Tag Archives: feminism

Her Altruistic Mien.

Poetry has been a consistent part of my life, first reading and then writing. Though if someone would have said that I could try writing poems, a year back, I would have rolled my eyes and said, “Yeah, right!” Not that I have become very confident of my pieces, but I have come as far as trying to share them and be judged.

A few days back one of my poems got published in The Indian Periodical titled The Sea and today I am back with another of my poems which has been accepted for publication in an online magazine called Merak. I am thrilled. Not that I am suddenly very confident of what I am doing with these poems, but I am happy.

I am sharing the link to the poem below. Though some of my readers would have read it as a part of NAPOWRIMO which was again an amazing ride, I will be eager to hear from you about the piece.

Her Altruistic Mien

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The Screaming Silence.

The bedroom door closed

She flinched

He grinned

She shuddered

He smirked.

 

The bed conquered

She groaned

He frowns

She pleads

He pounds.

 

The six yards of clothing came off

She cringed

He smiled

She screamed

He moaned.

 

The bodies locked

Beyond the natural rhythm

An innocent body lost

With silence being her only cataclysm.

 

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Phoenix in Disguise.

Gone are the days

Of you wanting to be above me,

Cutting my wings

And throttling me.

 

So far, I have battled

Cursed and raged,

Tried to swim and float

Sometimes barely to survive.

 

I have fought and fought

Even when the war ended,

I tried just to stand and walk

But all you did was pull me back, stranded.

 

So far, equality is all I wanted

Rage was never for granted,

I’d smile and let it all go

Only if you’d let me grow.

 

You should have breathed

A calming sigh of relief,

Walking on different treads

We could have lived happily, I believe.

 

But you let your ego rise

In claiming to be a little superior,

But my declaration should have sufficed

When I told you I was a gushing warrior.

 

So far, I wanted equality

But now, I want revenge.

You are done with your monopoly

But now, from the gut I’ll make you wrench.

 

I’ll rip you apart

Your body, your mind, your soul.

I’ll drink your bleeding heart

And throw you into an abysmal black hole.

 

Your smiles will fade

Your laughter must evade,

You’ll seek my permission

Even for your tears’ abscission.

 

For long you had me chained

Now you’ll taste its flavor,

For long you had my dreams restrained

Now you’ll know what its to long for a savior.

 

Every time I tried to soar

You’ll make it even difficult to smile,

Making me feel like a centaur

Fidgeting betwixt myriad lifestyles.

 

Try and tell me I didn’t try

To make something of me I persistently slogged,

All that happened was my eyes went dry

Even the tears rejecting to keep my eyes clothed.

 

I’ll not let anything go

I promise I’ll rip you apart,

I’ll wear the iron and steely trousseau

And display at home, my gory work of art.

 

I’ll throw my rage, my anger, and my morale

Over you like a listless mourning shroud.

And you’ll be shocked at my open advances

While, I sear and soar like a magellanic cloud.

 

I swear to God, I’ll not cede

I don’t want equality; I want revenge,

From the ashes where you buried me

I’ll rise from there and eat you like air.

 

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Challenge Accepted..!!

Something from a very confused and a very aggressive me.

Aesthetic Miradh

I see a girl standing erect, head high, hair open, long and roughly combed.  She has gripped her sides of the dress tightly, way too tightly. Her toes are clinching the floor, scratching it. Her hair hides the corner of her face.

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She is fair, a small mark on her right cheek, though not visible. But her fair skin is turning pink and slowly red; red with anger, red with rage.

She has a fluffy and sharp eyebrow. Just as it was suppose to be, giving her eyes a beautiful and lustrous look. Her eyes, big and wide, hazel brown in color; cute yet cunning, bold yet beautiful, shy yet audacious, talkative and yet tight lipped.

Her eyes speak a lot; tells me about her anger, about her grief. Slowly her eyes too have only one color and that is red. I see controlled tears in her eyes now.

She…

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The Crazy Woman.

I am loving this amazing American poet/author, not to forget her amazing works of literature. This is a poem I had a chance to read and once again my heart cheated on my other favourites. So, I daringly declare that I love this crazy woman too. 😀

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I’ll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.

I’ll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I’ll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.

And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
“That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May.”

Gwendolyn Brooks.

A new poet, and a new poem for me.

Do share your views on this poem.

Re-visiting; Re-reading.

I read this following poem time and again, very often, so often that by now I have most of the lines by heart and yet I do not get enough of it.

How can I? Because every time I read this, it gives me, well I won’t say new insight but the very same old feelings that I live with. The feelings are always there, they are ever present, only they come out or I let them come out not too often. These are the feelings I live with, most women live with.

Though there are some days when they flow so rapidly that I fail to control them, or give them a direction and on those days, I read, I read anything, and everything, I read poems, novels, stories, plays. I read this poem all over again.

Today is one such day, and I will share this once again. Because, I am flowing, I am hurting, I am smiling, because it’s all mine, because I am I.

An Introduction. 

I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.

Kamala Das.