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Best Poems Written by Anamika Nair

Below are the all-time best Anamika Nair poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Elephant In the Room

Believe no word I say;
Just watch what I do.
No matter how I try
I can't hide it from you.

Ashamed of every bite, 
I starve in your eyes.
But when you turn around 
I choke on french fries. 

I can't hide from the world
That pure ecstasy I feel when in my mouth I cram
A cream puff, a box of cereal, a gallon of ice cream, a tray of brownies...

I break! 

My heart aches.
If I had the guts
I'd eat only my scrambled brains
And drink nothing but my curdled blood.

But I'm a coward
So to numb the pain 
I devour my self-esteem,
Cover my eyes,
And avoid mirrors.

The larger I become
The less of me you see.
I blend into the room;
I become the couch.

Maybe this is what I hoped for, 
But I don't know for sure.
I'm the elephant in the room--
I would leave this hell 
But I don't fit through the door.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

A Note To the Indian Princess

The aunites gossip back home
About how you've grown
Out of your white cotton frocks
And into red silk saris

They talk about how you're ripe for marriage
About how quickly boys flock to you--
Your family's rich and you are beautiful.
Like a princess but with none of the excess.

Their perfect Indian girl is rather simple.
But, the real you they can never comprehend.
Those brown khol-rimmed eyes with
That understated nose ring confuses them.
They'd rather ignore your luscious red mouth.

Those soft lips were like velvet as they brushed across my lashes as you pretended to blow sand out of my eyes one drunken night on a Konkan beach.

Both too scared to be the first to say anything
We just sat there drunk and giggling

When the aunties speak of you
I can't help but imagine
Things that leave
Little to the imagination.

I am a woman
And you are a woman

We're on the same page.

The boys will wait.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

Who Am I

In the mirror on Vishu morning I see an Indian woman
whose Brooklyn mouth can't form Hindu prayers.
Should I bleach my skin to match my voice?
Should I scrape my tongue to match my face?

I've resigned myself to my fate--
forever asking the sky
"Njan aara?"

In a language my children will never recognize;
with an accent my grandparents will never understand.
I am what my parents feared I may become;
a child whose soul has turned Westward;
a woman whose only memories of Diwali are the flickering lights.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

Bubbles In the Belly of a Borderline

I sat on the couch in her office.
I'm a piece of work
She asked me "what ails you?"
I smiled because I didn't know better.

I smiled as I spoke of the pills I took last night, 
And of the piano tutor who took me
Even though I was only twelve.
I know he was a pervert
But I drowned my sorrows in sherbert 
And cut myself for twelve more years.

Her jaw dropped.

The feelings rise out of my body and into the air 
Like bubbles in a can of diet cola.
I try to grab on to them
I try to understand the horror on my therapist's face.
The bubbles break on my skin;
All I'm left with is a saccharine grin
And no more insight than I had last night
When lay on my bed with a vial of Xanax and a bottle of gin.

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Assimilation

It begins like "vater" on stone--
with a drop
with a drip
non-stop
that rubs the colors off your face.
It is free speech, fast cars, and French fries--
New York in the eyes of a village boy.
It's a rat race;
It's lazy tongues, lost souls and a longing for home
without a home to go back to.
It's losing the language of your ancestors,
forgetting the prayers of your parents' gods,
and dreaming vain dreams in a foreign tongue
until one day it gives way.
Your lips parched;
you ask for water with a rounded mouth.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

Reformed Patriotism: Defining America

America is an idea
that "all men are created equal,"
before we cared to define "human", "created", or "equal."
America is freedom for our grandchildren
in a manner we will never understand.

It is the founding fathers who died for liberty.
It is the darker brothers who fought for justice from kitchens and pulpits.
It is the poor, the huddled masses,
And their children who have forgotten this.

It is green cards that become blue passports.
It is unlearning the language of our grandparents.
It is knowing how to pronounce Arkansas and Illinois
It is enjoying barbecues on somber national holidays.

It is unbridled enthusiasm.
It is unbridled arrogance.
It is rugged individualism;
It is passionate paternalism.

It is hellfire that scorches deserts.
It is a gust that has fanned flames.
It is a cool rain that puts out fires.

From sea to shining sea--
It is Manifest Destiny
from Louis and Clark to Wounded Knee.
It is Topaz, and McCarthy,
and hundreds of things we would rather forget.
It is D-day, and Neil Armstrong,
and thousands of things we forget to celebrate.

America is a dream that rings from the red hills of Georgia
to the curvaceous slopes of California
to New York Island.

It is patriotism;
it is progress.
It is the blind worship of our past.

It is red. It is blue.
It is red, white, and blue.
It is what half of us say it isn't.
I say it evolves constantly;
others say it was created in His image.

It is everything I hold dear;
it is everything that infuriates me.
It is the warmth that makes my eyes tear
when I hear the Star Spangled Banner
at football games,
on July 4th,
or on September 11th.

It is hope.
It is the promise of a better tomorrow.
It is what ever I am.
I, too, am America.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

Sati Mata In Jackson Heights

Sita's getting chubby;
"I'm pregnant," she claims.
Ma's henna-tinged hair
bursts into flames.

It never lived
but Ma shrieks "Honor is dead!"
Sita never wanted marriage
but now how will Sita wed?

At thirty-six
Sita's not a child.
That perfect plastic smile
her whole life she's smiled.

Enough!

Ma is on fire.
She burns on the pyre
of dead traditions and parched dreams.
And life goes on.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

Confession of a Poetic Wannabe

Everything around me
Turns into poetry--
But badly written.
My brain foams
Like it was bitten
By a rabid dog
Or like an angry mob
That doesn’t know what it’s ranting about.

Details | Anamika Nair Poem

Konna Papam Thenal Therum: a Plea To Cannibals

You have killed me.
Save yourself--eat me.

Nail me to a pretzel
Hang me by my feet
Drown me in molten sugar
And you may eat 
My candied fingers.
My eyes will linger
In the brittle as bubbles.
But if it isn't too much trouble,
When you're done,
Bury my bones
So I can go home.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title is a saying among Malayalees (those who are ethnically from the South Indian state of Kerala) to help them rationalize the fact that they must kill to eat meat. It roughly translates to "the sin of killing [something] ends with eating [it]."

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Plight of the Adult Daughter

What do I give the woman who gave me everything,
but every bit of myself?
What do I say to the woman who gave up so much
so that I could fly when she could not?
What do I do for the woman
whose only happiness is my joy?
Whose only sorrow is my pain?
For the woman attached to me;
of who I am but a part?
What do I have for the woman 
whose only meaning in life is my life?

I'm claustrophobic but this love is so intense
I'm afraid that she may feel my feelings
that she may think my thoughts,
that she'll cry my tears,
and I'll be nothing.

Feeding off of each other
we'll spiral together--
I have her crazy in my veins.

I'm lost.
Every morning I look for myself in the mirror
but, find her face instead.