Sneha Subramanian Kanta – Three Poems


 

Sunset Chronicle

the sun, an orange marble — semicircular outline ushers
with discrepancies of storms. A mad girl dances upon ghettos
of the shore, near a burgundy blaze of mystery.

deep purple brushes through clouds that float quietly
over hills and plateaus — the land is asleep

in deep breaths of winds that lull soft scents dreams contain.
cobbled lanes disperse and evolve at ends of outskirts

within the hidden anatomy of a crescent night. tides surge,
soar and leap upon the coast where she still dances — nostalgia
consumes her feet, her raggedy disposition — an outlaw of

the too-engrossed world. a haunted staircase of footstep sounds,
pregnant with secrets — crumble, reborn. they say she is insane,
she is insane — she accompanies the celestial familiarity of black

upon the crinkle cringe perennially, barefoot.


epistemological

the asymmetry of a pungent garlic
suffers for wrongs of the world —
like a fractured man with bent bones
lying in coma over the shelf of
a commonplace grocery store.

or could it, confined in its terror
be a product of an unanticipated accident
the shoulders shrug off responsibility for?

like the engine of a derailed train
clasped with dimmed visions in the fog,
that mourns its frozen fate.


Orphaned oikeios

There she sat – the dust of evening evaporating on her brow. Winter had been unsparing and her frozen hands found themselves a refuge within the woolen jacket pocket. A ghetto of her own existence, the pale evening smudged its cadences over her disposition. Barren trees had begun to speak subaltern languages: in their dark, somber shade. From the edge of her damp eye, she saw one man come toward her with a wooden box with the word ‘donation’ inscribed, “Do you believe in God?” The motionless evening carried on.


 

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 finds credence in non-linear forms of looking. Avant-garde art, untold stories and tales of refugees are matters close to her heart. Her work is forthcoming in Fallujah Magazine, ZOOPOETICS, Serendipity, Erstwhile Magazine and elsewhere. She is a GREAT scholarship awardee, pursuing her second postgraduate degree in literature in the United Kingdom. She believes in forms of dissents and uprisings, renaissance, handwritten letters and the word et cetera. Write to her on s.sneha01@yahoo.in.