Gayatri's poem 'Aurangabad, February 2017' and a few photographs are up at 'The Sunflower Collective'.
Here's the link: http://sunflowercollective.blogspot.in/2017/03/poems-gayatri-majumdar.html
We hope to bring out the brown critique anthology ('8teen') by 2017.
You can read Gayatri's poems in the BigBridge issue of Anthology of Contemporary Indian Poetry (edited by Menka Shivdasani) - http://bigbridge.org/BB17/poetry/indianpoetryanthology/indian-poetry-anthology-contents.html#.
Some of her poems are also up at "Talking Poetry - open space" - do visit -
In the meantime, Our Fathers in Heaven is the tentative name of my second novel.
A Song for Bela - A novel
by Gayatri Majumdar
(soon to be published by mid-2017)
(soon to be published by mid-2017)
new poems
Work series
i.
light shift
memories
words germinate and shoot through
the spores of my skin
uttering a new mantra
new poem
Rainy July Night in Delhi
It’s that time of the day again when I saved somebody
what with the rain, and my thoughts moving away
from you; it’s an awkward moment – not definitive but something’s ending.
You haunt me with your deliberate presence and enter my half-remembered space
to remind me of so much wasted time talking about things still left to be done; about money (or the lack of it), Pushkin’s poetry, the cinema of Oliver Stone,
and the dexterity it takes to play the drums.
The noise then drowned nothing; not even the nothingness.
Did you care at all about the days I spent chasing bazaars and continents?
Did you ever wish we spent more time together at the museum or at Zeeshan,
sipping chai while discussing Ceauşescu and the revolution?
I did help you to forget, did I not, even for a fraction of a second,
when you looked into my earnest eyes, all that you were missing
like those aching summer nights and stiff-necked days in Chowringhee or Saket?
I did not realize how you seduced me into your cocky rebel ways; making me believe
I was the one who was leading you on to risk everything, and live.
I try to turn away from this nicotine rising; but it persists and I know you never actually
had the intention of risking anything at all. You maintained your frugal ways and
glory-less existence (the latter amounts to nothing, anyway).
You were so strong that you could even endure those splintered years
with practiced stoicism. That is why I rush around trying to save somebody new.
No, not someone like you this time but somebody like me
rummaging, restless, full of purpose, proficient in the art of concealing pain but, given
even so much of a chance, complaining (oh, look at this scar; try my
that brand new fractured heart; damn botched romance), watching Chaplin or
looking longingly at strangers’ eyes, for even a hint of recognition, in Coffee Café Days;
biting into green apples (for dinner?) in Queens on a rainy July night
before the delayed flight back home.
I try to free myself from your grip but you could say “it’s your imagination,
your twisted little hurriedly used space left behind by some casual lover or friend.
It is I, who was trying to help you, you fool.
How could you even think I needed you?
Use your radiance and kindness today (if you must) for those
less fortunate than you.”
Tonight, I will try to sleep again.
(july 2010)
Poems
(two poems translated into Italian by Andrea Sirotti)
1.
VERSOVA BEACH
Last night was something else.
The sea licks the face of a sky,
trawlers in the cold shadow of clouds
and two black birds.
A woman in green and gold
searches for crabs and perfect shells.
Another morning leaves
her watermarks on my nape and eyelashes
and lines my womb
with her unformed delta.
Such is the beauty in struggle
and hunger. Small boats flutter blue flags
of peace, economy and I sniff
for distant thunders, spices and men -
from Africa, Oman, Afganisthan
and some unnamed islands
hidden in the large intestine of water.
LA SPIAGGIA DI VERSOVA
Ieri notte era un’altra cosa.
Il mare lecca il viso di un cielo,
sciabiche nell’ombra fredda delle nubi
e due uccelli neri.
Una donna verdeoro
cerca granchi e conchiglie perfette.
Un altro mattino mi lascia
una filigrana sulla nuca e sulle ciglia
e segna il mio grembo
col suo delta immaturo.
