RISE ABOVE ALL ODDS

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fears and failures

Posted by RISEN ZINE on 18 March

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Photography, writing, and playlist by anonymous

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No Country

"Kisi ke baap ka Hindustaan thodi hai." — Rahat Indori, an Urdu poet from Indore who was detained during the Emergency for calling the government a bunch of thugs.

in the audience was a child my age every year belted schoolboy in the lot of parked buses singing hum honge kaamyab ek din i cannot tell him this our days discover whole maps discover floorboards laugh like children but in the afternoon the blood below our knees froths pledge allegiance where are you from? where are your parents from? & the police rounds everywhere like the year of partition the year of no country wants you to smile in portraits. you know it's true but you don't say the wall pretended to be ground ground pretended to be house house pretended to be full of people. night after night after neck without blood we knew better the playground dirt wrists pounding body musk god save voice yells & faces wither from their faces like garland of sweat oil runs toward the fields b…

Greyhound Racing: Culture or Cruelty?

Artwork: Laura Fuentes

Kind of Blue

[Image description: Two monochromes by Yves Klein that have been manipulated, one to look like a torn photograph, the other to look like it’s under shattered glass. The photograph has the text “It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one’s solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem,” and the broken glass reads “Mostly I have found myself becoming a servant of sadness. I am still looking for the beauty in that.” Both of these lines come from Maggie Nelson’s Bluets] Article and art by Sam Moore
Kind of Blue I Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a book about a colour. I read Maggie Nelson’s Bluetsfor an Oxford class on the limits of genre when it comes to non-fiction, and what it means when something that’s ostensibly about “objective truth” or “life writing,” crosses a line and becomes something else; like the autobiographical, semi-poetic fragments of Bluets, or the breathless auto-fiction/theory of Chris Kraus. It makes perfect sense that after readin…

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