Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
In the afternoon my mother becomes a lake
With the water lilies of Brindabani Sarang.
Muslim girls ritually wash their bodies
In the lake before they pray,
While Krishna plays the flute
At a distance.
The lake has secrets
Which she keeps veiled
Behind the Indian lotuses
Floating on the rhizomes
Of the five notes,
Gently falling on Rishabh.
Women warriors drink from the lake
Which quenches their eyes
Before they drown
In the fathomless water,
Fleeing the shadows
That pursue them.
My mother, the lake,
Gives them shelter.
My mother becomes a lake
In the afternoon
When the sun appears overhead,
Piqued, fiery, glaring.
How my father would ask
If I prayed.
How my father would ask
If I read
The scripture.
My mother who struggled
To keep everything in order
Could not rescue my father
Who burned in the eternal fire
Of nothingness,
Contemplating the fear
Of immortality
Which is its own silence, its own noise.
So she becomes a lake in the afternoon,
With the floating lotuses of Sarang,
With a guilt
Which is sublime, a guilt which is poise.
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