Meena Kandasamy Poems

Gathering flowers for another garland,
Anorexic Andal flaunts
Her freshness before Thirumal.
...

An angry philosopher froze
His philandering wife—Passivity
As punishment for promiscuity.
Rendered senseless, set in stone,
...

She thought she was dying—ants crawled
under her flaking skin, migraines visited her
at mealtimes, her tender-as-tomato breasts
...

This poem is not a Hindu.
This poem is eager to offend. 
This poem is shallow and distorted. 
This poem is a non-serious representation of Hinduism.
This poem is a haphazard presentation. 
...

The day dies abruptly.

Nalayani, most chaste of womankind,
Carries the basket-case of a husband
To his favorite prostitute's place.
...

after many afternoons on my knees
i pinned him down to lychee
with a woody waft of liquorice.
but centuries into servitude
...

When memory decides
To no longer bear the burdens—
Of pain, or even plain indifference
She has her winsome wicked ways.

Some day, years later,
Life requires you to unearth
Some event long past and you
Set about browsing your brain
Like a desk-full of office files and then—
Come across a resounding emptiness.

Memories drizzle-fragile
Are not to be found. What
Greets you instead, through
Those yellowing sheets of typed matter is
The blank and ugly blotches of dried whitener
So carefully applied, then. It has a fading smell of
Chalk and chlorine: a blend, like memory, that works at
Your throat. You try to scratch it and the faintest hopes are
Betrayed as the caked pieces of the whitener crumble,
Displaying nothing, but toe curling holes where crummy paper and ink once contained you.
...

and may be we will
almost fall in love. . .
I will look into his eyes,
and he into mine—
my one single eye,
(the unfortunate other
blinded by a disciplinizing slap)
and we will agree, adjust
that Love can be Blind.
And he, healthy boy
well-fed, white with his rosy cheeks,
will wonder about me,
pity my bony body, those thin ribs
and worry
and feel my twisted ears
and the scars on my hands,
(reminders of the flirtation
of my skin and a cruel cane)
and perhaps lift my skirt. . .
Before he learns the greater horrors,
I owe him the truth of me—
So, I will say to him:
"I went to school".
...

September 21, 1995.

This was the second time
He spanned the world
So quickly. . . In telecast
miracles that occurred from
Michigan to Manila to Madras
Whether He was in plastic, ceramic,
Fire-burnt clay or stiff black stone
The Elephant-Headed, the Pot-Bellied,
The Remover of Obstacles, Ganesha,
The God had his fill as he sucked
The spoonfuls of creamy milk. . .

I am not willing to listen to
Capillary Action Rationalism
Or any scientific explorations. . .

Instead I am hunting for some
Silly girl's bizarre secret, to know if
The Son of Shiva had let himself
To be breastfed, to be suckled. . .
And if she, having tasted success
At His having tasted her,
Moved on to younger,
Charming Gods,
With their mouths
Full of white teeth.
...

And I got your words
Today.

I will have them painted
Tonight.

Try to choose
Or take them all.

Glitter on innocent
Raspberry lips that plead
For touch, for closer
Communion.

Composition in coffee
Cream blending with bitter
Chocolate worn on business
Days.

Ravenous red, for fiery
Animals in us, tamed,
By love in dying
Languages.

Colourless words, invisible
But everywhere—Love
Reserved for needy
Nights.

Love, remember the rain
And our fading words
On lonely nights
Drenching—Drizzling—
Straying to a steady
Chatter or studied
Silence.

Remember our
Whispered intimacies
Which still linger on lips.

Remember that some words
Which once beheld promise
Now hold our bodies
In motion.
...