Two Poems from A Scent of India by Sasenarine Persaud
Into October
We turn the page into October
wondering: what have we done
this year? A calendar makes us colder.
We toss the similes back into summer
This is what is unsaid (f—k writing schools):
hello unstrange-stranger no smile no laughter?
The Grand Canyon unvisited. India as ancient as it was to the ancients. A foot bleeds
American Christmas
Orange ball rising and flaming
horizon like a Marvel superhero
unaging is not the citrus we need
this morning grackles at dawn
chai from the finest Darjeeling
a constant dripping off eves
Red loam dust off the village road
when cars traversed the burnt-brick
surface—we waited on promised pitch
fascinating Raleigh at a lake in Trinidad
did he take some back to Elizabeth
currying favour after taking her trump
maid-in-waiting—another Elizabeth
Orange ball like Japan’s imaging on flags—
landlocked, who could see three ships
sailing in. Metaphor. Barbarians within
attacking a German Christmas market
Crossing the Delaware in dark—
British Hessians celebrating nativity—
Washington attacked killed slaughtered
and won—then gave thanks O Lord
belated Christmas dinners—apple pie
cheesecake invented 2,000 years ago
in Europe—a holiday with mango
lassi daal chana curry rice and roti
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Sasenarine Persaud is a Guyana-born Canadian American author of Indian ancestry and originator of the term “Yogic Realism.” He has published essays in Critical Practice (New Delhi), World Literature Today (Oklahoma), and Brick (Toronto) on this subject. His lifelong engagement with Indian philosophies, art, and languages and an awareness of his community’s 184 years domicile in the Americas, clearly distinguishes his craft. Persaud is the author of 15 books of prose and poetry.
Photo by Denise Noone.
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