Poet of the Month
Photograph by Naomi Woddis Rishi Dastidar
Ghostmakers In the eastern village we are making ghosts, although our seductive imprecation – “Come in our house, we want to hurt you!” – is not having the desired effect. Perhaps we should have chosen a different venue, one where distressed bricks don’t offer up scratches as hugs, or the white-out windows avoid incarceration behind rusting bars. Instead all we have to give is the ferocious smell of modernity rotting, disguised as a tidal wave of black rubbish bags. Oh for any sheen of beauty the arc light of history might find: it touches the only art left to us: the sepia haze of a fading cloud. ©Rishi Dastidar
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