Meena Alexander Poems
|1.||Birthplace with Buried Stones||9/18/2017|
|2.||Dog Days of Summer||9/18/2017|
|3.||For My Father, Karachi 1947||9/18/2017|
|5.||from Raw Meditations on Money, 1. She Speaks: A School Teacher from South India||9/18/2017|
|7.||Fragments of an Inexistent Whole||10/5/2017|
|8.||Death of a Young Dalit||10/5/2017|
|10.||Birthplace with Buried Stones||2/20/2018|
|12.||Dog Days of Summer||2/20/2018|
|13.||For My Father, Karachi 1947||2/20/2018|
|15.||from Raw Meditations on Money, 1. She Speaks: A School Teacher from South India||2/20/2018|
|19.||Central Park, Carousel||2/20/2018|
|22.||Central Park, Carousel||2/28/2014|
Comments about Meena Alexander
I was young when you came to me.
Each thing rings its turn,
you sang in my ear, a slip of a thing
dressed like a convent girl--
white socks, shoes,
dark blue pinafore, white blouse.
A pencil box in hand: girl, book, tree--
those were the words you gave me.
Girl was penne, hair drawn back,
gleaming on the scalp,
the self in a mirror in a rosewood room
the sky at monsoon time, pearl slits
In cloud cover, a jagged music pours:
gash of sense, raw covenant
clasped still in a gold bound book,
pusthakam pages parted,
ink rubbed with ...
Central Park, Carousel
June already, it's your birth month,
nine months since the towers fell.
I set olive twigs in my hair torn
from a tree in Central Park,
I ride a painted horse,
its mane a sullen wonder.
You are behind me on a lilting mare.
You whisper- What of happiness?