‘Nobody’s citizens and nobody’s slaves’: Meena Kandasamy’s poetry of resistance and solidarity

A Wild Woman on a Word Hunt

Find me another word
that is not so ready. I want
a word that waits and weeps
and hesitates, that knows
of other words I kill, and
grows afraid to take its place.

Find me a word that has heard
of a woman afraid of losing a man
she does not have, find me a word
that flinches at the thought of being
trapped, a word that shows me
stealing time, not men.

Find me a word that is not so safe.
A word for a woman in a forest
to wake up with, a woman who
knows heat and long silences
and sleepless nights, a woman
who works with only words.

Not love, dear poet.
Find me another word.

Fire Walk With Me

Come, walk with me this spring evening
Walk with me as we go past ourselves
We shall change our clothes, we shall paint our faces

Walk with me as we awaken the dead
Walk with me as we disappear into darkness
We shall lock our lips, we shall lock our thighs

Walk with me as we discard this flaming day
Walk with me through this maze of streets
We shall dance to the beat of drums
We shall move to the mad song of our bodies

Walk with me against these blinding lights
Walk with me as we watch the many night-beasts
We shall have forgiven, we shall move as one

Walk with me until we hear the singing of the birds
Walk with me until this night sheds her shameless skin
Walk with me until it is time for my firewall
Walk with me until it is time to walk away

Sunset at Siem Reap (for A)

Looking lost between clouds
this sun is not the lone one
I know from home, the big one
who takes up all the evening sky,
the red one who free falls over tenements,
the drama queen who dips in to dirty
waters when done for the day.
The sun I’ve known is a star.

Here, this paid-to-perform sun
stays still, delays disappearance,
does not sink until you tame it
into your sonnet about tourists
who trap the sunset with their toys.
Packed into a poem on the spot,
your still sun slowly enters mine and
I too write of foreign, fading light.

Sunset at Siem Reap. A poem
from the comfort of a strange
land, this guilt trip for words
I failed to find at home.

Martyr

A militant, whom my lines
cannot hold whom my lips
cannot kiss whom my eyes
cannot hide whom my memory
cannot mark with a date
of birth or even death.

No knowledge of her village
laid waste, then displaced and
no mention of her songs
seeking to seize a state and
no sign of a red star where
she had stashed her dreams.

In this book of martyrs
only that blood-drenched
story in three bold words:
“One Woman Comrade”
to say she died fighting
for the people.

We Are Not the Citizens

naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom

We are not the subjects of anyone
We do not fear the god of death
We shall not suffer, were we to end in hell
We’ve no deception, we’ve no illusions.

naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom

Nobody’s citizens and nobody’s slaves
Fearless of lynchings and beheadings
Unscathed by the torrent of hell-fires
We do not tremble at certain death.

naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom

As people, we refuse to be ruled
As people, we refuse to die
As people, we refuse to suffer
As people, we refuse to be deceived.

naamaarkum kudiyallom, namanai anjom
naragathil idar padom, nadalai illom

Excerpted with permission from Tomorrow Someone Will Arrest You, Meena Kandasamy, Juggernaut.