Dear friends,

At last, I write to you from the fairer shores of Canada. For a long time, we’ve held our breath for obvious political reasons. These last three years, my first time living outside of New Delhi, have been beautiful and freeing in more ways than I can count. But as a sociopolitical being the last few years have been horrible to witness. And arriving here, crossing that border, has felt like a really long and loud sigh. And since cursing clears the throat and cleans the head: Fuck Trump. Hah. Also: Free Palestine. All people everywhere should be free, and all children deserve nothing but love. It is one of the purest shames of our times that either of those sentences reads as controversial to anyone, anywhere.

That’s all for this time. I wish you a most beautiful summer. May your pillows remain forever cool and you’re blessed with rain or sunshine in as much abundance as you desire. May your hearts remain open, welcoming and kind toward everything, even hatred and bigotry, which need our understanding far more than they deserve it. May you continue to find the strength to fight the good fight, whichever fight is yours, individual or social. And may the alphabet sing to you forever and ever.

Yours,

​Karan​

from A Poem for Texan Summertime

Rain’s been so heavy, the herons
fall from Live Oak limbs
like pennies down a thin well. A girl
was strangled and thrown into
the bayou, again and again. I saw
a man so hungry, he ate his own
beard for breakfast. The heat
here makes everyone crazy, boils
our hearts into hate.

Performances in Poetry

Clifton was born with twelve fingers; mark of a beast! Sexton believed herself to be her own naughty God. It’s just me and the Bus Stop Madonna in this poem; my stupidity is performed, her Jesus is figurative. What are we really ashamed of here, anyway? The thing or the performance of the thing?

Open Submission Call

Best New Poems ☆ Previously published work⁠ only

Deadline: May 31st @ Midnight EST