In Grandpa’s Garage
newly built an inch wider to regain
the stolen boundary taken by the neighbour’s new fence.
Everything placed around the edges is a space
for grandad’s Ford Popular I let rot on my dad’s driveway,
so it had to be taken away. Turpentine and dripped paint, swarfega
and rotted grass cuttings, small Golden Syrup tins, strawberry jam
glass bottles full of nails, light grey concrete flags lean against each other
dominoes caught in mid fall. Old bicycle clips to hold back the flap
of his uniform trousers as he rode up and down Harrogate hills
on his official black Post Office bike.
Memories must be binned, charity shopped or auctioned.
by Paul Brookes
A sacred temple it seems to be, or perhaps Plato’s cave
illumined by the good sun, enlightenment streams upon
Precious relics, contraptions to some, laid in order, nuts
bolts tools nails and pails, brushes brooms and sticks
Collected in time, oleaginous ? No, polished defying
destructive distortion, ask the one who perceives them
As priceless treasures.
What tins and cans magically dark
what pieces white in artistic grandeur
Wires draping coiled or swinging low ,
like lace, and on golden black patched
Carpet rests the sharp tailed royal Chevy
so loved valued , a vintage, a passionate
Revelation, engulfed in oil scented aura
tranced in multifarious colors- transformed-
Ah to another garage in another time where
a jute woven charpoy, an Indian hookah placed
As serving guard, a pair of rubber slippers
on the floor, packing crates stacked with some
old used leather suitcases , a small wooden table
a jug and glass and some books, was all the label
doorless space but with a roof, illumined by
the good sun, smoke rising from the mud stove
The aura of freshly cooked wheat filled the air.
By Anjum Wasim Dar
Stars are already dead
or are dead people stars…
after leaving earth and
he becomes one because
he doesn’t wish to leave!
Myth has it that he passes
out in the mornings. That’s
codswallop. Fact is that
he sleeps underneath
the blanket of the clouds.
Delhi often misses seeing
its forefathers and it has
only itself to blame:
Smog is such that stars
Stars are the ghosts
that we can see with
our naked eyes
After death, one becomes
a Big-Boss. One can see
everything. Just can’t
speak up. Sometimes his
sound manifests into our inner
voice. It refrains us from
between us and our ancestors.