Tale è la bellezza nella lotta
e nella fame. Piccole barche battono bandiere blu
di pace e di frugalità. Respiro
l’odore di tuoni lontani, spezie e uomini
dall’Africa, Oman, Afganistan
e da qualche isola senza nome
nascosta nelle grandi viscere dell’acqua.
2.
ANTENNA
We enter into the sweetest
of the brown cookies,
dig a hole
and make provisions for the rains
during the rains.
In this stickthing lovedough
we lock antennas,
sting poison into each other.
Then we about-face: antidote.
We listen to rain
as we eat through the light
on our ceiling;
fatten our sex,
make time in here.
Meanwhile, the bridge
to a neighbourhood constellation
is crumbling.
ANTENNA
Entriamo nel più dolce
dei bruni pasticcini,
scaviamo un buco
e facciamo provviste per le piogge
durante le piogge.
In questa appiccicaticcia pastadamore
incastriamo le antenne,
ci iniettiamo veleno a vicenda.
poi dietrofront: antidoto.
Ascoltiamo la pioggia
mentre mangiamo alla luce
del soffitto;
ci ingrassiamo il sesso,
ce la spassiamo, qua dentro.
Frattanto il ponte
che porta a una costellazione vicina
si sbriciola.
3.
MY AUNT'S HOME
Her backyard is a ruin in green
On which topaz black giant snails feed.
They have grown lumpish with age,
Prosperity, and charity to reign here
Where we used to whistle around bonfires
Made of crackly walnut-brown leaves
Every Christmas night. The room upstairs
Is a skeleton of its florid cushioned self
With ragged furniture and lights
That strain the eye. It would seem
That an unendurable hurricane has left
Here a disaster zone on the terrace
Where books lay mutilated in the rain.
It takes more than money
To be loved, I said. But does it?
My old aunt knows.
There were once rooms for trespassers here.
Now my aunt complains; demanding
Her share to the ancestral property.
I know she wants to defeat time
And be at that place,
Which is more than a shelter.
She now searches for words that offend.
A little muddled herself, she cannot
Disentangle hope from the weeds
That are scaling her mildewed walls.
4.
A POEM
Should there come a night
When love, hate, joy,
Pain, and all foreign policies fail,
Admit a poem in.
Let it read you: the smile-lines
On your face; or better still, read
What is outside of it.
Let it borrow the scratches on your wall.
Take it to bed
Then pause
When you suspect perfection
Like a thing arrived.
Frown a bit and go on;
Build on this relationship.
It will fly, its tattered wings drooping
An old destitute butterfly -
Which cannot remember the memories
Of love. It would be difficult to tell
If it is the poem that is lonely
Or the one holding its smudged house
With windows unclean, dust everywhere.
When you want alone
And the noise talks tough
And tortured, admit him in -
Long lost, alive, or dead somewhere;
Hear the slow movement of eyelash
In the crystal and rough of paper and pen.
He comes without demands,
Does not want to be loved;
All he asks is to be held; turned over.
Gather him in your broken folds.
When it's done
Shut the book, throw the page
But tonight, when life stinks,
Admit a poem in.
i.
There is something to be
said
About the sun -
It's relentlessly driven.
About the sun -
It's relentlessly driven.
It bears down on you, a
stern uncle,
Forcing this hunger, this overbearing
Desire to continue another war, minute, second,
Another fucking life
Time
Forcing this hunger, this overbearing
Desire to continue another war, minute, second,
Another fucking life
Time
(Or do we have a choice in
this?).
You and I, apparently, have no chance
You and I, apparently, have no chance
In hell to get through
this life.
All the while we till, fill
The earth with our gentlest of caresses and a few
Drops of burnt blood,
We will never inherit it;
We will carry the purple sun on our back,
A solid disc of golden heart,
All the while we till, fill
The earth with our gentlest of caresses and a few
Drops of burnt blood,
We will never inherit it;
We will carry the purple sun on our back,
A solid disc of golden heart,
And the gray cracked
lining of our stomach
To a grave near us
Blending with the elements,
To a grave near us
Blending with the elements,
Ash-rise in air and
shimmer
In that final act of rebelliousness.
