Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
A storm, deforms. So does stillness — when
left uninterrupted, for days to come.
A cuckoo throws away
the eggs of a crow — the death of those
who feed on dirt, we ignore –
a song well-sung is accompanied
by its own absence of rhythm.
Yet, the singer, if able to entertain,
must be preserved, immortalized.
A ghost-town– unlit,
dark as the blackberry’s crust. A row of lights
on the balconies, held together by faceless
hands. In this symmetric tapestry, that stretches
from one rooftop to the next,
I am looking for a hole.
A lone krishnachura — scarlet, — its weak,
futile rage — awaits multiplication.
Because, it has to.
A storm does not revise, yet
deforms, disrupts. As does a hoe,
as it lands on drought-infected
soil, a thud — a bang.
Who, do I pray to, for this quiescence
to become a pitchfork summer?
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