Star Literature

Poetry / Reminiscent

I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding

FICTION / My London: An immigrant story

You land in London with £210 in your pocket. It is the year 2009. You are able to pay the first month’s rent for the room, but not the deposit. You have to share it with an acquaintance from Dhaka. He arrived a week prior.

POETRY / Not everyone looks at the sky with the same weighted heart

Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one

Fiction / Terrible tea, terrible life choices

But I guess Ivan did not choose wisely. It was a series of unfortunate events with him and now, he was stuck with Rebecca–and there was still six hours 46 minutes left in this office cubicle.

Poetry / Prompts

The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”. 

Poetry / The colour of revolution is red

And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude

POETRY / Love, when you’re an adrenaline junky

And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall

BOOK REVIEW: FICTION / The occult thrills of ‘The Centre’

Rarely does a book arrive, a debut no less, that feels as inventive and accomplished as Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi’s The Centre. Her novel is built on the crossroads of interpretation and ownership, of the power of language and of those privileged enough to reclaim it.

The brilliance of Bibhutibhushan: Of sensations, details, and accentual intimacy

Bibhuti Babu’s pen tenderly reveals the nudity of apparently disturbing feelings and emotions that we are so ashamed and afraid to accept and express.

September 23, 2023
September 23, 2023

Reminiscent

I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding

September 23, 2023
September 23, 2023

Not everyone looks at the sky with the same weighted heart

Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one

September 23, 2023
September 23, 2023

My London: An immigrant story

You land in London with £210 in your pocket. It is the year 2009. You are able to pay the first month’s rent for the room, but not the deposit. You have to share it with an acquaintance from Dhaka. He arrived a week prior.

September 22, 2023
September 22, 2023

Terrible tea, terrible life choices

But I guess Ivan did not choose wisely. It was a series of unfortunate events with him and now, he was stuck with Rebecca–and there was still six hours 46 minutes left in this office cubicle.

September 21, 2023
September 21, 2023

Prompts

The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”. 

September 16, 2023
September 16, 2023

The colour of revolution is red

And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude

September 16, 2023
September 16, 2023

Love, when you’re an adrenaline junky

And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall

September 14, 2023
September 14, 2023

The occult thrills of ‘The Centre’

Rarely does a book arrive, a debut no less, that feels as inventive and accomplished as Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi’s The Centre. Her novel is built on the crossroads of interpretation and ownership, of the power of language and of those privileged enough to reclaim it.

September 12, 2023
September 12, 2023

The brilliance of Bibhutibhushan: Of sensations, details, and accentual intimacy

Bibhuti Babu’s pen tenderly reveals the nudity of apparently disturbing feelings and emotions that we are so ashamed and afraid to accept and express.

September 9, 2023
September 9, 2023

The matriarchy of food

It is a truth universally acknowledged that food is the undisputed sixth love language that Gary Chapman forgot to mention in his 1992 book. Or maybe it’s just the gastronome in me speaking.