Meena Kandasamy Poems

Paracetamol legends I know
For rising fevers, as pain-relievers—
...

and perhaps,

because we only met in secret
and shielded by darkness,

he hesitates—whenever i ask him
to bring our love to light.
...

'We were not lovers, we were love.'—Jeannette Winterson

The woman you once knew
will not own up to her face.
...

Looking lost between clouds
this sun is not the lone one
I know from home, the big one
who takes up all the evening sky,
...

And you see the two-crows-for-joy-pass that are sitting on
overhead cables and the evening moon,
a mere silvery slice against fluffy translucent sky.
...

the guilt-glazed love lay on andal's breasts,
thick and heavy as him.

frightened with force
...

Have you ever tried meditation?
Struggling hard to concentrate,
and keeping your mind as blank
as a whitewashed wall by closing
your eyes, nose, ears; and shutting out
every possible thought. Every thing.
And, the only failure, that ever came,
the only gross betrayal—
was from your own skin.
You will have known this.

Do you still remember,
how, the first distractions arose?
And you blamed skin as a sinner;
how, when your kundalini was rising,
shaken, you felt the cold concrete floor
skin rubbing against skin, your saffron robes,
how, even in a far-off different realm—
your skin anchored you to this earth.
Amidst all that pervading emptiness,
touch retained its sensuality.
You will have known this.

Or if you thought more variedly, about
taste, you would discount it—as the touch
of the tongue. Or, you may recollect
how a gentle touch, a caress changed
your life multifold, and you were never
the person you should have been.
Feeling with your skin, was
perhaps the first of the senses, its
reality always remained with you—
You never got rid of it.
You will have known this.

You will have known almost
every knowledgeable thing about
the charms and the temptations
that touch could hold.

But, you will never have known
that touch - the taboo
to your transcendence,
when crystallized in caste
was a paraphernalia of
undeserving hate.
...

I’ll weep to you about
My landlord, and with
My mature gestures—
You will understand:
...

birds don’t sing in their flight

for them flying is a muse
they compose mid-air
weave agnostic verse
...

Unlike in fairy tales, young heroes die.
All the dazzling princes, strong men of might,
Robinhoods and Messiahs that never lie
Are done to death, Evil winning the fight.
...