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The Asylum of My Literature Class

by Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Published on October 21, 2016

Ironic, isn’t it? (to use a literary device to explain)
that which is sought (from first and third world students)
in linguistic parameters (of un-dissolved concoctions of prejudice)
the apocalyptic dream (for color, against a monochrome of white)
in sorrows of one text (to distinguish strands of suffering,


and press its strands on your face) while lecturing of feminist narratives
(cut into halves its oeuvre) and Marxist displacements of working class,
(as all countries grapple economic crises) eighteenth century politics
(while the Shakespearean tragicomedy stage is set) the globalisation dynamics
(with subhuman categories inside the room) the trade of publishing.


Sylvia Plath half-knocks my brain (in the voices that remember to write)
the sane madwoman-in-the-attic (among ancient, inanimate subalterns)
(a rather early time in the day) I both; learn and forgive hypocrisy
(society is dying in its decay) and hold a pen in a cloistered space
(of nothingness and divine discord) and spill blood written in ink.

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