Indivisible: An Anthology of Contemporary South Asian American Poetry

MEENA ALEXANDER

MEENA ALEXANDER Meena Alexander was born in India and raised there and in Sudan; she went for further studies to England. Alexander’s six volumes of poetry include Quickly Changing River (2008), Raw Silk (2004) and Illiterate Heart (2002, winner of the PEN Open Book Award), all published by TriQuarterly Books/ Northwestern University Press. She is the editor of Indian Love Poems (Everyman ’s Library/Knopf, 2005) and the author of The Shock of Arrival: Reflections on Postcolonial Existence (South End Press, 1997) and Poetics of Dislocation (University of Michigan Press, 2009). She has also published two novels, two works of literary criticism, and a memoir. Alexander is the recipient of fellowships from the John Simon Guggenheim, Fulbright, and Rockefeller foundations , the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Arts Council of England. A long-time resident of Manhattan, she is a distinguished professor of English at Hunter College and CUNY Graduate Center. I write in English—the rhythms of my mother tongue Malayalam, as well as Hindi, Arabic, and French, flow into my lines. River and Bridge Trees on the other side of the river So blue, discarding light into water, a flat White oil tank with HESS in black, a bridge Holzer might skim with lights—I will take her Down before she feels the fear—no sarcophagus here: I have come to the Hudson’s edge to begin my life To be born again, to seep as water might In a landscape of mist, burnished trees, A bridge that seizes crossing. But Homer knew it and Vyasa too, black river And bridge summon those whose stinging eyes 143 Crisscross red lights, metal implements, Battlefields: birth is always bloody. September Sunlight For Shuntaro Tanikawa A woman in army castoffs goes down the steps to the river. A dove flutters each shoulder bone. Here Seiji, here Setsuko, she murmurs. Stay brother sun, stay sister moon. Not so long ago in Hiroshima woman in kimono, bird, and cloud turned to shadows staining the ground. Through branches of the sun I watch her go down the steps to the river. Her shadow brushes the lilac tree. The birds are naked as birds well might be, they sing to no one in particular. Color of Home From the poem cycle “Listening to Lorca” I met you by Battery Park where the bridge once was. Invisible it ran between the towers. What made you follow me, O ghost in black cutaways? Dear Mr. Lorca I address you, filled with a formal feeling. You were tongue tied on the subway till a voice cried out: 144 MEENA ALEXANDER Thirty-fourth Street, last stop on the D. It’s the Empire State, our tallest again, time to gather personal belongings, figure out redemption. You leaned into my ribs muttering: Did you hear that, you seller of salt and gatherer of ash just as your foremothers were? How the world goes on and on. Have you ever seen a bullfight? What do you have strapped to your back? Then, quieter, under your breath: Let’s survive the last stop together. I knew a Hindu ballerina once, nothing like you, a quick, delicate thing. I walked with her by the river those months when English fled from me and the young men of Manhattan broke cherry twigs and scribbled on my skin till one cried out—I am the boy killed by dark water, surely you know me? Then bolt upright you whispered: Why stay on this island? See how it’s ringed by water and flame? You who have never seen Granada— tell me, what is the color of home? MEENA ALEXANDER 145 Slow Dancing From the poem cycle “Letters to Gandhi” Dear Mr. Gandhi please say something about the carnage in your home state. How did you feel when they shut the gates of Sabarmati Ashram that February night and the wounded clung outside? What has happened to ahimsa? Is it just for the birds and the bees? What lips, what soles swarmed across the river? Is it hot on the other side? Oh, so many questions, sir, I cannot help myself I cannot shut my mouth. It’s hard to hear you, birds peck at sounds, maggots gnaw since even syllables have skin. The kingdom of heaven is tiny as a mustard seed and you have crawled therein. Mist pours from mango trees, the moon soars in a sea...