The below texted is pasted from Leafe Press website — https://www.littermagazine.com/2021/01/review-saree-shop-by-shringi-kumari.html
Shringi Kumari is an Indian poet currently resident in the UK. This collection is dedicated to the poet’s mother, and celebrates the women of South Asia, investigates their place in a patriarchal society and addresses the relationship between different generations of women. The focus is on gender politics as well as post-colonialism and the…
The wind rushes onto piles and piles of cement. Her magnet jaw attracts all the flakes of thunder.
Yellow edges of a night roll outwards. A gelatine infused day finds too many suspended theories in its body. All the ships become sugar and the rivers become scraped dinner tables. A life is carved out of its impressions and caricatures. Elbows of little kids climb unknown walls. Their ankles clatter like vessels left loose in an oversized cardboard box.
The eyes are suspended in fog: searching slowly for nothing but dots. To count them. To know one can see. Ears are…
The gypsy stone doesn’t seem to find its strings. A ruptured alphabet seeks two tongues and five pairs of teeth. They march (remember their sand-beaten hips) balanced on their torched marble feet. A sheet of purples and blue swim faster than its fishes. The stone pounces on letters arranging themselves into earlobes. Hearing all the crackled words popping in the mouth of new born poets. They rinse their mouth with stones and it works their blood into a sea. The stone tosses from one jaw to another. …
mask the minds canals
No birds sing but they just buzz around
in circular epiphanies
-possibilities of flight
I think of your amethyst paintings
the way you lay out autumn for these birds to feed
Words become anklets to this unrestful leg of a painter
her hands buzz over the paper
words leave the paintbrush
and autumn becomes a dictionary
the fluttering of the waves
branches of the night
there is too much saliva on the color-mixer
It steals that lux from our amethyst
The writing drips like rainwater…
The horizon breaks every moon I rest on its elbows.
It throws toys at me. Aimed directly at my belly. It knows I can eat clay and live in the shadows of water.
The horizon screams for attention in its absence. Where am I, it asks while merging with the beginning and the end.
The label of a writer is the same as any other label- a handwritten sticky note on a repurposed jar. Bring me to the front rows- make me the holder of rice. …
I am signing off as an editor of BNG. BNG was Ashley Evenson’s baby and dream (at least as I saw it) and I was happy to jump on this when she asked me to. We became partners. To me BNG was always about inclusivity and challenging the way we think and create art — in a way that we slowly expand and become patient and tolerant towards one another. I think Ashley Evenson always wanted it to be a safe place for ‘outsiders’. Ironically, Ashley and I had diverse visions for BNG and diverse approaches which made BNG special…
Through the blinding turns of language
To the nouns that settle at the bottom of glasses brimming with soda
To the wordlets rising like bubbles only to be cut by the liquid
I blink poetry
Blink poetry is the form that rises when sound barely makes it to the sea
The water separates from air like a lover sucked by the military
Words gallop for the breath and the soul to follow
Children of the word gulp down milk at night and more soda at birthdays
Young children lust after what adults cannot fathom
They blinked through those ages when…
Scratched into steel — the photography of the outside vision
[The flip side of a sunny side up. Birthmarks — scratches. screeches — lines of yolk everywhere]
— Okay, here is the poem —
Even from a tower, vehicle tyre sounds roll in the sinks of this house.
Even at an inclination, this house is a bus — filled with fumes of lost experiments
A ghost train. A ghost argument. A ghost night
burns in the candles: headlights of this bus
Those letters written from the road, hang in my photo room
They dry and get wet again and then they…