Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Must Love Be Used; Flinchingly

the preposterous planet dangles human
masses convulsing over breathless underarms,
with pretense, insolent. In glee, integrated dusty
doom in laborious slippery reflections perpetually
pride fluent, uncouth ascensions of the heart. alas,
burnt incense on glassy surfaces peculiarly frail,
breaking every flush of feeling

(elsewhere; a moon breathed by lungs of soil
and trees and a sun, like a bright balloon
inflated unto warmth by their veins)

Battered by amorous, brittle square edges
(o did you — say you loved somebody?
scarlet blood, i, on the lap of wind. to your sex-starved
— clumsiness, i am sexless)
luscious, an Eighteenth century pencil point
debris sharpened, indignantly
(something opens and folds, vaguely dashes against my bones)
and carried, flies,
scratching shores under pruned ersatz.



The Shades of Charcoal

Gray tinctures from mist carry smeared wafts
of slow pyrolysis embers. As pencil stream tints
cross-hatch on paper, dampened by smooth
resolves of finger trails on chalk-white paper.
Visible sun rays over a light-weight vestige vine
of soft consistency. Tones of compressed sketch
skirt outlines depict on precis like soliloquies.
Vapors emancipate from distilled chips to create
whiskey. Intoxication breathes there in slow, sedate
breaths as patches of remnant, subdued wood stains

Embers succumb to fire as i surrender to he —
as flakes to fire, gray.



In the crowded metropolis in London

where rain beats over the grayscale sky


and repeats itself every one quarter

mythology lessons nudge memory,


create an analogy with the Arjuna Chakra.

caught in the endless chain of life;


expressions alabaster figurines hold.

From a window outside the bathroom in


Paris, at the Grand Hotel de Clermont I

saw an early morning one such figurine:


melancholic at a loss she was too tired to

remember. The sky was bright with autumn


smok’d lanes winding and stretching uphill.


the train in its husky sound laughed —

as it drew in.



Semantics of Mythologies

Where were you, O mariyada purushottam Ram,

while Sita suffered at the hands of a stranger?

There was a mangal thread

she wore: close to her bosom, and clutched onto.


She had leapt into vanvas for your safekeeping,

under the guise of tradition,

do you see the tears in her eyes –

the syringes she spends to assuage society,

the saat-pheras of promised oneness.


Where did you lose the golden lotus of love,

amid your tenure among the forest-groves,

do you hear the rivulet still run with fervent velocity,

the days Sita spent there – counting flower petals?


O Ram, the world is going to hell since,

Patriarchy has killed all of you.



Sneha Subramanian Kanta, currently pursuing my postgraduate studies in literature and culture in the United Kingdom.  She believes in the sounds of silence and qualities of seasons, among other things. A dedicated scholar to the rubric of postcolonial literature, her work has appeared or is to appear in 7X20 mag, Otoliths, Noble Gas Qtrly., Sahitya Akademi and in poetry anthologies such as Dance of the Peacock (Hidden Brook Press, Canada), Suvarnarekha (The Poetry Society of India, India) and elsewhere. You can write to her on