Lustre of a Burning Corpse: Three poems by Anureet Watta
Cover art courtesy: Anureet Watta
‘The world has ended many times before, / just this morning when I heard my father’s footsteps, / just this evening when you looked my way.’
Anureet Watta’s poetry collection Lustre of a Burning Corpse—featuring raw, explosive poems that draw from the themes of violence, queerness, memory, and hope—was published in January 2022 by Ukiyoto Publishing. Presented here are excerpts from the collection.
The Government has it Under Control
everything really,
the postcard I write to my lover,
the prime minister licks the stamps for me,
the home minister checks for grammar.
Peace is restored,
no revolution is allowed to litter the street
no interruptions to the machination of peace
We ignore our blood-soaked newspapers,
there are 144 ways to do the cavort of normalcy,
and you can learn it on primetime news.
To the funeral of freedom, no one wears black,
only khaki,
no one mourns,
no one wants to disturb the surrendering of hope.
The leash is so long, you can go for a walk now,
The leash is so long, you can make a fancy noose.
And at night,
the delicate dance of teargas smoke,
the familiarity of censoring your own mind.
Thank god, we are safe now,
we have government issued gunfire to sleep to.
*
Holding Hands on the Delhi Metro
The world may be ending today,
so, I hold your hand on the Delhi Metro,
a handhold that doesn’t spill into a hug,
a handhold that doesn’t starve for a kiss.
The world has ended many times before,
just this morning when I heard my father’s footsteps,
just this evening when you looked my way.
Perhaps we are the undoing,
nothing in our hands to set fire to the sky,
except for this damned audacity in our heart,
this audacity to hold hands on the Delhi Metro.
We are the textbook definition of wrong,
always stepping out of the lines,
the CCTV camera breaths down our necks,
the security check misses my hand grenade heart,
but nothing in my pockets except for this nonbinary guilt,
nothing on the footage but our queer shame.
I don’t say it out loud, the way my heart sits in my mouth,
but underneath my fingernails is a hunger I dare not
pronounce.
So, I swallow the stones thrown at us,
I watch the universe obliterate just to hold your hand
a little longer.
Perhaps, it has always been like this,
we, unscathed by the wrath around us,
tenderness, a weapon, we hold with both hands.
Perhaps we’ve caused the world to end,
maybe we’ve held hands on the Delhi metro.
*
There Must be Joy
There must be happy stories, lustrous beginnings
and giggling through juvenile nights, oodles of acceptance
poured out even before we begin. May we live to be
around to weave them. There must be euphoria,
to fall out of prescription, and onto the street to dazzle
and bring the traffic to a halt. Brief moments of quiet
through the endless summer, without yearning without
wanting anything, but now. How silly would it be to
wish away my queerness? What do you mean tragic? What
do you mean grave? This is the fantasy you haven’t had the
chance to dream (yet). We don’t dream of petty escapes,
we addle in the lap of belonging. Our stories won’t sit
quivering in the corner. Erase us? We’ve challenged God
by simply being here, we can take care of his little pawns.
Picture me—the lustrous devil, in a corset, dancing over
fire, adding Pluto back to the solar system. There must be
stories where we take up space. In your boardroom in your
artsy films in your not so artsy films. We will not pitifully
cling to your morsels of kindness. Why would I centre my
story on coming out when it’s you who pushed me in
there? I will centre my bratty lover who doesn’t call back. I
will centre the ecstasy of cheap booze and skating on wigs.
My iridescence leaps from the tops of trees, the sun is
jealous of the light I hold. We deserve narrative plenitude.
We triumph each time we laugh. And there must be
the rusted vinyl, the fading ink, the blackened polaroid to
capture it. And so there must be the pulsating epilogue,
overflowing with possibility, where I take you by the hand,
into the unfathomable night and show you the pink moon.
There must be joy, sweet leisure of sitting and being,
without repercussion.
***
Anureet Watta (they/them) is a poet and filmmaker living in Delhi. They run the Delhi based artists' organisation, Forbidden Verses, that works to politicise conversations around art, promote local artists and make art more accessible. Their work has been published in The Bombay Review, South Asia Today and more. They have been featured by Vogue, Homegrown GAYSI for their artistry. Their debut short film Kinaara (Aug 2021) has been showcased across more than 10 platforms and film festivals around the globe. You can find them on Instagram: @alooreet.
