Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Say it straight:
When memory
is a kind of house— the body bends and
the shape of the shoulder blade spells irretrievable.
What distances are
mine, at last, when I inherit a shaded
life, but a poor
way of speaking?
The key in the door turns clockwise.
Water ripples in a pitcher on the table.
And who will say they knew of me
in the tangled gestures of July’s
necessary light?
My friend opens a bottle that smells
of elderberries and indecision, then
rests his glass on Pierre Bonnard: The Late Interiors.
And what has ever been as suddenly naked
as a painter’s wife stepping from the bath?
There’s a word for this.
The light through the window hurts my eyes.