Rukmini Bhaya Nair
I POETRY

Pull down the crows from the sky
Piya, summer’s blood is barely dry
What is a poem if it cannot try
To call you a ****ing ***** or die
Whispering in your arms, this lie
When Kabira met Keats, he said:
Our poems make canopies overhead

                                        Always

Or, beloved, if I told you
We are words
And the spaces between us
Make poetry
Would you not say
Piya, why the fuss?
We knew it was thus

                          Always

                                         sun’s
                                         amber
                                         squirt
                                         or
                                         piss’s
                                         intricate
                                         stains
                                         on
                                         indian
                                         walls
                                         voice’s
                                         uncertain
                                         trickle
                                         down
                                         page’s
                                         length
                                         small
                                         syllables
                                         entombed
                                         in
                                         marble
                                         vastness
                                         kisses
                                         kismet
                                         some
                                         call
                                         this
                                         poetry
 
Others declare it’s a fact! Check it out on Google or Wiki or just about anywhere.
India is the only country in the whole wide world with an ocean named after it
Where cunning gods tricked flatfoot demons into parting with sublunary nectar
Placed in mythic textual jars no human hands could ever touch and lightning
Struck dead in the water lovelorn whales keening in decibels no biped ear might
Fathom and red coral crumbled to depths in which no ship anchored and grainy
Infinities of sand queried: what’s any poem but this endless curving water body?
 
                                                                         Always
 
Okay, all right, I think I get it
But, Piya, this universal shit
Kaavya, dhvani, and infinite woe
This my clownish, doggerel show
It is not poetry, nor Indian
And I cannot call it English
Except the crows insist it is, it is
 
                                                            Always, the cawing
 
Poetry does not sell!
Which may be just as well
No bourgeois form, this
Shaped like a kiss
At the world’s dawn
Was a tulip poem born
Maybe it was the dawn
 
                                  Always
 
When that first turtle
Space-time loaded
On its crenellated back
Limped gamely ashore
A love poem took shape
Out of thin air and lack
And that, Piya, was that
 
                                   Always

II PROSE

Pull down the crows from the sky, Piya!
Long before those roads diverged
They cawed above the yellow woods:
Syntax is wing and body! Surge
Of air pushing a weight of words
Had we no prose, Piya, we could not ask why!
 
                                        Why, Piya, why?

III EPIC

Of the epic, we demand feats great gods
Cannot perform but men easily accomplish.
When the Ramayana went to Bali, the gods
Mounted stilts, casting huge shadows on dim
Walls, and the crows crashed from the sky
 
                                        That was history, Piya

IV TRAGEDY
 
Everything happens offstage
Clytemnestra’s scream, Draupadi’s rage
Catharsis rehearsing softly in the wings
Then the crow-garbed chorus troops in and sings
 
                                       Fate, Piya, is a funny thing

V COMEDY
 
Beloved, if I told you how the rangeela women
Of  Barsana curse and beat their cowering men
At Lathmar Holi, would you ever stop laughing then?
 
                                        Even the crows, Piya, cheer!
 
VI NOVEL
 
1864: the first Indian novel in English, Rajmohan’s Wife
Black and white make gray: the long, postcolonial twilight
 
                                        Crows are early birds, Piya
 
VII TWEET

Twitter 2006: in this electrifying handholding, our new, pterodactyl longings
        & language in its 6-inch grave unmaking president & slave 

                                        Characters reveal character, my sweet
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Candid head shot of Mary Ruefle
John Yau on Mary Ruefle’s New Book, Dunce 

"Ruefle makes unexpected connections and associations that might initially strike the reader as outrageous, but come to possess a certain stubborn, opaque logic ('Words have no thoughts/just as you have no/lice.'). She will then effortlessly pivot in another direction, which is one of the deep joys of reading Ruefle’s poems. You never know what she is going to do next."

via HYPERALLERGIC
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Cover of Cesar Vallejo's Complete Posthumous Poetry
What Sparks Poetry:
Sandra Lim on the Poem as Self-Interrogation


"I don’t read this poem and think of the practical relevance or irrelevance of poetry, but I do get the sense of being both cursed and culpable from the way Vallejo renders conscious (and consciousness of) suffering. It may seem strange to say that the poem feels like a chance to notice when it expresses so much restless melancholy, but the speaker’s honesty with his doubts keeps his sense of compassion from hardening into self-congratulation."
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