Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
The sweet and sour pork is aristocratic.
Lemongrass is fine. No spice, please!
…
Ah, look, these are the countries
with poor immigration policies.
There is no documentary proof of the existence
of ‘ghost citizens,’ you know,
they play foul, honey!
…
The cuisines are good.
…
Your fingers poking the plump pork fat with a knife
are aristocratic too. Don’t they hint
at the stratifications in a relationship,
how the greasy
discourse of love is a mismatch for your curries and chutneys,
like the oddity of your mittens, one grey and one ochre,
the teary stew lying abandoned on your table
is a patchwork of life’s leftovers—
Look here, a lover’s palate has other requirements.
…
Because we had parathas in the morning,
the sparrows feeding on the last morsel of hope
happily flitting by the sad window
made me think about of-little-use UNESCO policies
and the hungry mouths in West Ghana—
You should not waste food, honey!
…
It is understandable. You are more
de Rougemontian. The spoonful of love that you shove down my throat
on a regular basis is not helping these days.
There is a misdiagnosis. Or
a need for an antidote.
Failing to lap up Jack Goody the way you do, the glitzy treatises
on Asian food cultures
stacked up like our precious bedroom epiphanies
howl, those manuals of a cook
in a connoisseur;
aren’t they colour coordinated? You put them
next to each other
alphabetically,
and those caged Rajasthani paper dolls in your library,
their colours fading into a peculiar colourlessness,
they do not do wonders to my appetite much.
I bloat up, the knot in my stomach
makes me sick. I throw up every day.
There is a technical dysfunction. I know,
you will fix it.
…
That the government is failing us again
and the newspaper boy should add
Anand Bazar Patrika to his list—
…
Your fingers shadow-playing, casting shapes of exotic birds
on the wallpapered wall, are aristocratic too. The good-for-nothing
avian fantasy before our meals! Like the shadows
hiding in corners
of a useless afternoon, I wither away
on special hours of a long day, too. You see,
there is not enough balance
between light and darkness in the dining hall.
Call the electrician next door for such unimportant work.
The cutlery, a proud luminance.
The light, British. You, the light.
Quite a sight for the layman’s eyes!
It’s blinding.
The dead fly lies crushed between leaves.
Never knew,
your friend’s nursery sells
plants
that eats insects.
← Namrata Pathak
This site is designed and maintained by GONECASE