Poetry | Anuradha Vijayakrishnan

artwork by Geetanjali Joshi

Braille

She breathes and lives skin. Thin long fingers, arched

tendons, thick fingertips

scrubbed pink, swift as dancers gliding, sliding

over everything – notepaper, keyboard,

coffee cups,

tablecloth, cold skin, warm skin, wet skin, bristle

of fine hair on elbow, sag of shoulder, sudden

sharpness, ridges and wrinkles, fold of stomach --

 -- assembling sextuplets of meaning

everywhere. Her fingers read, listen, memorise,

imagine what she might say

in response. Her skin is her arsenal, secret

language, endless organ of pleasure, tingling

tongue savouring gifts of unexpected words, brushing

past pauses and haptic

outbursts, pin prick dots dancing formations

at her, with her, with or without music – and she

bursts into laughter, swells like song

in a silent room.

Kuyili, suicide bomber

For me Kuyili, the old river spits up blood and fire, sends brown waves

of love to wash my fierce charred feet. Stars pause humming and buzzing, a land

falls silent as my final bones prepare

to explode. Birds and animals gather around my sweet scattered name, name

their sweetest songs after me, Kuyili. My shredded battle cry they carry to fearless

mothers, passing villages weeping clouds

of smoke. There are no prayers to be given or received, no other

miracle to be sought. So none

were said as my people sang to me while I slept, bathed me, brought me gifts of

fragrant oil, flaming flowers, ripe fruit. And before I, Kuyili reached for the flames

that bent to my desire, hungry lovers craving flesh

and victory. For Kuyili, the sky remains blood orange remembering how these wars

never end, how screaming mouths will forever scream, this girl too

forgotten, her scorched shadow a faded weapon. Tossed

into the brown, keening river brimming

with birth and fish tailed life.

Old man’s funeral

Who attends an old man’s funeral these days except other

old men, women with sepia faces and ghosts

waiting patiently to take home their own?

Other old men who arrive early as if time is an amiable

companion now, wearing long sleeved white shirts slightly

wrinkled, slightly yellow. Other old men who sit

alone and together in corners farthest from the dead,

smiling at everyone, jumping when a name

is called, pinching each other to check for life, vital

signs, living breath. No one asks them for

reminiscences.

They all stare at the dead, trying to remember names, surnames,

stories. Who was married, whose son was a drunk, who was

a cuckold, who died alone. Who might

still know them, draw them into some light, show them

seats where they can hear music, watch young girls

make eyes at handsome young men pretending

to be busy and bold, as sepia rinsed, nut wrinkled

women shift in their chairs, clutch at creaking knees, hips

and backs, gossip about who’s going to be next, who’s

going soon enough.

As ghosts, begin to leave.

Sufiyana

What can I write that has not been written

under the stars of an endless night

where music is an infinite cord stretching from

the sky to your neck and back – you are

dangling from the firmament, quite alone

with sapphire oceans, bearded mountain gods beneath

your swinging feet – swaying, long hair spinning,

laughing - every

breath in rhythm with something immeasurable – love

pouring from your eyes, sweeping in and out

of your heart - as the Qawwals raise their voice

and beat to a pinnacle unimagined…

Again and again, songs surge overhead and break

into foam, refrains whirl white tunics around in glorious

mourning, because you are dead and alive, buried

deep in this sand, you are the marker

of your tomb…

Ek pal chain na aaye…

Ya Ali, who will bear me when I fall, bear me

to rest, fingers clutching blank paper, gazing

upward even when sight is immaterial?