say my name…

14 11 2010

“There is a kind of passion invoked by secrecy that remains unmatched.
It is raw and pure. Dangerous and seductive. Beautiful and savage. It
is the kind of passion that is experienced in silence even though
every pore of your body wants to scream its name. Not every one is
fortunate enough to experience it but absolutely every one craves it”

Brandon Ingram – ‘Living their Lie’

How to Eat a Wolf

26 10 2010

– Sharanya Manivannan

Does all lust start and
end like this? Don’t get me
wrong. I loved my wolf.
I held him tethered like
a pussycat. I nursed
the rumble in his belly
with hands gentle as a burglar’s.
He lived on milk
and blood and ocean. He
had violets for his furs.

It’s just that he was
beginning to devour me.
He nuzzled me with claws,
fondled me with fangs
sharp as yearning
He snaked a tongue so
hungry in its kiss it
turned my body to salt.

How do you douse a
dervish swirl? I asked.
Devour it, you said.

So I fantasised
about eating his balls,
rolling them in semolina
seeds and roasting them
golden. I got blooddrunk
on the thought of the
crisp tender cartilage of his ear,
left to simmer in tequila
and cilantro. The dry teats turned
sweet when baked with cinnamon
applesauce, or drizzled with chocolate.
The tangy musk of austerely steamed eyelid.

I set traps.

Mine is the deepest void,
the deepest void you’ll ever know.
And so I lured him to a well.
A wolf can drown in its own
wetness. But mine swam
and lapped and doggypaddled
until I waded back in to get him.

Mine is the darkest smoulder,
the darkest smoulder you’ll ever know.
And so I conspired to let him burn.
A wolf can poach in its own juices.
But mine danced on coals and leapt
ablaze, until I pussyfooted back in to get him.

I became desperate.
I preached to my wolf
about suicide, proselytized
about reincarnation. Come back
as a sleepy kitten, I said.
Come back as a hibernating bear.
Come back as a snail with a flag trail of surrender.
But my love was indefatigable. It was
volcano and oceanic tremor. It was a black lace bra and
too much jazz at 3 a.m.
My love was as big as betrayal.
I pleaded and pleaded until

you finally looked up and said,
You can only kill a wolf
you don’t want to have,

and only then did I see that

your love
was exactly
the size of two fists.

Sharanya Manivannan was born in India on 30 July 1985 and grew up in Sri Lanka and Malaysia. She lives in Kuala Lumpur and Chennai. She is well-known for both her unique bilingual (English, Tamil) writing and performances. She is well-known as the first and only writer to use both languages in Malaysia’s modern underground independent writers’ community. She has received positive remarks about her writing from international writers such as Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Indran Amirthanayagam, Francesca Beard, Shreekumar Varma and Laksmi Pamuntjak.

Three poems

7 10 2010



Lies in the
Warmth of your embrace.
In the fullness of your lips
As you kiss,
In your eyes
Deep dark and honest,
In your curves
Your smooth skin
Long legs
And the sweet taste of heaven
That lies between.

Forever after

You tell me
While looking deep into my eyes
That I’m beautiful.
That you wish we’d met before
That you couldn’t imagine life without me.
That’s I am what you’ve been waiting for.
You tell me I’m enchanting.
And that you’ve never met anyone like me.
And that you will always love me
Forever and ever….

I smile and hold your head close to my chest.
I’ve heard those words before.
And in the eyes and hearts and minds of the people
Who spoke those words,
I ceased to be
All that.
I wonder,
How long,
Before you don’t want
Our forever after…


Myeeeee child…congratulations!”
So what are you now…
Mrs…Mrs. who?”…
“Weeraratne” I say.
“It’s a perfectly good name.
Didn’t see any point in changing it”.
She’s not amused.
“So, you cook?”
It’s the question I get asked most often.
“No” I reply,
“My husband does”.
She looks horrified.
“You clean then?…
And do the washing?…”
It’s inevitably the follow up question…
“Not really..
We’ve got people for that.”
She’s livid.
You’d think I killed someone.
“That’s not marriage.”
She snorts.
I’ve heard this too many times now to lose my temper.
So I smile politely and make an excuse to leave.
It annoys me,
Talking to women,
Who weigh and value a woman’s worth
On how many meals she can cook
Or how many dishes she can clean.
I hope she doesn’t have daughters of her own…


