Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
At dusk my mother becomes the land
Behind the Euphrates River,
Where women dressed in black
Mourn their young sons,
And where men forlornly recite Persian poetry
Composed in a raag
Which, they say, is valiant
And depicts lovers
Traipsing barefoot
Towards the bedchamber.
What kind of love-walk
Is shrouded in death
And surrounded by loss?
Each time the men pause on rishabh,
The second note,
You feel something has always been missing.
Each time they pause on rishabh,
You feel everything will remain
Unfinished.
As the gloaming brings forth
The thin moon,
A horse weeps
While the men whip
Their own backs
And the women beat their breasts,
In love disguised as lunacy.
The land, my mother,
Absorbs their blood
And tears.
At dusk my mother becomes the land
Which houses a tribe
Lost in the desert.
The children play,
Their grandmothers thank
The deities of water.
How we played
In the desert of our house,
While grandmother smiled
Holding her prayer beads
Made of sandalwood
With the scent of dusk,
The scent of our childhood.
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