Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
–“And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –“ Emily Dickinson
For years
they refused
to visit
even though we saw them zip by
like Cupid’s golden arrows, landing
in nearby trees. The Baltimore orioles
taunted us with whistles
at dawn or dusk, flying
past as we watched
in despair.
How long
had we tried
to lure them?
Skewering navel oranges, displaying
bowls of berries—little jewels
glinting in the sun, then
finally adding the glass feeder—its fat
orange-colored belly
filled with syrup.
A lightning visit
by the shining
male one morning made us
giddy. A sign the angels
were watching? The next day,
nothing. Nothing the next.
Everything stayed untouched,
barren. Ah, it was
hopelessness
that perched in our souls.
Our feast
of halved oranges were
picked clean by swarms
of black ants, the whole
surface shifting
like a dead bird
lifted
by a swift
dark river. A pile
of shriveled fruit skins grew,
twisted shapes with faded
colors, like animals
pickled in ether. The round-
bellied feeder swung desolate.
A few feisty
yellow jackets
still attacked
the bee-guarded
plastic flowers. And ants carried
away what drops of sweetness
fell in storm or wind. It was
as nature wanted it to be,
and for us—
it was not to be.
But
I tried again
next spring.
This time with cheap
grape jelly, sticky
globs
nestled
in the little cups
of the brand new feeder.
Before any sudden gale
or sore storm could
wash the cups clean
or the blazing sun
fry the quivering
purple lumps to a crisp—
two ribbons
of flame
streaked in
from nothingness,
fed
fiercely upon
the manna.
Chattered loudly. Cocked
their heads, flew at the glass
door where I stood half-
hidden. Looked around.
Took note.
Took off.