Meena Alexander

(1951 / Allahabad)

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
4. Lychees 9/18/2017
5. from Raw Meditations on Money, 1. She Speaks: A School Teacher from South India 9/18/2017
6. Darling Coffee 9/18/2017
7. Fragments of an Inexistent Whole 10/5/2017
8. Death of a Young Dalit 10/5/2017
9. BLUE LOTUS 10/5/2017
10. Birthplace with Buried Stones 2/20/2018
11. Cadenza 2/20/2018
12. Dog Days of Summer 2/20/2018
13. For My Father, Karachi 1947 2/20/2018
14. Lychees 2/20/2018
15. from Raw Meditations on Money, 1. She Speaks: A School Teacher from South India 2/20/2018
16. Muse 2/20/2018
17. Darling Coffee 2/20/2018
18. Night Theater 2/20/2018
19. Central Park, Carousel 2/20/2018
20. BLUE LOTUS 2/20/2018
21. Night Theater 2/28/2014
22. Central Park, Carousel 2/28/2014
23. Cadenza 12/1/2014
24. Muse 1/20/2003

Comments about Meena Alexander

  • shaffiulla (3/15/2018 7:34:00 AM)

    i need critical appriciation of the poem i root my name

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  • Arun prasath (2/14/2018 7:02:00 AM)

    I need meena Alexander I root my name full poem

  • V.Arun prasath (1/26/2018 11:57:00 PM)

    I root my name by meena Alexander poetic lines

  • V.HEMALATHA (12/15/2017 3:03:00 AM)

    I NEED I ROOT MY NAME BY MEENA ALEXANDER IN THIS PAGE.

Best Poem of Meena Alexander

Muse

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 ...

Read the full of Muse

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?
Dukham, Federico.

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