Everything Begins Elsewhere
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Tishani Doshi
Tishani Doshi was born in Chennai. She is an award-winning poet, journalist, essayist and novelist. Doshi has published seven books of fiction and poetry, most recently Girls Are Coming Out of the Woods, which was shortlisted for the Ted Hughes Award 2018. She is the recipient of an Eric Gregory Award for Poetry, winner of the All-India Poetry Competition, and her first book, Countries of the Body, won the Forward Prize for Best First Collection in 2006. Her debut novel, The Pleasure Seekers, was shortlisted for the Hindu Literary Prize and longlisted for the Orange Prize and the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Small Days and Nights was shortlisted for the Ondaatje Prize 2020. Doshi is also a professional dancer with the Chandralekha Troupe. She lives in Tamil Nadu, India, with her husband and three dogs. tishanidoshi.com
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Everything Begins Elsewhere - Tishani Doshi
I. Everything Begins
Everything begins elsewhere, he knows that: dawn, Christmas, love, beauty, terror, the wind, the sky, the horizon, his own soul. It begins far in the woods, or out on some windy field by the sea. He wants to be there, not here; he wants to be where things begin, and he is so close, he is so near.
JOHN BURNSIDE, A Lie About My Father
Dog in the Valley
Last night
I heard a dog
in the valley
puncturing the hills
with a sound
from a long
time ago.
It was the sound
of a man and woman
falling out of love,
the sound of a century
caught in the dark.
A deep-throated howl
made under stars,
made against death,
insisting there are drums
underground,
cymbals in the clouds,
a music that goes on and on
because someone
somewhere
is listening.
Ode to Drowning
is it or is it not
the cold monsoon
bearing the shape
of my dark lord,
speaking of his cruelty,
his going away?
NAMMALVAR
I.
This is an ode
to be sung
in the latest hour of night
when rain clouds
have gathered
over shingled roofs
and blue-skinned gods
with magical flutes
seduce the virgins to dance
For there can be no love
without music
No rain
without peacocks
perched
in branches
of sandalwood trees
with plumes
of angels
and voices of thieves
pleading for their loves
to return
II.
If rain signals
the lover’s return
then I am lost
in the desert
burning
like the brainfever bird
looking for images of you
through mesquite
and teak
because there’s no sign
of you
or what I know
to be as you
only clouds adrift
in a vanquished sky
like vines
of throbbing arms
and mouths
drinking at the shore
intoxicated
with the night
III.
There are as many ways
of yearning
as there are ways for rain
to fall
slow
incessant
gentle
squalling
melancholy
warm
It’s that old idea
of drowning
in another to find the self
the compliance
that water gives in form
and depth
to something else
But what if the humming bees
are quiet
and the garlands of jasmine
have been laid out
to dry
How long to wait
for everything to turn
heavy with flower
washed of dirt
IV.
It’s desire after all
that spins us
Demands to be praised
as though it were new
like the stillness
before the first monsoon
when the hymen
of the earth
is torn into
and the brazen smell
of damp
fills the air
Must there be surprise
after we’ve thundered