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‘Four Poems’: Srajana Kaikini

Discover An Author

  • Philosopher, Curator and Artist

    Srajana Kaikini (PhD) is a philosopher, curator and artist. Her book of poems The Night the Writing Fell Silent in response to works by Jogen Chowdhury (long listed for the Oxford Art Book Prize) was released in 2023. She teaches courses in philosophy, arts and aesthetics at SIAS, Krea University and is based between Bangalore, Mumbai and Chennai.

    सृजना कैकिणी (पीएच.डी.) ह्या तत्त्वज्ञ, गुंफणकार (क्युरेटर) आणि कलाकार आहेत. त्या बंगळुरू, मुंबई, आणि चेन्नई ह्या या शहरांमध्ये  राहतात आणि काम करतात. जोगेन चौधुरी ह्यांच्या कलाकृतींवर आधारित असलेला त्यांचा कवितासंग्रह द नाईट द रायटिंग फेल सायलेंट  हा २०२३मध्ये प्रकाशित झाला. ह्या पुस्तकाची ऑक्सफर्ड आर्ट बुक पारितोषिकासाठी लॉन्गलिस्टमध्ये निवड झाली होती. त्या क्रेआ विद्यापीठ अंतर्गत एसआयएएस येथे तत्त्वज्ञान, कला आणि सौंदर्यशास्त्र हे विषय शिकवतात.

Jamun Pop

This cask is full of jamun
Rhinestone memories, jaded diamonds,
Gulp it in, spit it out.

As if the blind gods 
spat out by Kolhatkar in Pandharpur,
suddenly got stuck in my throat.
Seeds like mangled flamingos 
in the middle of the salt flats 
like the terror and beauty of an unplanned moment. 
more stones, more fruit, more seed

In deep purple salt plains
They mix into a nest full of ants and wait, 
Hiding as if in the bushes.
With a pack of boiled peanuts,

For that time to come when
Food tastes just ripe 
Popping in one, 
then another and

mustering up just enough 
courage to say, 
Yes, I have seen,
Stones turns to fruit
Seeds turn to eyes

A Little Thing...

A little thing says, arrive.
A little thing says, dissolve. 
A little thing says, rise. 
A little thing says, look.
The thing you never ever wondered about,
where did that little thing hide, 
up until when you called out its name. 
Yesterday, girl sang a note she’d never known before,
As if it broke free, where from ? 

Like a shrub swallowing the evening light, 
a flush of plume and blue ,
little berries and moist bites, 
from the packet in the little hands,
teeth smile lavender,

Little things gleam startled 
that even littler ones might have been.
Who said the world was done, dusted, complete. 
little thing, are you hiding behind that curtain
telling this stone-grind, to wane. 
I am berry,
eager, 
shall spit purple water make this night sky blush. 
Little things do not appear to binoculars. 
They hide in their yearning to be found.

At a protest

Sitting on the steps
Of the townhall
The mob protests 
In sign language
Fury ripples 
Through trembling fingers,
eyes shouting.
Those who can speak
Have forgotten how to,
They wait at the signal, 
and drive away. 

Cauliflower

Brain is cauliflower,
trying to understand the
bus driver’s state of mind.
Do not wash your hair more
Than thrice a week
Says the insta-reel.
The shruthi box
Drops by an octave 
week after week. 
An affected poem does 
not make a good one. 
So the cauliflower is boiled
and hair is washed. 

Image Credit: for हाकारा । hākārā

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