Sneha Subramanian Kanta – Five Poems

Cantaloupe Sundown, Kerala

the oars make a different sound
paddled over backwaters
an elephant-tail hair embossed
in a ring with bronze luminosity

the shadow of a mosquito
over blue walls of cryptic dishevel
or the reflection of a butterfly
upon a stoic monsoon puddle
harlequin shawl rests upon wood
remnant woolen strung out like grass
or chords from a harpsichord.

mimetic into shadows of dusk
rain drops from a thatched roof
refugee moths within a balmy shade
of the fringes of a house.

when the sun was out it was flaxen
but dusk has another texture
reignites bare memory of amalgams
salmon-pink emulsified musk-orange

affirms a cloudy cast beneath boats,
fishnets and fallen pale-green coconuts
where a river flows with silver lined
fishes lined as starlings on its brink.


Epochs and Love 


Everyone who meddled their hands with
the earth: cave-painters of the stone age,
makings from preliterate societies, now tarnished
by weathering have learnt of love. Every grain
of soil ― every particle of dust is of its own
existence unaware, yet is being made and unmade.


How must the structure of old-architectures look,
as they resemble their newest form? A walk through
the narrow passages of ruins ― scream in silence,
their mute histories. There was love ― even there, in the
once-upon-a-times, long-long-many-moons-ago.


The spirit is clay ― the skin, grains of sand. I kneel
on mud, attempt to make earthenware pots ― then
pardon the self to have changed a patch of intact soil.
There is love ― over there, in contact and exchange.


Enough Earth : Haiku Series

summer sun rises
from behind buildings
blue kites in the sky.

patches of sunlight
scatter over roads
yellow coinages.

summer afternoon
fields of rye
butterflies flutter.

mother planted bonsai
earth and skin



In Phrases

love is the most creative of all arts,
for being a precursor to philosophy. he
must be loved in different ways in
those unfamiliar everydays, varying
in lengths and breaths where flames
dance through wind gushes. on the
un-stamped envelopes where his
other country address is written, he
must be loved like a sun-cracked sky
and strings of rainbows. i must learn
to converse in silence, where declaring
perceptions like flowers in their full
bloom prevail. the sounds of cities, of
bustling vehicles and crowds and in
their woe and madness, he must be
loved as the fluttering leaf that breathes
against a concrete backdrop and the froth
of red wine. he must be loved, loved with
my love, as ellipsis personifications, differently.


Exegesis for the withdrawn

afternoon held textures
of gray and beige
their reflections fell on
an open page

omniscience appeared
in wafts that
glassy breezes carried 
to unfamiliar places

the narrative of
Marcel Proust
endured its waylays
and echoed

through pollen grains.

alone, i often fall into
these shades
which intricacies lace
and transport

onto coast harbours
and their lines
i drift here and drift,
drift there

the finish lines of an
unfinished day
remain wakeful through
formations of

thatched evening skies.


Author’s Statement on Beauty

Beauty lurks in the most unlikeliest of places. There is beauty in the vacant walls that brim with historical underpinnings, in the brow of a child, woken from sleep, to drink water. The little fingers that shape the world for tomorrow have beauty in them, not power. The product of beauty can never be toxic. Beauty cascades from inbetween curtain pores as the first rays of sun pass through. It resides in the folds and gaps of lovers holding hands, in the comfortable silence that passes between their souls. There is beauty in the dust jacket books, signed by an unknown person for his beloved, in the way he dots his ‘i’s’ and puts a dash on the ‘t’. There is beauty in growing old out of many sunrises and sunsets filled with love. There is a beauty in silence, in conversation that isn’t filled  I with television or noise. The world needs to refigure their ideas of perception and embrace the simplicity and glory of sunshine and its reflection over letters. Beauty is in places you need to transcend to look.


Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a GREAT scholarship awardee and reads for a second postgraduate degree in literature in England. Her poem “At Dusk With the Gods” won the Alfaaz (Kalaage) Prize. She is co-founder of Parentheses Journal, a collaborative venture that straddles hybrid genres across coasts and climes. She is also the poetry editor for Counterclock. Her work is forthcoming in infinite space, Verdancies, Calamus Journal, Door Is A Jar and elsewhere.