Two Poems

Literature is the very essence of that fabric which binds life with living. I have always striven to be a keen student of the subject and do not essentially measure it in numerical impetuses it may bring in terms of what mark sheets might testify and or a long list of publications but in engaging with reading, language, words and its nuances. As a semblance; for me, literature embodies those subterranean hinges that cannot be reached mechanically to its core but in the sheer pleasure of revisiting, rereading and re-engaging with its seminal discourses.

Every piece of poetry and prose is an attempt to create layers to be savoured. It is a known dictum that it is imperative to make sense of the world we live in and the core of humanities is a broad river; metaphorically put, to encompass this ideal. After all, like Walt Whitman observed; "That you are here—that life exists and identity, / That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."

Sneha S.


Syria Remnant on Frankfurt Station

 

               Wake up from this dream of separateness.

Shvetashvatara Upanishad

 

  Whada, a Syrian refugee mother living in Zahle, Lebanon, holds her young daughter, Waffa. Waffa has barely spoken since losing her father and her home in January 2013. UNHCR/E.Dorfman / May 2013

 

Whada, a Syrian refugee mother living in Zahle, Lebanon, holds her young daughter, Waffa. Waffa has barely spoken since losing her father and her home in January 2013.

UNHCR/E.Dorfman / May 2013

In the elegiac thermometer

she measures time

not as day or night lurking

upon an audacity of revolution

 

but in sounds of her homeland

the last scream of infants,

throttled into the sleep of death

prematurely.

 

The epigraphs of lost people

are carved beneath meanings of

silences, absences and gaps,

in Derrida’s deconstruct,

 

like a Buddhist therī uncloak

her last attachment to the material

over the head of a faraway mountain.

 

The scents of

faint memory

a stillness artefact

prancing upon her palm,

 

as she caresses

leftover embers

of a broken doll,

inanimate in her

broken dreams,

 

lovingly held

by the juxtaposition

of dismemberment,

 

tattered fabric fibres.

two passerby’s comment,

‘there is no space

                      this is our homeland’

 

displaced senses, mister,

do not fathom where they

are brought by the wild winds

that blow ferociously

 

upon the downtrodden

in political propaganda

poetry knows nothing of.

 

Meanwhile, she plays

with the doll

of broken limbs

in the quest of

broken smiles

upon her lip columns.

 

 

Freiburg Lodge

 

Palimpsest Bible

translated into three

different languages:

English, French, German

 

as though the tongues

that speak these languages

are the only readers of the Book

 

‘but, you are a poet, darling,

you often hear things they don’t say

and construct meaningless words

 

that do not feed the poor

after Sunday mass,

every line you write is like asking for alms,

waiting to be fed

                  while as torrential rain falls

and hits upon the windowpane,

a host of black umbrellas

opened in mourning diverge into

different routes.


Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a student of literature and culture at the University of Plymouth, United Kingdom and has been awarded the prestigious GREAT scholarship. Postcolonial literature and literary theory and criticism are her areas of research interest. Her work has appeared or is to appear in Front Porch Review (IL, USA), Ann Arbor Review (MI, USA), Sahitya Akademi (India), moongarlic (Stoke-Upon-Trent, UK), Anti-Heroin Chic (NY, USA), Spillwords (Poland), Epigraph Magazine (Georgia, USA), NEW QUEST journal (India), Kitaab (Singapore), Chitralipi journal (India) and in poetry anthologies such as Dance of the Peacock (Hidden Brook Press, Canada), Suvarnarekha (India) and elsewhere.