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The Adroitly Placed Word

 

Poetry by Cheryl Snell

With readings by P. S. Krishnaprasad


Cheryl Snell, Cheryl Snell is a poet and fiction writer, author of FLOWER HALF BLOWN (Finishing Line Press), EPITHALAMION (Little Poem Press) SAMSARA (Pudding House Publications), and a novel, SHIVA'S ARMS(The Writer's Lair Books). Snell just won Lopsided Press's chapbook contest. The publication date for her work, PRISONER'S DILEMMA is scheduled for July. She keeps an author's blog at http://shivasarms.blogspot.com.

 

P. S. Krishnaprasad is a professor of Electrical Engineering at the University of Maryland, and holds a joint appointment with the Institute for Systems Research. He is also a member of the Applied Mathematics faculty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MP3

Durwan

 

Their charity brings her here, crouched low

behind the iron gate, warding off danger

with her broom of river reeds and her set

of jangling keys. For her service they drop

spice into her sambaar, coal onto her grate.

They let her live in the stairwell, sleep

 on their used newspaper. In the morning

her sari is printed with words black as dirt.

She can't remember how long she has been lost.

 

A whiff of wind-borne jasmine pulls her back:

the luxury of a  bathtub, a blanket made of lambswool.

When a servant shoos a vagabond off the veranda

she takes up her keys, rattles them. She pictures

her old doors opening, hands tugging her inside.

Where are his alms? she cries.

 

 

 

MP3

Shelter

Shadows striped with light
fall across the shade-seeking tiger.
A caterpillar swollen with butterfly
dangles from a banyan branch
laddering backward into ground
that feeds it.
The hard earth cracks, opening
like arms to the prodigal root
latching onto its second chance.
In the plunge underground,
fissures widen.

Between tendril and trunk,
the tiger settles into its green
cage with nothing else to do
but bat one great paw
at painted wings lofting
above the split-skin’s molt.

 

 

 

 

MP3

Dosa Afternoon

Mortar and pestle pulverize dal
to dust; batter sours, fermenting
while potatoes pile up, whittled
by Amma's wicked blade. Lashings
of cumin on onions and peas release
a scent that makes our mother
miss our father.

It takes two days to make dosa.

On certain Sundays, we proceed
to Paru's as if entranced, join
our fellows in a room shabby
as an afterthought. Moody gods
glare down at us.

We who had lost ourselves touch
the Ganesh around our necks, inhale aromas
of origin, reclaim the masala of home.

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