few cigarettes to this abode
A ship matchbox and tissue papers
You have better friends than those
Keep them on the side table that corners our frame
Don’t forget your specs, your shades,
Your perfume, you smell, your touch
your pencil sketches and songs
Take them all along
Squeeze it in
Sit and jump and pack that fat bag
And I know it’ll be heavy
So I’ll just come along.

Breathe

We bend rubber
We shave pencil
We fold paper
We blot ink
We undress our skin
We undress our clothes
We peel fruits
We cook vegetables
Burn them red in a yellow pool of oil
We eat cake and we eat more cake
We stare at the television screen
We look at our reflection in the mirror
We paint nails
We taint our lips
We chew gum between our teeth
We spray perfume
We try to diffuse the heart gloom
We tear paper
We turn page
We open windows
We draw curtains
We bang doors
We fold clothes
We wire up our chargers
We drink cups of coffee
We drink glasses of whisky
We glue our lips to paper cigarettes
We skip breakfast
We measure our waist
We weigh our body and flesh
We rub our dark circles
We blow our noses
We snort and snore
We forget to sleep
We forget to wake up
We forget to dream
We forget to imagine
We emote, remotely
But we breathe, don’t we?

Red

I am red,
Tainting hands of victims
Of those who’ve been stabbed
And, not of the ones
Who choose to chop and slab.

I am red,
Hugging breasts and bones
In deceptive long robes.

I am red,
Kissing lips and spreading love
Through more than just finger tips.

I am red,
Marking boundaries and making rules
Spitting ink
And correcting human fools.

I am red,
Staining pants on days of pain
And driving girls insane.

I am red,
Painted on cubes
Ruling games
Over human brains.

I am red,
Pumping fluids and liquids
And bodily organs.

I am red,
Making one not just pause
But also to stop
And take a breath.

I am red,
Crowning a few heads
And making their necks
Scream and stretch.

I am red,
You are
With me
In some way fed.

I am red.

Aekta Khubchandani wears the color red on her head but loves to work in black and white. She is the author of the story “Together,” that has been published and printed in Mosaic: An Anthology of Short Stories. She also has her work featured in the Aerogram, Mad Swirl, Terribly Tiny Tales and the Quail Bell Magazine. She performs poetry, writes short fiction, life articles and illustrates a few in ink and print. She is currently working on her novel.

Three Poems by Yashi Srivastava

Warriors

find a calm
quiet place
inside you. go
live there today. before
you wear your
armour &
take on the world
tomorrow.

You’re the Universe.

when you’re made of stars
nothing can destroy you.
break you. yes.
but destroying you
would require a whole
new universe to be born. and
your soul is pure enough
to weave your heart
back in shape. and
let you shine more
with each passing day
stay strong. because
beautiful souls
are ruined every day. but
it’s your enigmatic energy
that helps you get back up
and walk through the fire.
every . single. time.

Nights Like Tonight
there are nights
when i curl up in my bed. and
let the darkness take over.
for that’s how
i learn to

break into a star.

Yashi is a poet at heart, a traveler by soul, a lawyer by qualification and a writer by passion. She believes in simple living, and often escapes regular life to admire the beauty of the majestic Himalayas. Her work has been published in a number of national and international anthologies and her Instagram page, Wingedpen has a following of more than 7500 people.

 

Editor:
Arul Benito Gerard

The Wrong Review is a monthly poetry journal. Submission guidelines can be read here.