Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Lucid dreamer goes pandal hopping

I lie shapeless in October,
line of longitude     on my trembling bed.
Coffin lined in black bed sheet branches
embroidering          the crust of my spine.
Snaking helicoidally,
                                each strand scribing piety & purpose.

 
Outside my house,
                                I wink at the moon’s dark spots.
Worn out acne, an immediate sign of a kindred spirit.
The Gods step out from their hiding spot
                                behind my sternum.

Odisha whispers haikus into my ear.

Worship the Great Lord.
But please save the intervals.
To worship yourself.

In narrow streets of temples as a kid
                                I hummed hymns & climbed stairs.
I prayed for my mother’s health, my father’s temper.
That changed soon to mute palm fold & quick sky glance.

Now on suffering turbulence I’m unable to pray.
When I fall sick I have visions of idols
                                walking down the spine of a Bhagavad Gita.
A light pink prayer room,
                                its evening hues of a rueful cough syrup.
Bleeding petals in turmeric sea. Vermillion ash. Bodies of satin
                                listening patiently to my devotional desperation.

On the road, processions pass        in fantastical blur.
Durga smiles from a pandal’s heath,
lips pursing       in sacrosanct arc
moulding       her metal of veneration.

I’m keen on atonement
                                for the sin of being anything at all.
During visarjan,
I break into hysterical dance,
splinter into thousand flying chunks.
Once home,            I reassemble bioluminescent skin
                               sitting on my coffin’s chrome.
 
 
 
← Satya Dash