In that final act of rebelliousness.
Under the 2 O'clock sun we
till
Your earth; no cubicles
separate our
Alligator skin; we continue bending beyond the hour
Of endurance and prayer,
Alligator skin; we continue bending beyond the hour
Of endurance and prayer,
The pink and green saris
border our anklets
A little heavy now with
the muddy water in our eye;
And if we stand any longer
here, we will soon grow roots.
We reap, oh yes, we do
Only to walk miles before we dream
About rice pudding and babies' cries,
A harvest of love on a kaal baishakhi evening,
And rain, rain, and rain
Only to walk miles before we dream
About rice pudding and babies' cries,
A harvest of love on a kaal baishakhi evening,
And rain, rain, and rain
On our eyelashes, face,
breasts,
And moonbeams caressing
the gray fire-wood lining of our stomach.
No song and dance to the
drum-heart of the moon tonight,
No television to announce
the death of another river,
We till, we seed our
earth, even if we may not inherit it.
ii.
We cannot remember the
places
This refuse truck's been.
Nobody else will know where we may dream
Expect you, peering at us with moist eyes from some high rise,
This refuse truck's been.
Nobody else will know where we may dream
Expect you, peering at us with moist eyes from some high rise,
A little like Buddha on
the longest road trip
Up the elevator or down
this street,
At that precise hour of sudden recognition and pity.
God knows we need rest
And that's why he made this high bed for you
And me; wobbly soft prickly with yesterday's solids
We pickered beyond the smoke breaks and cold machines;
At that precise hour of sudden recognition and pity.
God knows we need rest
And that's why he made this high bed for you
And me; wobbly soft prickly with yesterday's solids
We pickered beyond the smoke breaks and cold machines;
If you look carefully, you'll
notice stardust on our sleeves, eyelashes.
We are used to the stink you generated
On your way up;
We are used to the stink you generated
On your way up;
Anyway, who gives a fuck
about this!
And the earth rocks
gently,
Taking us to our
destination where
We may participate in this greater good
Of this country and the race that once belonged to us . . .
We may participate in this greater good
Of this country and the race that once belonged to us . . .
Then it mothered us,
Gave us a name.
And no, there are no dreams left after this.
Gave us a name.
And no, there are no dreams left after this.
After all, at the end we
all will arrive at this
Toll bridge; arrive from
various points of the universe
And wait in queue, the
trucks and all,
For a glimpse of that one
evening star.
iii.
There's a couple of taxi
drivers sitting next to me
Inside the cramped auto rickshaw;
Inside the cramped auto rickshaw;
Smelling of cheap rum,
Oh way cheaper than what
you and I drink.
They don't act drunk, just
sway a little to some
Santhal drum beat; with
their hair unkempt,
they look at me embarrassed
they look at me embarrassed
And shift in their seats
uneasily,
Unsure if they should sit
beside this made up lady pretending to hold a lamp;
There are no toothy smiles;
they then just get up and move away
For the umpteenth time unable
to recognize the drunk in me.
And the poet huffs, puffs, and observes things,
And the poet huffs, puffs, and observes things,
Ungrounded she breathes with
difficulty in borrowed space
And time.light shift
My heart is the inside
of an empty blue fridge;
cold, white, and with
a low steady hum. . .
outside the night waits for
a certain something
not really sure for what. . .
maybe it strains to hear
a bird song, or open its eyes
to something uncurling and leaf. . .
of an empty blue fridge;
cold, white, and with
a low steady hum. . .
outside the night waits for
a certain something
not really sure for what. . .
maybe it strains to hear
a bird song, or open its eyes
to something uncurling and leaf. . .
Then there is the kettle
fuming, steaming, and gurgling,
and I think, is it over?
fuming, steaming, and gurgling,
and I think, is it over?
A brown cow across the road
outside the boundary wall
has been mooing all morning;
it is tied with a short rope
and can hardly move -
she craves fresh air and a mouthful of grass,
both in short supply around here.
