Goddess Without Arms
(Excerpted from ‘Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words’, a WE anthology)
My poetry didn’t come
full-blown,
a perfect flower,
every petal proudly placed.
It was never a goddess
rising from the waters
seated serenely on a shell,
or emerging from a lotus
all her arms gracefully extended,
a Canova Venus or a Saraswati,
resplendent in her plenitude,
certain of her sovereignty.
No. It grew painfully,
armless,
limbless,
somewhat blind,
a few stray petals here and there,
more like wounds.
But day by day,
inch-by-inch
it gathered grace,
arms, limbs, eyes…
wholeness.
.
.
My Lost Language
I search for my lost syllables In the green grass of the paddy fields. My lost language, Malayalam, Has dropped like a gold wedding band, Which slipped off the finger Into the stream below, A lost bond lying In the flowing water, Amid the pebbles deep in the water. As I search, I hear my grandmother’s voice Speak from the bed under the attic stairs. How many nights I lay with her Sharing the pain and the sorrows of her life. The smell of whole mangoes pickled in brine Emanates from the earthen bharanis lining the wall, Vying with the smell of jasmine Coming in through the open window. Grandmother smells of aromatic oils Meant to ease her pains. In the dark night outside, snakes shed their skin. I hug her tight as she tells me In the music of that lost language About her sad childhood, The cruel stepmother, the hunger, the humiliation, The struggle to learn a little English, All in Malayalam, which opens windows. On the day of her death, she appears to me in a dream. Clear bells ring, piercing my consciousness. Molle, you know I lived a sad life, But can you feel it now, the joy? She holds out the lost band to me – English and Malayalam bound together in gold. My lost language shines in the palm of my hand, Forming intimate syllables, Rediscovering lost memories, A language that trembles in my deepest sleep.
(Excerpted from ‘Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words’, a WE anthology)
Light
‘He who seeks light, must learn to walk in the dark.’
St. John of the Cross
When I was seventeen
And dreaming of distant lands
And faraway loves,
My grandmother said
‘Get her married
before the light
goes out of her face,’
The light in a woman’s face
Should not be so brief,
It’s meant to last a long time,
Nourished by the soul,
Well, they got me married,
and
put out that light.
But I learnt to live in candle-light
When the other lights went out.
One learns by subtle contact to reach
Electricity at most mysterious levels.
Light goes from the face, but
Survival lends one light
that shines most brightly,
She who seeks light,
Must learn to walk in the darkness
On her own road.
(Excerpted from ‘Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words’, a WE anthology)
Anna Sujatha Mathai has five collections of poetry in English to her credit and a short novel, Shueli’s Star, which is being serialised on StrandsLitsphere. Sujatha is the recipient of the inaugural WE Kamala Das Poetry Award, 2018, and her poems find a place of honour in Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words (a WE anthology). Her poems have been anthologized and translated into various Indian and European languages, and she has read them in India, England and Struga. Anna Sujatha Mathai holds a first class Masters In English Literature from the University of Delhi and a Postgraduate Degree In Social Studies from the University Of Edinburgh, Scotland. Her poetry collections are Crucifixions, We, The Unreconciled, The Attic Of Night, And Life–On My Side Of The Street.
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