17 08 2010

when i cannot speak
cannot walk
cannot go here go there
do this do that

when i’m not permitted
forbidden from
accompanied fed
and ordered to

when i am not heard
not seen
not known nor listened to
told what’s what

when i put up
shut up
and cannot get up
or stand up

when I am put down
pulled up
pushed forward
and sent home

its for my own good
after all.

Time passed is time past

25 06 2010

The river

the river

said Heraclitus.

you think

it is the same

you think you know

how time passed


this river is not

the river you knelt in.

time passed is time past,

this water

is not that water,

the cool green water

your feet rippled in

that water is far away

and you will never know

the brown leaves

silvery fish shadows

twisting in the foam.

you will only know memories

dredged up

fished out


through the sieve.

time passed is time past.

One step forward

21 05 2010

One step forward

Two steps back.

You are on hold

She calls you forward

And then steps back

You have no idea why

You don’t know who she is

One step forward.

Two steps back.

Waiting for something

that may never happen

Your fate depends upon her

fate, what will it be?

You have no idea why

You have nothing at all

One step forward.

Two steps back.

You think you are

following your heart

Like you always do

One step forward,

two steps back,

that is what you do

The floor of time

25 04 2010

Pick your place on the floor

Of time.

Any place.


Kiss an eye,

Fall apart

Pick up the pieces.

Twist, turn

Take another place,

Hold your hand.

Fall apart

Pick up the pieces.

Swing around

Arch your neck,

Touch your fingers.

Fall apart

Pick up the pieces.

Pick a new place,

Shimmy in

With your hip out,

Slide your fingers in,

Fling your head back.


Don’t pick up the pieces.

What’s the point?

Pick our places

On the floor of time

And get ready.

Breaking up

28 01 2010

Breaking up

Does breaking up always involve breaking down?
Throw away your ego as you watch her go
Beg her to stay; knowing it only chases her further away.
Why does breaking up involve breaking down?

Replay everything she said in your head
We were unhappy together but no happier apart
In my hands I hold little pieces of my heart.
Why does breaking up involve breaking down?

Wake up alone. Stare at the phone.
Spend the hot days and cool nights on your own.
Think of how far apart you have grown.
Why does breaking up involve breaking down?

A Feminist or a Womanist

2 01 2010

Staceyann Chin is a Jamaican Chinese American spoken word poet,
performing artist and LGBT rights political activist.

When you sleep

21 12 2009

When you sleep


When you sleep
Where do your fingers go?
What do your fingers know?
What do your fingers show?
Where do your fingers go?
When you sleep

Do they tremble on the edge of the bed?
Or do you fold them neatly by your head?
Do they clench like claws against your own skin
When you’re living your day all over again?
When you sleep

When you sleep where do your fingers go?
What do your fingers know?
What do your fingers show?
Where do your fingers go?

Do they play guitar in a Latin bar?
Are they strangers or lovers?
Do they drive your car?
Are they swimming submissively?
Sex acts of life
Or just cutting through Jello with a very sharp knife?

Now, Zeus was a womanizer
Always on the make
But Hera usually punished her
That Zeus was one to take

When you sleep
Where do your fingers go?
Are they pulling out weeds from the dusty soil
But then never rewarded with the fruits of their toil?
Are they scratching their nails on the chalkboards of death
Only seeking attention when everyone in the room has left?

When you sleep
When you sleep, where do your fingers go?
What do your fingers know?
What do your fingers show?
Where do your fingers go?
When you sleep

Do they tremble on the edge of the bed?
Or do you fold them neatly by your head?