Draw me within your long arms
and let me stay there
for the rest of the day.
outside the boundary wall
has been mooing all morning;
it is tied with a short rope
and can hardly move -
she craves fresh air and a mouthful of grass,
both in short supply around here.
Draw me within your long arms
and let me stay there
for the rest of the day.
My stuff still unpacked lie all about
this place - the TV on the floor
pushed against the wall;
and you know I still enter this room
from the creaking iron back door, not
able to access the main entrance yet.
The only constant in my life
is something I cannot put
in a box or into words;
this thing lugs me about
wherever it will.
this place - the TV on the floor
pushed against the wall;
and you know I still enter this room
from the creaking iron back door, not
able to access the main entrance yet.
The only constant in my life
is something I cannot put
in a box or into words;
this thing lugs me about
wherever it will.
Now the light from the laptop
makes patterns of blue and orange
on the wall opposite my bed,
CSNY sings “our house,”
but all I can hear lying here beside you
is the silence in the light shift . . .
(February, ’12)
makes patterns of blue and orange
on the wall opposite my bed,
CSNY sings “our house,”
but all I can hear lying here beside you
is the silence in the light shift . . .
(February, ’12)
three poems
(published in Indian Literature July/August 2011, #264)
memories
words germinate and shoot through
the spores of my skin
uttering a new mantra
it’s the hour of penetration
in the horror of consciousness
in the horror of consciousness
I can hear the screams again
as trams amble about the esplanade
of my half-remembered cityscape
as trams amble about the esplanade
of my half-remembered cityscape
and I escape with all the desires
my tin box can hold
train across the green soul of my blues
my tin box can hold
train across the green soul of my blues
rummage among autumn leaves in a graveyard
where young English boys lay still shifting feet
feverish, sweat beading across the mirth
of their cruel Indian summer – and then rains
where young English boys lay still shifting feet
feverish, sweat beading across the mirth
of their cruel Indian summer – and then rains
strange creatures crawling
the ground heavy I carry around
waiting to give it a name
the ground heavy I carry around
waiting to give it a name
fearing its unfolding will carve features that
remind me of a city that treated me
with negligence, indifference, and half-hearted acceptance
remind me of a city that treated me
with negligence, indifference, and half-hearted acceptance
shoved me into corners (well, now and then)
forced my head beneath the abandoned river
for centuries; and then kali she trampled
my red hibiscus beliefs
forced my head beneath the abandoned river
for centuries; and then kali she trampled
my red hibiscus beliefs
I will bear this moment
and even consider its water
breaking apart for my final immersion;
until then my saliva soften her clay
now adorned with hues that stroke his gentle pupils
moments before fireflies light up his dark face
to reveal several crisscrossed paths and alleyways.
and even consider its water
breaking apart for my final immersion;
until then my saliva soften her clay
now adorned with hues that stroke his gentle pupils
moments before fireflies light up his dark face
to reveal several crisscrossed paths and alleyways.
confession
in the emptiness of my head is one song
fine-tuned, aligned, and very heavy metal
it spins me around the sun
in a tizzy like a thing chasing its tail
it spins me around the sun
in a tizzy like a thing chasing its tail
there is so much to do; so many tigers to save,
trees to hug, shine timepieces and portraits.
Too many here vying
landing and taking off my super consciousness;
I then find it hard to believe
in ghosts and myths anymore.
trees to hug, shine timepieces and portraits.
Too many here vying
landing and taking off my super consciousness;
I then find it hard to believe
in ghosts and myths anymore.
You really think I don’t need you?
Think again! The fire singes my skin, bones, tongue
bite by bit; and I am on the verge of dissolution.
Try and remember why you told
that story about beauty and pain;
Think again! The fire singes my skin, bones, tongue
bite by bit; and I am on the verge of dissolution.
Try and remember why you told
that story about beauty and pain;
how you could not let go of her
and why you sat down for your last supper
the hundredth time.
and why you sat down for your last supper
the hundredth time.
Listen for the things she will never say
and don’t utter another syllable!
and don’t utter another syllable!
