2014 - 2017
Analog + digital artwork + poetry 
Limited prints
Artwork, poetry, narration: Akshita Sivakumar

A series of poetry that confronts the  postcolonial blindness of a formerly familar environment, to listen closer to the voices of the subaltern. Told in the voice of a tiny, traveling sun. Poems paired with original, digital and analog artwork.

Medium >> The printed postcard is explored as a means of starting polylogues -- of multiple voices speaking at the same time.
Personal poems from public observations, finding a new public distribution.
Intimate sending and receiving, mass scale of distribution.
Distributed postcards carrying disparate voices on their backs.



A vapid vocabulary.
An inessential pithy.
Ravenous oceans are reined back as they swirl
and through a weep hole just a drop drips
In tried brevity. In tired brevity.

Alleys call where the billions haven't yet crouched;
A blank wall beckons me to paint in words today-- come play!
“But look! These veins are but a map”, I say.
“I have it splayed-  Here a creek, there a bend”; neatly mapped out all the way to the end.
                                      To be encircled. To be framed.
And it’s leading me
Back there.


We tug. We war.
In a love-hate fest of tanned impulses,
conflicting intentions and

disdainful winces,
amidst the warm stones to build and the stones to rest.  
 Once the noises have been silenced
and I’m cooling my crest-
       there--in the nether--I may see it differently.

But back in the scalding building yard where the granite monoliths have fossilized stories
seeping out their veins,
I stand wayward.

But a scurrying lizard hears you;
His changing skin mimics your yellow, now red, now quartzite grains.

He just gets your story-- 
Right here.

2014 05 10

Janus-faced, at the threshold of sleep and waking,
A color popped in my head - purple.
Aubergine, pearlescent, grape soda, a bishop’s velvet;
When the winds connected the dots to create streaks of stormy wetness,
they picked purple from the palette.

I rode on that color streak,
8000mi away in a second, panting up hills doing sprints.
A sunny burst of diamonds turns dark in the fountain;
Watched over by a bronze Louis on a horse he never rode,
something’s dunking my past in indigo.

If inertia was a colour, it would be purple,
Of rest, of motion- only a very fine line.
I scrub through magenta and violet;
Adjusting the reds and the blues,
to fill in shapes of a fading memory template.

It comes, it goes, in spurts of dusk,
Between blinks it collages various homes.
The bustle, the time lapse, I grab for the white within;
Colors stand out  when held against an additive nothing--
Revealing indigo blotches in an intermittent continuum.

2014 04 24