Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
I see red. My red. He is crouched beside me, drawing in a notebook.
Red crayons in his hands. A red boat on a white page.
I respond. There is a word for this.
As if my naming this something, his seeing,
puts the red of his red of his picture in a frame.
You’re red. He points at a figure. Traces my red body. My red head
round like the moon. The boat’s sails are wax crayon red. Above a
whorl of clouds. A squiggly, scratch of red.
You’re going away mama. He adds my red suitcases, my red bags
and a red computer.
You can write. He says.
My thoughts turn to a book, the concept of ‘qualia’ printed in six
letters on a page.
I want to tell him about: thesubjective“whatitislike”qualitative
experiencesituationsperceptionandsensation
how his red and my red are miles apart
how no two seen reds can be the same.
But while I seek an explanation, he is sketching red waves
a choppy sea
an anchor is hoisted.
red wind fills the sails, and before I can speak
I am heading towards the red line of the horizon.
I am sailing away in his red wax crayon boat.
Bon voyage. I wave goodbye, with my red stick hand.
He and the continent disappear.
Alone on the red deck, in my red body
held by red lines,
I am left wondering about the solitude of ‘qualia’.
On my red computer I begin to write:
of our seeing
of only
of our reds.