She will camp in the vast expanse
and litter the place
with her endless chatter and
against your stone, her wet
knife will lick.
and litter the place
with her endless chatter and
against your stone, her wet
knife will lick.
Abuse
I watch your heart bubble in my face
And the wound she is cut deep.
I thought I knew you well
and could do without the marshmallow images.
But now I treasure
the things I inherited from you
– one tooth and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
I thought I knew you well
and could do without the marshmallow images.
But now I treasure
the things I inherited from you
– one tooth and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
I burst spit-bubbles
and wait for the motion picture me there
where roads lead nowhere
and that nowhere is where
everywhere used to be
and wait for the motion picture me there
where roads lead nowhere
and that nowhere is where
everywhere used to be
and you plead your case
you creature in constant battle
with termites and TV commercials
you hateful little monster,
you really believe you are heading
there where around the corner street,
where neon stares at stars falling,
she will be feeding the baby
colored lights and syrup.
you creature in constant battle
with termites and TV commercials
you hateful little monster,
you really believe you are heading
there where around the corner street,
where neon stares at stars falling,
she will be feeding the baby
colored lights and syrup.
Sever your wings angel,
bleed now.
bleed now.
I watch you eat into my fingers, heart,
and composure
leaving me leaning against the universe,
all right, a galaxy
choking on the gas
gasping with delight;
and composure
leaving me leaning against the universe,
all right, a galaxy
choking on the gas
gasping with delight;
it is easy to see your proficiency
in breaking my time
into 536 pieces,
send me hurtling toward the precipice
of absolution and deathlessness;
in breaking my time
into 536 pieces,
send me hurtling toward the precipice
of absolution and deathlessness;
you are such a pessimist
with your million anecdotes about this and that
which I believe in
more than I do lyrics in a Dylan song,
with your million anecdotes about this and that
which I believe in
more than I do lyrics in a Dylan song,
draw
me in again
leave no telltale clues of leading me
along the aisle
(I won’t tell);
me in again
leave no telltale clues of leading me
along the aisle
(I won’t tell);
let me lunch on sushi,
sew the heart back in -
stick the thing – the flag
of memories right here; pin me
on this cardboard of carefree moments.
sew the heart back in -
stick the thing – the flag
of memories right here; pin me
on this cardboard of carefree moments.
Let us call truce,
bring the battle-weary prayers home
this moment in perfect weather
lifting the drift in
this bubbling heart of yours.
bring the battle-weary prayers home
this moment in perfect weather
lifting the drift in
this bubbling heart of yours.
Tribute to Revolutionaries
(published in A Hudson View)
(published in A Hudson View)
I envy your courage, sisters;
you who have no voice chew bullets during your lunch break
(spit out pins of the grenades of your patience)
and I, mull, shake my head and nurse my broken years,
and am still unable to identify
the enemy. My words are deceptive,
they tighten the noose around my silence
and I spill the beans into this apple pie and ice creamed void.
you who have no voice chew bullets during your lunch break
(spit out pins of the grenades of your patience)
and I, mull, shake my head and nurse my broken years,
and am still unable to identify
the enemy. My words are deceptive,
they tighten the noose around my silence
and I spill the beans into this apple pie and ice creamed void.
Sisters, I salute you
and no matter how long it takes
I will wait until I look back at every wrong (with anger);
Sisters, let my admiration for you
protect you and your children from harm –
let the blood of your angels
color the square
in another red;
let the chanting (raze the prisons filled with the fearful
to the ground).
and no matter how long it takes
I will wait until I look back at every wrong (with anger);
Sisters, let my admiration for you
protect you and your children from harm –
let the blood of your angels
color the square
in another red;
let the chanting (raze the prisons filled with the fearful
to the ground).
Where (how) do I begin? Where is the hammer,
the sickle – the tools I can work with tonight?
The only possession I have bears the number
of a soldier drafted in someone else’s war;
I revolt, sign petitions, write slogans
but they have, some say, plans to bomb the bases
after the aerial recee; survey the air and water we breathe
and feed us leftovers of some superpower’s gallantry.
the sickle – the tools I can work with tonight?
