Poetry

This scanned copy of Nissim Ezekiel’s poem, “The Second Candle”,  in the poet’s own handwriting, is being reproduced with permission from his daughter, Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca, who generously shared it with IWE Online.

“My father’s poem ‘The Second Candle‘ was written in Bombay, sometime when I was in school. The poem is special to me as it expresses the deep faith my mother had in God. Throughout her life, I remember her saying God is great, whether we were experiencing joy or sorrow, or challenging circumstances. Her faith was simple yet profound. The poem speaks of her faith in the last lines. This is one of my favorite poems of my father’s, since it was written as a response to a request by my mother to light the second candle to pray for the rapidly failing eyesight of one of my aunts. Being Jewish, we lit the candles, one candle on each evening, for the Sabbath, on Fridays and Saturdays. Lighting the second candle was a significant act. My mother believed that only God could perform a miracle and restore my aunt’s eyesight. The poem is framed and hangs on my living room wall in my home. It is a daily reminder of the faith and love of both my parents.”

-Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

“The Second Candle” was first published in the second edition of Collected Poems- Nissim Ezekiel (OUP) in 2005, indexed under “Recently found, among the late poet’s papers”.

I stand at the crossroads,

a stranger to this city

in ashes. Not one dome

or tower is left

to sing its praises.

With my husband I entered

the city through the East Gate:

I now leave

by the West Gate, alone.

People follow me:

they touch the hem of my robe,

call me a goddess.

But I am only a woman.

Till the wrath

that burns in me is appeased,

I will not hold

my husband in my arms.

True, I am victorious:

my rage brought the fire

of heaven down

on the king’s head,

scorched his city

like straw in the wind.

My life was over

even before it began.

I have only my karma to blame

for my wretchedness.

With Kovalan gone,

the sword of widowhood

bleeds me to death.

I walk on air.

To whom shall I turn now,

where shall I go?

Who is there to comfort me

in my grief?

When was it last that Kovalan

held me in his arms,

plunged his face

in the pool of my breasts?

My skin has not forgotten

the length of his body.

Even now my blood rushes

to spend itself

on the farthest rocks of the night

leaving behind a trail of foam.

Parthasarathy, R. “Soliloquy for Kannagi.” Indian Literature, Vol. 42, No. 4, July-Aug., 1998, pp. 80-81.

Published with permission from Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi; awaiting permission from R. Parthasarathy.

Climbing down the ladder

I remember my father’s face

in the face of my son,

holding me steady.

G.S. Sharat Chandra. Immigrants of Loss. Hippopotamus Press, 1993

Published with permission from Jane Chandra.

Between immense bricks

someone’s applause from an upstairs

reminds me of a face

in a grocery store,

the name I wrote

on the back of a receipt

The parking meters stick out

their expired tongues

a frosted pick-up purrs

in its iridescent fume

catching up with its other

ghost of meaning

In the blink of intersections

I look deep into mirrors,

my breath leaning

on their numbered frames

in search of a door

the rim of a cobbled face

G.S. Sharat Chandra. The Ghost of Meaning, Confluence Press, 1978

Published with permission from Jane Chandra.

constantly denying

i’m having the animals

inside asking am i

proud of this state

over them hungry

and hurt they hide

in the dark of

the arteries quietly

dying—

what if i stopped

denying with the animals

already gone

can i turn to

this forest of

softness to feed me

G.S. Sharat Chandra. Will This Forest. Morgan Press, 1969.

Published with permission from Jane Chandra.