Dhee's Poetry Podcast: Recent Episodes
Dhee Sankar
Is there a black spot on your bottom calf? Catch up with everyone except yourself.Coruscating neckline — the dreams of stuff That leave us trapped: well-known unknowable swellsAverting eyes from you is slow madness Your laughs rang younger, raw, and commonsense.I hope your eyes were not trained on my faceI hope your natural laughter wasn't pretenceI, too, will stay envious of all the rooms That you walk into, the worlds barred off from me.Keep casual kindness for the flower that blooms,And not the one that wilts from sympathyMy obstinate gut says you have to be doomed,But maybe the laugh was real, casual, and free
(This poem is based on Jean François Lyotard's idea of the "Differend," which is a difference that cannot be expressed because the discourse necessary to express it does not exist. It is a difference that is unspeakable, and therefore impossible to resolve. )
The Differend
The more they spend words in my praise The more my soul will suffer They'll count my gifts and glory days while I had nothing to offer
As you count out my acts of care, my count will cling to zero They couldn't be acts of love to you so I can't be their hero
The more I'll burn in shame the more on our loveship they dwell The more you send your prayers my way the more I'll burn in hell
The more you love my memory, the more we will have cause to differ. You'll say I gave you the world, and I that I had nothing to offer.
(Two parts of this poem were composed at two different points in time — one in May, and the other in July. The two parts have had June pass in between them.) Daylight
I ache now, but know it will turn out later That I am living the best year of my life
Your uncertainties and soft silent letters Your raining sky body's cloud-shy light
If you won't have me, it will be no rude shock If you have me... Well, you have my heart anyway
There are some doors the right keys can't unlock They are the doors that always make us stay
There are some days that start warm, then turn cold There are lights that look golden, then turn black
There are daylights which are not that gold Some loves are really red, and never come back
The best year of my life turned out the worst The truest of things, I guess, are the ones that mock
My keys could open, but some doors need to be burst So keychain on the ground — somehow, a bit of a shock
Arms that dance are the arms that kill. Some arms are never unarmed. Their wet light waits with consummate chill To leave your breakage unbalmed.
Arms that clap with yours for a cheer Are the arms that wave goodbye An arm that nestles for warmth in fear Recovers and wrestles the lie
A slim arm preens in a winsome pose, Gains in beauty and weight, Then chooses a thorn and loses a rose A great choice — hard, and great.
Hard things last, while sick things lose. Soft palms are armed to the hilt. Either let go, or simply refuse To be shaken in truce-warm guilt.
Blister
Now this body is a blister burst
By walking so much with you
The foot it grew on is now healed
And keeps doing what feet do
Now I see and smell and think
In ways that all explode
Into the forms your bell-curves took,
As you watched me and glowed
To drink your glow is to think forward
To the day you leave this hell
This will never be a 'good' goodbye
From which one recovers well
To touch your arm is to touch a live wire
Which will shock me that day
But is now soft and sure to be kind
In a way that finds a way
The thing is, I know what distance does,
How distanced blisters swell.
I know a dream that can't bloom, stinks.
It does not recover well.
No band-aid will heal this, no lies.
It grows, it does not cease.
You nibble it each time till it dies...
Just let it live, please?
( This one is about not being able to be the one to teach someone how to cycle. Sounds complicated, right? )
Vicious Cycle
My cycle rots in rust and dust,
Blue junk beneath the stairs,
And I have given up on it, like
I have given up on life.
There's someone in this body who hurts,
Someone who still cares,
Someone who wishes to up one day
And take it for repairs,
And I can live with a stab, unless
Your soft hands wield the knife.
Hands not mine hold your bad balance
My feet don't race your wheels
Ears not mine ring with your yelp
Each time you keel to the side
The green-gold autumn avenues
Don't come with my house deals
Others know how blue your bruise
And how white your sweat feels.
It does not matter how much I cycled,
But just how much I died.
(This oddball piece refers to a comical scene from the Hindi serial Saath Nibhaana Saathiya which went viral a few years ago. Rashi is the name of its protagonist. And of course, the obvious Dylan Thomas reference doesn't need to be mentioned. )
Rashi
Do not leave silence for that smooth goodnight
Too long has shame kept love away from love
I'll still be silent when push comes to shove
Let me but light this basic beautiful light
Do not grieve unbelievably pretty much
That you could not return my hopeless heart
I'd rather lose my heart than lose my art
I'd rather lose my skin than lose your touch
Do not heave silence your eye-dropping sigh
Find laughter in such cuckoo sister acts
That spill juice on your sari, the world reacts
And compels you to go for a shower again.
Cast a warm eye on life, on death. Pass by
The empty cooker that boils up like men.
The Kiss
How many kisses do your lips contain?
My touch will never so much as touch your face,
So when the night needs questions to keep me awake
This is the question that the night can't restrain.
How are your kisses shared between your men,
Who gets how many, and which one lasts how long.
To think your lips have fate, it's written somewhere
How much passion they store, for whom, for when.
To think your body, unknown to your brain,
Is an appendage to lips that look for lips,
Lips that look for bodies that belong to them,
To kiss and close and open and kiss again.
Their soft pinkness heavy with fate's hot strain,
They part like lovers every time you speak.
They wear their moisture like a shirt against the cold,
They wear your lipstick like a coat against the rain.