Tag Archives: woman

An Unwilling Bouzouki

Sitting on chairs in proper alignment

It seems a long ago, when we students were huddled about,

Celebrating India’s independence was the days’ requirement

Making our English teacher proud.

 

Constantly, we had chided and pleased

To do something else as a substitute to teach,

We did it often, played adventures

Making memories after memories to one-day treasure.

 

She decided she’d ask a question to the vibrant youth

To which we would answer with sheer truth.

With defined wisdom she asked

“How will you want to see your country at long last?”

 

The question she asked was very simple

But it created in my mind a momentary ripple.

I raced with my newest friend, over thinking

Sitting there paralyzed, unblinking.

 

Speaking up in front of people was never my thing

And so I sat there; to time clinging, worshipping,

But we were only thirty students

And I persistently fought against my prudence.

 

Smiling, nodding I heard what my friends had to say

Pondering, how meaningful answers they had their way,

From eradication of poverty to building roads

To making luxury cheaper- their thoughts flowed.

 

And in less than forty minutes I was called on stage

When all I wanted to do was hide in a cage,

What is my favorite teacher going to think about my dumb thoughts

But still I erased blank, and joined the dots.

 

With face turned hot, ears red

I held the mike, but my lips dead.

I gathered myself, blinked and blurted

What my teacher thought- was the secret of my being introverted.

 

“If I live to be an old maiden

I want myself in the world (not country) to reawaken,

I want kindness; I want honesty and no chaos

I want peace; I want beauty and no havoc.

 

I fumbled; I fidgeted and put the mike down

Ashamed, I got down feeling like a clown,

I went to my seat, hiding my face

Wanting the few minutes to retrace.

 

Up until then I hadn’t herd

The deadening applause,

And so I sulked deeper amidst the nerds

For such words, I thought definitely had no cause.

 

Years from that day, I stand by those words

But if only I could change my verse,

Or better still I could have at least tried

To say everything for which my heart cried.

 

That day is gone

But I have a little strength now,

I have a little word play drawn

Perhaps, you’d tap with the button ‘Allow’.

 

If I live to be an old maiden

I want myself in the world (not country) to reawaken,

I’d love to see so many blessed things happen

That life itself would feel like a welcoming wagon.

 

If only I could find things a little different

My little sister would have taken birth for starters,

Or I wouldn’t have to be constantly belligerent

Being an orthodox Indian daughter.

 

I wouldn’t have to go to an all-girls school

Fearing boys and all the various rules.

Comparing myself to those who didn’t even go to school

I should have felt my life a little less cruel.

 

I’d want my grandmother to give me a kiss

For I never knew that bliss,

Or for my uncle to not give me that stare

For it was mortifying, I swear.

 

I’d want for no one to give me an eye

When I say I don’t want to learn cooking,

I’ll have different means to fly

Than just making all kinds of pudding.

 

I’d want a life where my mom does not persistently say

When you get married please take care of your husband,

Darling, you are not suppose to go astray

For your in-laws will have us trusted.

 

I’d want a life when I wouldn’t have to think some things

Like what can I study, so they never cut my wings,

Or how will I mange so many responsibilities

Work-husband-in-laws-kids-kitchen- a trillion little things.

 

I’d want a life where everything will not be ‘my’ duty

And I won’t have to be an absolute bouzouki,

Yes I’ll want peace and love and no havoc

I’ll want kindness, honesty and no mental chaos.

 

I’ll want a life where I consistently don’t have to remember

That I am a woman and somehow, somewhere I have to surrender,

I’ll want a life where I don’t want to stand in front of the mirror

And see incessantly how from him I differ.

 

Today, I have a little strength, a little clarity

So, please allow me to speak my dwarfish insanity,

If I live to be an old maiden

This is how I’ll want to end my cadence.

 

*

PS: Do tell me if I have started saying the same things again and again, and if my words have started being mundane! 

 

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The Mystical Pishogue.

I am meek

I am mild.

I am an emblem of docile.

 

I am innocent

I am polite.

I am an insignia of comply.

 

I am submissive

I am conceding.

I am an image of yielding.

 

I am sweet

I am honest.

I am a metaphor of a lonely forest.

 

I am kind

I am tolerant.

I am of all these, a conglomerate.

 

I am I.

I am what I am.

A fable in a flesh.

 

I am I.

I am what I am.

A conceited allegory in oneself.

 

The Amassing Vengeance.

 

He strolled into the room

Silence screaming behind him,

She garnered herself on the couch

Terror and throes screaming from inside her.

 

The stress, the tension surfacing

The unknown reconciling,

His anger transpiring

Her calm deescalating.

 

And in a sap all was lost

A yank through her ruffled hair,

An irate haul on her head

Her body forcefully standing.

 

A jab, a thump, a knock

And there she was,

Rocking herself on the floor

Alone, withstanding.

 

The relentless pleads had not sufficed

And so came the determined decision,

With anger and terror, the dwellers of heart

She thwacked between his legs, a brawny art.

 

And there he lay, beside her

On the self made land, wrenching in pain,

Two pairs of red gory eyes, glaring at each other

Heavy, strong breaths, petrifying the other.

 

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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.

I Am!

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
John Clare.
Unknown
If you have known me for a while, you’ll know that I fall in love very easily, and even more easily when the person I fall in love with, writes so beautifully, (or the thing that I fall for is such a wonderful poem) expresses so wonderfully, almost speaks what I want to speak without even having to say it. So after my love for Kamala Das, Sylvia Plath, Bronte sisters, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, (and of course some Urdu poets which I have come to know about very recently) now I have fallen for this very beautiful man/poet John Clare. Yes, he is my new love, and this poem is my very new addiction that I am reading again and again and yet again.
No, I am not cheating on the others, oh come on I could never do that.  I think I just have an open relationship with all my lovelies. 😉