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Touch by Meena Kandasamy
Once again after long years of search I came into contact with the
power of honest poetry when I was reading Meena Kandasamy’s
anthology of verse.
She wove a fabric rare and strange, faintly smudged with the
Indianness of her thought that saw “even the monsoons come
leisurely strolling like decorated temple elephants.” “The unseen
lover weaves his way into every poem” she cries but she “must write
about him forgetting the shame and the embarrassment it would
cause for somehow it seems better than not writing anything at all.”
“An infidel’s emptiness, a void closing over voids…”
Dying and then resurrecting herself again and again in a country that
refuses to forget the unkind myths of caste and perhaps of religion,
Meena carries as her twin self, her shadow the dark cynicism of
youth that must help her to survive. “Happiness is a hollow world for
fools to inhabit” cries Meena at a moment of revelation. Revelations
come to her frequently and prophecies linger at her lips.
Older by nearly half a century, I acknowledge the superiority of her
poetic vision and wish her access to the magical brew of bliss and
tears each true poet is forced to partake of, day after day, month after
month, year after year…
— Kamala Das
power of honest poetry when I was reading Meena Kandasamy’s
anthology of verse.
She wove a fabric rare and strange, faintly smudged with the
Indianness of her thought that saw “even the monsoons come
leisurely strolling like decorated temple elephants.” “The unseen
lover weaves his way into every poem” she cries but she “must write
about him forgetting the shame and the embarrassment it would
cause for somehow it seems better than not writing anything at all.”
“An infidel’s emptiness, a void closing over voids…”
Dying and then resurrecting herself again and again in a country that
refuses to forget the unkind myths of caste and perhaps of religion,
Meena carries as her twin self, her shadow the dark cynicism of
youth that must help her to survive. “Happiness is a hollow world for
fools to inhabit” cries Meena at a moment of revelation. Revelations
come to her frequently and prophecies linger at her lips.
Older by nearly half a century, I acknowledge the superiority of her
poetic vision and wish her access to the magical brew of bliss and
tears each true poet is forced to partake of, day after day, month after
month, year after year…
— Kamala Das
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