Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
Like leaves, like chameleons, her poems. The color, peeling a little differently, sometimes like hibiscus, something like mangoes, leaking juices, staining pages. She, chasing herself. The poems were butterflies in the sun. Her net caught none. They left like swallows, like bats, like penguins.They left unafraid of homelessness.
When they left, she was orphaned, a star fallen from the apron of the Mother.
She met her poems in the desert behind her eyes. They had heard the call of the wilderness. Some greeted her cold eyed, filled with abandonment and accusation, to be so exposed! Some were blindfolded, some like lanterns, always a confusion of joy and sorrow, wisdom and unknowing. Some greeted her, bowed, curtsied, shook hands, mumbled or said adaab or namaste. Others whirled like dervishes; and some left a cold blanch on her cheek. Others were re-named so strangely they were bewildered, mumbling distracted, begging to be claimed. Soon her poems, a silent kingdom spreading like an ink stain on the earth’s eye. Like a ghost she enters them, *seeking what the great poets sought.