Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
All morning, I chase you like a bunny
after a sunbeam. My motivation—to pose
riddles to marinate time—what glowers
under a blanket like a red nostril, a damp
lung? The answer is what I’d name an asteroid
if I were still not over you. Little denial. Lots
of glue. A sealed envelope. A lot happens
in the gloaming between the blanket
and the body. All I see are printed roses blooming
in wild abandon inside silver borders
of my dark red blanket. It’s the kind of synergy
that turns a superhero, about to land on the moon
loving terrace of a shaky skyscraper, wistful.
On the street below, squirrels gnaw foliage
to scatter meaning. Silhouettes absorb ruptures
of thunder. If it rains, you can count on me
to not carry my umbrella. Such impracticality
is also the reason why I harbor ambitions
to dance with you sober. Even Alexander
after conquering half the world craved
to write the perfect poem for his beloved.
This was before he died young. Human life
expectancy back then in 4th century BC could well
have been somewhere between 20 and 30 years. Word
travels over time; my reading speed diminishes.
In an art gallery in Lucknow, I stand next
to a child. He giggles, looking at the painting
of a king whose left nipple stands exposed
between the gold borders of his robe. I envy
the kid his delight. That I’m utterly shocked
by the nakedness of the pear shaped breast
is embarrassing. Later I learn this king
was a poet, the ghazal his favorite
form. That he married more
than 300 times, I think, is a real commitment
to ceremony. A somewhat similar spell of devotion,
not in scale but intensity perhaps, I imagine
I was under while following directions
from a map of ruins. I kept going straight more
or less, and wherever compelled
by taxonomy, took turns. Mostly down, sometimes
across. In fading daylight, my trails made
the intersecting geometry of a crossword puzzle.
In this game, you’re free to make your own
clues. Last time I played I took months to reach
a lake. First I thought it was a mirage. But a stranger
slipped. I almost drowned. The dreaming brain became
indisputably my most sexual organ.
The poem couldn’t care less.