Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Exhilaration. When the white drowns in ink. Breathless and expanding. Like spreading bushfire. Devouring the blank spaces as it hurtles forward and sideways. Leaping. Dancing. Jumping over hurdles. Unstoppable. Words revealing their secret. Line after line writ in stone. Tablets that rise like a tower. Brick upon brick of glowing prose. Inspiring embers that fly off in every possible direction. Each sparking a family tree of characters that live their lives within the pages of a writer’s art. And others that break free to sire their own saga.
Inspiration. The kind that is defiant. Not in the way bulldozers are. Definitely not pig-headed either. Just brave. Adventurous. Agile. Nimble-toed. Able to negotiate the tight-rope. Dive deep into the sea. Conquer mountain tops that hide their heads in the clouds. Look the sun into the eye and watch it blink. Sing the song that lulls the moon to sleep.
It is about now that the glow of well-being begins to cocoon the writer. The rainbow with its seven hues comes a-knocking at the fingertips. Demanding shelter. The seed that has taken root begins to branch out within him. Spreading. Like the balmy summer breeze that makes the muse delirious with joy. The secrets begin to tumble out of their hideouts and slip into their costumes. Ready and waiting for the cue. The orchestra gathers around the conductor. Rain bearing clouds ready to pour. Nerve-ends like trumpets willing to blow. The violins and the cellos practice their moves. Eager to begin.
The conductor takes up the baton.
No longer a barren landscape the white begins to blossom. Definite and precise. Crisp and animated. Fresh alphabets with a spring in their footsteps. Word after word after word. Day after day after day. Exact and knowing.
The birth of the printed page.
As fresh as the dawn.
Condemned to write.
I reach for the pen.
Lower the rope. Frayed.
Rusty bucket. Crude tumbril.
The bottom of the well.
Parched and thirsty
The sound of dry leaves.
Underfoot echo. Stifled.
But wait. Listen.
To the stones. Breathing.
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