The only possession I have bears the number
of a soldier drafted in someone else’s war;
I revolt, sign petitions, write slogans
but they have, some say, plans to bomb the bases
after the aerial recee; survey the air and water we breathe
and feed us leftovers of some superpower’s gallantry.
Sisters, do not take shelter from the storms
that will rise and wreck the smirks off
those who stomp the waking hours of men
and women who wait and cannot hope;
who sleep in a 10X12, sharing it with 10 other men
(near New Delhi station for rupees 500)
and others, who have no darn idea of how
words can empower (some of them can even read),
or to take the 9 am metro (or bicycle) to work.
that will rise and wreck the smirks off
those who stomp the waking hours of men
and women who wait and cannot hope;
who sleep in a 10X12, sharing it with 10 other men
(near New Delhi station for rupees 500)
and others, who have no darn idea of how
words can empower (some of them can even read),
or to take the 9 am metro (or bicycle) to work.
You stand up to the dirty scoundrels, sisters; burst into light
(and a song) and reclaim the square for us, us who have succumbed to
the morphine-induced painlessness (happiness, some say), numb and unable
to shed this thick skin (or tears). I wait there with you (behind your eyes),
borrowing your strength and promise not to fail.
(and a song) and reclaim the square for us, us who have succumbed to
the morphine-induced painlessness (happiness, some say), numb and unable
to shed this thick skin (or tears). I wait there with you (behind your eyes),
borrowing your strength and promise not to fail.
Outside the square, there is space
where all your tears will feed
a million stars.
where all your tears will feed
a million stars.
My sisters, stand your ground, your water and fire.
We will shove out this thing blocking our view,
together; we need no guns, no arrows, no stones
to blow their cover and golden-chewed paper crowns.
We will shove out this thing blocking our view,
together; we need no guns, no arrows, no stones
to blow their cover and golden-chewed paper crowns.
21 February, 2011
new poem
Rainy July Night in Delhi
It’s that time of the day again when I saved somebody
from you; it’s an awkward moment – not definitive but something’s ending.
You haunt me with your deliberate presence and enter my half-remembered space
to remind me of so much wasted time talking about things still left to be done; about money (or the lack of it), Pushkin’s poetry, the cinema of Oliver Stone,
and the dexterity it takes to play the drums.
The noise then drowned nothing; not even the nothingness.
Did you care at all about the days I spent chasing bazaars and continents?
Did you ever wish we spent more time together at the museum or at Zeeshan,
sipping chai while discussing Ceauşescu and the revolution?
I did help you to forget, did I not, even for a fraction of a second,
when you looked into my earnest eyes, all that you were missing
like those aching summer nights and stiff-necked days in Chowringhee or Saket?
I did not realize how you seduced me into your cocky rebel ways; making me believe
I was the one who was leading you on to risk everything, and live.
I try to turn away from this nicotine rising; but it persists and I know you never actually
had the intention of risking anything at all. You maintained your frugal ways and
glory-less existence (the latter amounts to nothing, anyway).
You were so strong that you could even endure those splintered years
with practiced stoicism. That is why I rush around trying to save somebody new.
No, not someone like you this time but somebody like me
rummaging, restless, full of purpose, proficient in the art of concealing pain but, given
even so much of a chance, complaining (oh, look at this scar; try my
that brand new fractured heart; damn botched romance), watching Chaplin or
looking longingly at strangers’ eyes, for even a hint of recognition, in Coffee Café Days;
biting into green apples (for dinner?) in Queens on a rainy July night
before the delayed flight back home.
I try to free myself from your grip but you could say “it’s your imagination,
your twisted little hurriedly used space left behind by some casual lover or friend.
It is I, who was trying to help you, you fool.
How could you even think I needed you?
Use your radiance and kindness today (if you must) for those
less fortunate than you.”
Tonight, I will try to sleep again.
(july 2010)
Poems
(two poems translated into Italian by Andrea Sirotti)
1.
