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Sascha Akhtar

wave

3

summer

2020

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the poet

Sascha Aurora Akhtar is a poet of the liminal – someone for whom all is magic. She considers herself a 'Pakistani-British-American: something reflected in the linguistic registers in her work. Her six poetry collections have been published by Salt, Shearsman, Contraband, The Emma Press, Knives, Forks & Spoons Press and ZimZalla. Her first short story collection, Of Necessity And Wanting, is due out from The 87 Press in October 2020, while Oxford University Press (India) will publish her first book of translations in 2021. Sascha's Poems For Eliot, from the book #LoveLikeBlood, was named number one poem of the past five years by Poetry Wales in the summer of 2019.

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the poems

Space dies for it

00:00 / 01:43

I am pure possibility

drinking with both heads out of wishing wells

geegaws to dust off, Dionysius


That remind me

of me picking manes

are you catching water

I give you wands imagine

I need to get out there with a vengeance

where is it I sit on a doll's platform

you do not marvel at the wonder of things.

Semi-state

hands smell like chicken

more words to give the mouth

chosen worlds


Send messages sometimes I seek

sometimes, not

beaded colors

remind of another turn

some reality

if I don't write them down, will they disappear.

I might close you off

I am losing sunshine

there is plenty for you to get stars twisted

& still, blessed be

you are edgewise, edgewise

I would like to wrap my head in the salt of you

who knows how many near misses you've had.

The sky is majestic

otherwise oven gloves

people worried about library fines

being on their record

nothing impending

words spoken go off


I met someone

undeniable

how is one supposed to keep track of days

I stepped on your pile of nails.

Aethyrs

Restoration of temperature
00:00 / 02:03

Magnets collide, poles pushing

each other apart, each half

of the brain doing the same, crashing

the front of a car, red, burning

into a wall rhythmic & repeated


Ramming into the bricks bleeding

at the joints, the car is redder now,

my medulla love oblongata tending

the sails aloft & blossoming outwards

in a kiss-filled driving wind; Will, shining

phallus of a female reading portents

in the moonscape of a cloudy night


Rising like death in a gas chamber

ambles with six legs of an arachnid, the carver

of slumber into nightmarish waltzes with familials


Jaws yawning & you

reflected in the epi-glottis

hanging in the cavern of the throat

where words ring pealing like awakenings.


Under this heat-maddened sky

of language & commerce, donkeys rot

next to pye-dogs that rule

the streets of days & night

howling into forms that manifest

suspended over above our beds like rain


frozen in a pause


a blink, each moment flows

in a circuitous emblem

designed to signify this immersion of senses,

a vice grip keeping the head down, breath

is all you can take, the mercury falling,

your abdomen a lilting cadence


the beginning song rustling through imaginary leaves

on trees festooned with glowing cups

ripe swords, sun-kissed winds


& lush pentacles.

Chaos Totem

00:00 / 01:45

If it is,

condors in the night sky

a gilded wooing eruption

in the empress way of stars,

I hear each bar of the xylophone

beaten by their wings

battling the atmosphere.


A wish to pass

behind the firewall, you.

If it is,

fire-starters in the dim

in the cavernous, in the ruins of the day

a pacing, piercing undulation

rippling under the skin,

I feel each dig of the claws

of the panther puncturing my lungs

to a paler, slivered shadow of breath.


​Your smile glowing

in the tint of a nuclear sun; the dream of red letters

every night, new.


​If it is,

angels of mercy

unfurling ragged wings on runny skies

I see Sophia’s paintings dripping

on my head & each prayer wheel

spins in the temples of Kathmandu

furiously, yellow-bellied pigeons

fall over from lack of oxygen,

eggs are fried on the bonnets of cars

& I hear the Noctiluca

roaring of its hunger.

If it is,

I draw the line.

I choke the hold on time

& supply runs short.


Shoals of unborns playing tantras with wooden legs

on tankers carrying oil explode

& melt the very tarsoul of the road & you

you must run for your very, very life.

Publishing credits

Space dies for it: Astra Inclinant (Contraband Books)

Aethyrs: The Whimsy Of Dank Ju-Ju (The Emma Press)

Chaos Totem: Poetry International (2012)

Author photo: © Christa Holka

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