A journal of semi-detached poetry.

Sneha Subramanian Kanta - Poems (3)

Night Shape

The night shadows are bandaged
in black and something gentle
and terrible passes through its
penumbra like corridors.
Dark, vivid nights seem to paint
themselves into shades only
dreamers stay awake to watch.
What curse is this, then, of glory,
where every moment begins to
sharpen and expand over cypress
leaves as the winter firmness goes
away from land through night-air?


(where) the ocean
meets a roaring sea ― 
they beckon and
often, i go (there)
i imagine a flower
planted within their
bed. its petals open,

once held dense;
as concentrations.
the red rebuilds
with white and
gray and blue;
until they remain
not colors,
ocean or sea;
but water,
water and water.


for Kashmir

“The map is not the territory.” 
― Alfred Korzybski

What blurs the borders this instant?
Mist rolling over the hills
from the slopes
into a grief stricken valley,
Or rain?
The objective reality of things
you cannot touch.
Maps are fallacies ordained
to their fate,
epistemological surges
in a linguistics class.
The triptych is a dream
enter from anywhere
around Deodars
sleep beneath the Chinar
bullets pierce the audacity of things
malleable sap on your skin.

(Text © S. Subramanian Kanta - Publication: Fall 2017)


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