VERSOVA BEACH
Last night was something else.
The sea licks the face of a sky,
trawlers in the cold shadow of clouds
and two black birds.
A woman in green and gold
searches for crabs and perfect shells.
Another morning leaves
her watermarks on my nape and eyelashes
and lines my womb
with her unformed delta.
Such is the beauty in struggle
and hunger. Small boats flutter blue flags
of peace, economy and I sniff
for distant thunders, spices and men -
from Africa, Oman, Afganisthan
and some unnamed islands
hidden in the large intestine of water.
LA SPIAGGIA DI VERSOVA
Ieri notte era un’altra cosa.
Il mare lecca il viso di un cielo,
sciabiche nell’ombra fredda delle nubi
e due uccelli neri.
Una donna verdeoro
cerca granchi e conchiglie perfette.
Un altro mattino mi lascia
una filigrana sulla nuca e sulle ciglia
e segna il mio grembo
col suo delta immaturo.
Tale è la bellezza nella lotta
e nella fame. Piccole barche battono bandiere blu
di pace e di frugalità. Respiro
l’odore di tuoni lontani, spezie e uomini
dall’Africa, Oman, Afganistan
e da qualche isola senza nome
nascosta nelle grandi viscere dell’acqua.
2.
ANTENNA
We enter into the sweetest
of the brown cookies,
dig a hole
and make provisions for the rains
during the rains.
In this stickthing lovedough
we lock antennas,
sting poison into each other.
Then we about-face: antidote.
We listen to rain
as we eat through the light
on our ceiling;
fatten our sex,
make time in here.
Meanwhile, the bridge
to a neighbourhood constellation
is crumbling.
ANTENNA
Entriamo nel più dolce
dei bruni pasticcini,
scaviamo un buco
e facciamo provviste per le piogge
durante le piogge.
In questa appiccicaticcia pastadamore
incastriamo le antenne,
ci iniettiamo veleno a vicenda.
poi dietrofront: antidoto.
Ascoltiamo la pioggia
mentre mangiamo alla luce
del soffitto;
ci ingrassiamo il sesso,
ce la spassiamo, qua dentro.
Frattanto il ponte
che porta a una costellazione vicina
si sbriciola.
3.
MY AUNT'S HOME
Her backyard is a ruin in green
On which topaz black giant snails feed.
They have grown lumpish with age,
Prosperity, and charity to reign here
Where we used to whistle around bonfires
Made of crackly walnut-brown leaves
Every Christmas night. The room upstairs
Is a skeleton of its florid cushioned self
With ragged furniture and lights
That strain the eye. It would seem
That an unendurable hurricane has left
Here a disaster zone on the terrace
Where books lay mutilated in the rain.
It takes more than money
To be loved, I said. But does it?
My old aunt knows.
There were once rooms for trespassers here.
Now my aunt complains; demanding
Her share to the ancestral property.
I know she wants to defeat time
And be at that place,
Which is more than a shelter.
She now searches for words that offend.
A little muddled herself, she cannot
Disentangle hope from the weeds
That are scaling her mildewed walls.
4.
A POEM
Should there come a night
When love, hate, joy,
Pain, and all foreign policies fail,
Admit a poem in.
Let it read you: the smile-lines
On your face; or better still, read
What is outside of it.
Let it borrow the scratches on your wall.
Take it to bed
Then pause
When you suspect perfection
Like a thing arrived.
Frown a bit and go on;
Build on this relationship.
It will fly, its tattered wings drooping
An old destitute butterfly -
Which cannot remember the memories
Of love. It would be difficult to tell
If it is the poem that is lonely
Or the one holding its smudged house
With windows unclean, dust everywhere.
When you want alone
And the noise talks tough
And tortured, admit him in -
Long lost, alive, or dead somewhere;
Hear the slow movement of eyelash
In the crystal and rough of paper and pen.
He comes without demands,
Does not want to be loved;
All he asks is to be held; turned over.
Gather him in your broken folds.
When it's done
Shut the book, throw the page
But tonight, when life stinks,
Admit a poem in.
