Editor’s Note
Often, in workshops, a debate unfolds: is all art conscious of its own creation, of its commitment to process over outcome? Does every choice a poet makes—rhythm, form (or lack thereof), content, diction, and so on—implicitly argue for the poet’s philosophy of how language should work? Is every poem, then, a kind of ars poetica? Though this is an unresolved point of contention, I found myself silently nodding away, thinking “yes…yes…yes” in response as I first read Greeshma Gayathri’s work.
In “Origin Story”, when the speaker questions “What else can I give her?”, she immediately answers, “ I am writing her tale into still paddy water with an inked beak”. In this sense, Gayathri’s poems privilege act over artefact: not lineage but the telling of lineage; not rain but the signs that anticipate it; not healing but the conscious rooting toward it. Later, we arrive at: “All I want is to articulate / with precision—” and “…to free the frog in my throat”. Through these declarations, the poet seems to break the fourth wall, demanding that the reader view the poem as her construct. The images, never static, turn to the metaphysical—in observing, in longing, in naming. Read this way, the pieces slip naturally into the tradition of the ars poetica. Once I began reading the poems through this lens, it became difficult to perceive them otherwise. I found myself compelled to return. When I did, I felt as if I was being ushered into a thought already unfolding, a voice that had been speaking long before I approached it.
—Vasvi Kejriwal
The Bombay Literary Magazine
This is the story of the five brothers. Panamaratthaan. Paniperukki. Chevinorinjaan. Malaivizhungi. Boothakkannan. A story blown into the wind to be beaked, too tenuous for letters. Panamaratthaan was as tall as the tallest palm in the grove and hid the sun with his prickly crown. Paniperukki couldn’t stand his own coldness and wore many jackets lest the rivers freeze. Chevinorinjaan shuffled with his ear to the ground. Like a snake listening to the red earth. Malaivizhungi hungered for the hardest mountains to swallow whole, while Boothakkannan’s big eyes could look into the future. Together, they guarded the shore Pazhayaru makes, lapping its fine alluvium against the bank. And it was named Ozhuginassery— after this ancient alchemy of soil-making— where she would be born. A banana leaf of a land I found in every morsel she fed, the chill of ice apples in every swill, of this Naanjil lore. Thai pani tharaiyai thulaikkum, Maasi pani machchai thulaikkum, she says. And in the month of Karthigai, crabs swell up in their moon soaked carapaces. My grandmother is one thousand and eight moons old. She has seen it all. What else can I give her? I am the ibis writing her tale into still paddy water with an inked beak.
My mother excitedly points to the white
tuft zipping past the coconut
fronds. In a bright,
windless moment, she tells me:
when clouds run, rain’s arriving.
We wait for a day.
Then mother comes with news
that the peacocks next door danced
when I was away. Google agrees,
the chances are 65 percent.
The leaves are wearing their peculiar shine
from a slanting sun.
The youngest of the brood are once again
practising their baritones,
still sounding like sore-throated
cats and broken auto rickshaw horns.
Meanwhile, a faint rainbow stretches above.
Deep, abiding friendships are the place where many women know lasting love.
–bell hooks
All i want is to articulate
with precision–
the way i speak of the wind
thwacking my lower lip
with a pinecone
or of the needle-eye gap between
the legs of egrets flying.
My stiff lower back has held on
to the teacher’s song, so long,
like a good girl– you’re not good
for any sport, you’ll tire out.
My frizzy hair, its dandruff and dry skin
have waited patiently for a gentle stroke.
All I want is to free the frog in my throat.
I have lived parched long enough.
I must help myself like a good succulent
and grow roots, willing to travel the extra mile,
in search of kin who can chew
buttered corn with garlic and herbs, and sip jaljeera
as we concur with each other’s cuckoo clocks
that say we are ready
to be a forest, voracious
from having held back.
Acknowledgements
Image credits: © Varsha Kharatmal. Gossip (2024). Dimensions: 48 X 36 in (121.9 X 91.4 cm). Medium: acrylic on canvas.
Author | Greeshma Gayathri
Greeshma Gayathri lives in Coimbatore. She writes from a deep need to praise the beauty she finds in little things. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Winged Moon, Cottonmouth, The Alipore Post and elsewhere. [Text source: Greeshma Gayathri]
