Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Lunar Phases

In concentric circles of same spheres — two branches
of two trees conjugate at the spot where the moon resides
in the sky. The empty street, I imagine — carries you, the
one far — in clear images beyond orientations of distorted
topographies. These projections — in the ether, pass by as
distillation — through transparencies of air. The routes are
full of bends — and re-examine every path while the mud
and trees bask and breathe in breezes of spring. I draw a
tincture of you in my flesh — with ignitions of a violet sky.
There is a fluency in this silence — between the joints of
unrelated trees as they meet the moon — where shadow
and evening sunshine one acquaint — somewhere, your
eyelids beat as the constancy, in varied shapes it takes —
as to produce every flutter — to amid these glories live,
to upon simplicity of words — give life to the theology
that is our spectacle — below an approving moon.

© Sneha Subramanian Kanta




City Night

The amber ambrosia of pink evenings scatter
revisions of hope on satellite television revised
for night’s fodder. Three stray dogs bark at
midnight in differential segments of tunes, all
three diffident because far they are from the
moon. Automobiles leave dust that aeroplanes
trace over clouds, all a smoky valve of
brownish-purple. While the music lasts, blades
of half-dried grass scour breezes and clad
themselves with pollution and dust. “It will be
monsoon soon”, I hear somebody say. The acid
rain of this year will perhaps be more stringent,
I must think. The books lay lined upon wooden
shadows of drawers where passages in echoes
of unread pages reside. There is some hope, for
rosebuds in the garden are half-opened for night.
The dark dashes against the maroon-red as blood
slowly makes its way through the veins. The city
does not sleep and yet is restless in its hiding.


© Sneha Subramanian Kanta

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