#vandana khanna Tumblr posts

  • #poetry#vandana khanna#inferior goddess #afternoon masala: poems by vandana khanna #literature#poem#lit #from my collection
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  • #poetry#vandana khanna#inferior goddess #afternoon masala: poems by vandana khanna #literature#poem#lit #from my collection
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  • #poetry#vandana khanna#inferior goddess #afternoon masala: poems by vandana khanna #literature#poem#lit #from my collection
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  • “(…) We had
    the possibility
    of becoming timeless—
    but bones don’t
    collapse so easily.

    Vandana Khanna, from “After Developing” in Afternoon Masala: Poems

    (via adrasteiax)

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  • Let them come for what’s left:
    a chorus of bone, river and soot.
    Worthy enough. Holy enough.

    Like all the others, singular—or not.
    Wanting only for your name to blue
    my lips and call it miracle.

    Our love double-knotted, saddle-stitched
    held the world together. Until it didn’t—
    all the words you placed in me flushed
    and faltered. From memory, I recited
    their worn prattle—cut them clean
    with my bite. The jungle we made in blame

    grew and grew, fed on our melancholy.
    Not even the birds knew to change their songs.

    #Poems #Remnants of the Goddess #Vandana Khanna
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  • If you let me stay,
    I’ll let you cut your teeth on my heart

    until it becomes a black forest beating
    out of time, beating me out of this world.

    Vandana Khanna, from “The Goddess Shows Up Late for the End-of-the-World Party,” published in Tupelo Quarterly

    #quote#Vandana Khanna#poetry#Tupelo Quarterly #out of my collection #The Goddess Shows Up Late for the End of the World Party
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  • #Another fixed repost #quotes isnt mobile friendly #vandana khanna#afternoon masala #afternoon masala after developing #after developing#khanna#poetsofinstagram#writing#poem#literature#favorites #last one sorry
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  • Back before color threaded
    the world, when everything
    was in black-and-white, I was
    the only pagan at school, hiding
    my breath with its curry and accent,
    mouthing words to prayers I didn’t
    understand. I wondered why there
    were always holy men but so few holy
    women. I wanted to be enchanted,
    to steal the baby Jesus from the Christmas
    play and keep him hidden in my closet,
    pull him out when I needed to be saved.
    I wanted to be the blue Madonna holding
    all the pieces of her son together.

    Half a world away, girls my age came
    as close to God as anyone could be.
    They were already throwing their bodies
    over their husband’s funeral pyres, flung
    out like blankets over the flames, chanting
    Ram, Ram like a nursery rhyme. My mother
    told me it was a holy mantra, the more I said
    it, the holier I would be, but I never really knew
    how or why, just that it was supposed to happen.
    Once I tried saying it as many times as I could
    in fifty seconds, but nothing. No miracle,
    no halo of thorns around my head. And all I
    could think about were those girls, widows
    at fifteen. What did burning flowers smell like?
    Something terrible, something holy?

    - Blue Madonna, Vandana Khana

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  • It has taken me years to tempt you
    from your holiness—your name
    scrapes against thick-edged leaves, 
    against felled trees and cave walls 
    where I’ve written my name
    in vermillion, so you won’t forget.

    I’ve called you out of your forest
    into mine—see how the kitchen
    gleams the sharp silver 
    of a mended heart.  It’s sore 
    and pinches every so often.

    Hours in front of a stove, 
    the oil spits at me from a pan 
    like your mother’s spite.  
    I mince garlic with hennaed 
    hands—a garden of orchids 
    blooming from wrist to thumb.

    When the sky’s pitted 
    with stars, we eat mangoes 
    that make our throats itch, 
    remind us of the sweet pulp 
    of first love. 

    – vandana khanna

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  • I will die in Ireland on a cold day on the coast
    when the sea burns against darkening rock
    and the mist hangs low over the hills. It will be
    a Sunday because Sundays are the day of rest
    and worship and because I have worked
    a lifetime only to have my spine ready to snap.

    I have never seen Ireland, and my family
    will not understand my longing for swift wind
    smarting my skin, my fingernails turning
    the blue of cornflowers. I will want to be burned
    like a true Hindu, my soul set free of this jaded
    body, this broken vase - so my skin can mist
    and my bones crack, a splinter like burning wood.

    Vandana Khanna is dead. They will not understand
    me far away from the heat and dust of Delhi, cloistered
    in a damp room, my fingers stiff from writing.
    This after years of thirst, years shivering under woolen
    shawls brought back from Kashmir. They will not
    understand you, feverish, whispering Spanish words
    into my mouth because I love the way
    vowels sound against your lips.

    Or rather, I will die in Spain on a Sunday afternoon
    when the stores have closed for the sun, men sitting
    in the shade of a magnolia outside my window,
    sipping from cold oranges, cut and soaked in sugar
    water. I have never been to Spain but will want
    that heat, reminding me of my home. I will die
    from the inside out, a fever turning my veins gray,
    thighs bruising easily like fruit.

    And you will spread my body out like a cool sheet,
    cover my hands with henna, thread my body with beads,
    and no one will understand but you, because I
    have worked a lifetime, and today I am tired of metaphors,
    of empty leaves that rain like ash.

    - Vandana Khanna

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