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 morning my mother becomes a forest
Scented with the sacred sounds of Todi.
Mystic women sit beneath her trees
With closed eyes,
Their tanpuras pregnant
With the music
Whose birth raises the sun,
Seducing it in the depths of gloom,
Undressing its luminous body with grace.
The sun, coquettish,
Sweeps the mists away,
And the sunlight
Embracing the leaves
Defines love, defies death.
In the forest the trees speak Awadhi,
Though here, words don’t matter.
It’s the music which speaks —
About the harmony,
And what the winds scatter.
In the morning
My mother becomes a forest
Whose trees are engraved
With an ancient language
Which can only be spoken
By a stringed instrument
That lets you slide
From one note
To another.
This journey, glissando,
Is not how we walked
Between rooms,
Plucking moments
Of our adolescence, our
Sorrows and laughter,
The clamors
Of a strange weather.
This journey
Between musical notes,
Buried in the language
Engraved on the tree trunks
Of the forest
That my mother becomes
In the morning
When the mystics sing Todi,
Is the time
We did not live
Together.
This site is designed and maintained by GONECASE