A journal of art + literature engaging with nature, culture, the environment & ecology

Three poems by Anuradha Vijayakrishnan

Anuradha Vijayakrishnan, United Arab Emirates-India

 

Fear 101 

 

There is much you can do. Sip warm water stirred with lemon, worry, swallow 

pills and promises, trust what you read, worry. Sip warm water, now tepid. 

 

You can watch from a secret window. Check if neighbours have barred

windows or drawn black curtains over doors. Or if that is a dead cat in their dead 

garden. Meanwhile your skin will flake and peel where you have rubbed snake oil 

mixed with spices. You will listen to your breath counting backwards, measure with your palm 

how little air you need. Gather words from every passing voice and string them into lucky 

charms. Hide your mouth, pretend to speak.  You will not speak. 

There are things you can do – cut, chop, boil, weed, clean, walk five thousand steps 

before sunset, pull out what you planted because you cannot watch them die, plant 

again because what else can you do.  

 

You can lean out for a moment – startle 

foolish sparrows – for a moment breathe 

without fear. Whistle. Laugh. You can do that again.

How we greet trees

We look upward with closed eyes. Allow birds and leaves

to speak 

 

first. Let sunbeams trace our worn necks, weary 

spines

 

with green fingers. We stay quiet but our eyes 

shine 

 

closed. We dapple with light, raise lonely 

hands

 

to the grand canopy. The trees remain unmoved

except to bend slightly

 

to wind. Occasional spirit whistle call of breath from 

within—root 

 

throb of gnarled soil—startled shiver of dew dropping

from high

 

on our lashes. We sink into old moss, fallen leaves, pools 

of yesterday’s fallen

 

moonshine. Make ritual love on moist earth, bury 

ourselves in faith.

Pagan

I am called forest. Sometimes I sweep across

mountains in landslides of mud froth and silver pebble. 

I do not respect your borders. I am the giant axe that 

cuts down your cities 

tsunami that washes away your tall 

wrongs.  Blood of dead animals runs in my veins.

I sing, sing all the time. Sometimes it is koel, sometimes 

shy cicada. Listen if you would like to hear. 

I am the ululation chorusing from trees, dying wail of hunted

antelope. I am birdcall and crescent moon. 

Sand you crumble into, red dawn and rainbow.

I am the apocalypse you fear, endless labyrinth

you live in.

 

Anuradha Vijayakrishnan is a writer and business professional living in Dubai. Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Magma,  Guftugu, The Lake and The Chakkar. She is the author of a novel, Seeing the girl, (LiFi Publications) and a poetry collection, The Who-am-I-Bird (Bombaykala Books). Her work has been featured in several anthologies and translated into Italian, Chinese and Arabic (Dar Al Muheet, UAE).

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