Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
is round like the earth. No sharp fall, yet curling
the soles of our feet into peril, bending toes at will. Let me start
with the kitchen where the shape of shadow rising
from the hissing bowl was steam calling for attention. But both
of us were still arrested by need, entranced in the living
room, digging furiously inside ourselves to reveal something
new to each other, too absorbed to hear clamors
of a different frequency. That summer, we neglected most
sights and sounds. Chief in the cornucopia
of the season’s pleasures was moisturizing the dialect
of the colonizer, our singular tongue of brief highlights
coiling purple, folding itself tireless around skin. Scents rose
through cracks in speech. Exclamations elevated
experience through rhythmic jolts. Just imagine—multiplication
through interruptions! Dreams controlled by quotes
on your phone wallpaper. Day, a charioteer of night. And night
laying bare at the site of excavation, the eponymous
preeminence of prepositions—worn ragged from their commitment
to context. The lack of which makes a bowl : a crater
and fingers crossed : pincers forever. When placed in the lap
of a clock’s rotating bed, we saw the angularity of our nakedness
mirrored on the fan’s metal blades. We figured we could keep track
of time by stitching metronomic clauses. In winter, we draped over
our stung palates the cold skin of apples, teeth diligent, whittling away
sentences by biting into verbs rotten. The monsoons scraped away
barcodes left half-welded on our fragile necks. What proof remains
we made the most of our phrasal suffering? Scientists quip : neurons
of lightning, maggots plundering in brilliance our festooned crowns.