curiosity will catch you dear for you are a writer and it is your license to startle the world with a hundred thousand words instead of a dazzling smile or those occasional winks a…
Meena Kandasamy is an emerging poet, fiction writer, translator and activist. She is based in Chennai. Her first book, Touch, was published in 2006. Two of her poems have won prizes in all-India poetry competitions. Her poetry has been published in various journals, including The Little Magazine, Kavya Bharati, Indian Horizons, Muse India and the Quarterly Literary Review, Singapore. She edited The Dalit, a bi-monthly alternative English magazine of the Dalit Media Network in its first year of publication from 2001 to 2002. Kandasamy’s translations include the writings and speeches of Thol. Thirumavalavan, leader of Viduthalai Chiruthaigal or the Dalit Panthers of India (Talisman: Extreme Emotions of Dalit Liberation, 2003) and the poetry and fables of Tamil Eelam poet, Kasi Anandan. She is one of the 21 short fiction writers from South Asia featured in an anthology published by Zubaan, New Delhi. At present, she is working on her doctorate on Caste in the Indian Language Classroom. Kandasamy regards her writing as a process of coming to terms with her identity: her “womanness, Tamilness and low/ outcasteness”, labels that she wears with pride. She knew, she says, that “my gender, language and castelessness were not anything that I had to be ashamed of… I wrote poetry very well aware of who I was. But I was also sure of how I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be taken on my own terms… I wanted to be totally bare and intensely exposed to the world through my writings. I wanted it to be my rebellion against the world.” It meant, she adds, consciously deciding that she wasn’t interested in winning “acceptance, or admiration or awards”. Aware that “the site for all subjugation is (at first) at the level of language”, Kandasamy believes that political poetry has the “pressing responsibility to ensure that language is not at the mercy of the oppressors”. The ways of the status quo are insidious, however, and Kandasamy realises that a politically conscious poet has to be true to herself in order to be a genuine voice of dissent and resistance. Her work as the editor of a Dalit magazine and her association with the Dalit Panthers of India (a militant activist Dalit organisation) has further honed her awareness of what it means “to be a woman in a caste-ridden nation”. The result: poetry that arises “not out of mere reading, but out of active engagement”. Given her impassioned politics, it is perhaps not surprising that she wrote her first love poem only two years after she started writing her “angry, militant” verse. The poems in this edition reveal more than militant rage, however. There is fierce and exuberant wit and wordplay which make one look forward to more of Kandasamy’s work in the years to come.)
Meena Kandasamy şiirleri
Non Dualism Atman Self Brahman God Are Equal…
Ours is a silence that waits. Endlessly waits. And then, unable to bear it…
When memory decides To no longer bear the burdens— Of pain, or even plain indifference She has her winsome wicked ways.…
and may be we will almost fall in love... I will look into his eyes, and he into mine—…
'We were not lovers, we were love.'—Jeannette Winterson The woman you once knew will not own up to her face.…
I am living on because providing apologies is easy once—…
On some days of the week They come up with the lotuses And greet the first rays of the sun In all their fresh/flesh/flush pinkness.…
Algorithm for converting a Shudra into a Brahmin Begin.…
In that Sin City, with its slot machines, This gaming guy lost all to loaded dice— His brothers, his bonds, his villas, his wife.…
S P A C E is a problem unlike your never-ending paper or the maddening blankness of your word processor where you can go on…
because they had established a reputation of being wild and unrestrained and indiscriminate when it came to men because they never bothered…
Morning Song Wet pink And dusty grey…
At that brief time When you wait For the audacious cane To strike your skin,…
i am a dead woman walking asylum corridors, with faltering step, with felted, flying hair, with hollowed cheeks that offset bulging eyes, with welts on my wrists, with creasing ski…
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