This poem is taken from Stand 230, 19(2) June - August 2021.
Martyr
They laid him out in his coffin like a puppet. Flowers strewn about his body concealed his features. His arms, crossed at the wrists, preoccupied me greatly.
When they brought my martyred brother home, I was just a little boy. I did not care about the religious rites or ceremonies then. There was something that wrenched inside my heart: when my mother forcefully pressed me to her bosom, I smelled the scent of fire coming out of him.
...
When they brought my martyred brother home, I was just a little boy. I did not care about the religious rites or ceremonies then. There was something that wrenched inside my heart: when my mother forcefully pressed me to her bosom, I smelled the scent of fire coming out of him.
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are already a member and have not received your login details, please email us, including your name and address, and we will supply you with details of how to access the archived material.
If you are not a member and would like to enjoy the growing online archive of Stand Magazine, containing poems, articles, prose and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are already a member and have not received your login details, please email us, including your name and address, and we will supply you with details of how to access the archived material.
If you are not a member and would like to enjoy the growing online archive of Stand Magazine, containing poems, articles, prose and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
