Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Rain lashes against my mossy window
swelling the river in my eye’s basin.
I thank them for this.
I too have wanted to be a comma
punctuating air,
slanting & unslanting at will,
saying things only possible
in a sound water makes when cupped by trembling fingers
from a sky’s pour.
Is that the sound of memory?
In the corners of this green eyed sleep,
I try tracing my spit to my mouth―
the only kind of water I make.
I then find myself swinging on a balcony
overlooking Bombay’s din.
I see ladies huddling for hours on a farm somewhere in Odisha
or my mind’s retreat.
Oh yes, I had wanted to offer them
my words and tea.
But I ran away when they called my name.
Another time, on the first day of playschool
I didn’t even answer
as if naming myself
would diminish my charm.
Now my name is as much mine as my spit.
Sticks to me like eternal chewing gum
on the pinkgreased sole
of my worn out heart.
It doesn’t care about charm anymore,
it only beats to the quality of blood
I pump for a throbbing sustenance.
Don’t you see―
how we’re all here for a pleasure in posterity.