Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Beyond earth, ether

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Light as in the shade
when leaves pigment into the shade of xanthophylls.
Let us be of this world but make another light ourselves.

Does anyone not see that lightning forked open the city
yesterday? Driving by a narrow alley,
all I can see are leaves sprayed with rainwater. I think of abstractions.

The wind is like a mother fanning her child to sleep
when the electricity is gone. I feel wind stroke my brow
into a gentle lullaby. The world is not all changed,

but so much better. The thing about the world is that
it goes on, whether you watch or not. Sometimes
I think about the world with all its tainted glory

as a hot-air balloon moving further away in the expanse
of galaxies. The sun tidies itself up day after day,
hangs in the sky, shows up. The moon washes itself

in tides as it rises after gloaming. Then there is a portion
of the sky where birds are released into, with their fennel
hued wings, into a golden hour that no matter what, shines.

(with a line from Dylan Thomas)

smog poem


syringes of smoke led free
in the air
for love poem
   in the age of climate-change


yet a sunset
            birthed out of
an intermingling of dust & light
diverges slant toward the seas
& lovers kiss beneath
               fervent dew
etherized upon the eastern horizon
            in its horizontal cumulus


this encumbered globe
   bartered into thick boughs of trees
& soil & seed & sunlight & surplus
      becoming a thinning veil


the eiderdown is full
               with translucent
                  breaks in the sky


a highway
littered with cars
      commuters with scant breaths

                  in the valley
                  of opportunity


homebound, they return
               through the garden’s


sleet of smog
                  the hydrangeas
&                   pruned grass.


an owl hoots
               atop an empty branch
with closed eyes
               meditating over
               dust figments through
the rays of a streetlamp.


landscape of fungi-green


smoke rises from
         autumn leaves, burnt
         over the outskirts of town


night —
   the landscape of elegy


a procession of cicadas
   chirp into
last embers of the dark.

Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a GREAT scholarship awardee, and has earned a second postgraduate degree in literature from England. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her chapbook Home is Hyperbole won the Boston Uncommon Chapbook Series (Boston Accent Lit). She is the founding editor of Parentheses Journal and reader for Palette Poetry.

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