Those who noticed, saw her beautiful hands
fingers long and supple
As brush, waiting for paints
Most didn’t see beyond eyes
cloud of messy hair
or misty coy glasses
‘Loneliness will become your problem, girl‘
said her mirror every day and
the fluffy rag doll-
that grew up with her;
she would look at it, tug it
but not play anymore
She drowned herself in music, adrift
never hum or tap her feet
to beats of her favourite songs,
No one could ever know she was singing inside
whenever she let out a silly blush,
They read shyness
No one heard her raise voice, let alone speak
Yet she SCREAMED
Deep within the chastity of agony,
deflowered at an age before boys
could bring her roses
‘Loneliness is the least of my problems‘,
she said to the mirror and the doll
before donning her mask –
Yet very few
Would see through through her semblance…
- Joining Dversepoets Poetics after a long time where KB has us create persona. Join us to read some wonderful poetry.
- Black Baccara is a wonderful and highly fragrant rose, chosen for its unique colour.
- Illustration by Partha Mukherjee.
A fine chocolate cake awaits
With magic candles,
Those will lit themselves
Even if you blow them out,
Tiny hands, claps – with
A silvery tiara and waving of a wand
I brace the clasps of sorcery
From a young witch
Blessed and proud a father
I pick her wand
When she is asleep
& try to write L O V E in thin air,
As if all the bad blood
From this world,
Will be expunged in a whiff
Even if all my tricks fail
every year, doesn’t mean
I should n’t try.
Join me on my poetics prompt on Dversepoets – look forward to read from beautiful poetry from all of you. Doors open at 3 PM EST.
Back to school
Blue and white uniform, we marched out
in gallant boots,
Happy that this is the end
Tyranny of teachers
Test of patience – memory
Crushed with numbers, facts
Obstinate for authorities
We romped – no more books
That we don’t want to read,
No more walls,
Pink Floid started
Pouring music to our ears
Mind-bending – who needs
a classroom anyway?
Never did we think, we’re
Walking into a bigger school,
No more tests after lessons
But lifelong lessons
After tests – and yes,
One day, much to our surprise,
We’ll all return, in tiny steps
Glossy books and twinkling eyes
Eager to read
Gabriella has us write stories of going back to school. Hope you’d like to join us on Dversepoets. Door open at 3 PM EST. The photo is from Hyderabad where I joined a street event with my little one.
If you are familiar with the ‘Lettrs’, then let me tell you that the following note made a featured writer this week – April 14th to 20th, based on freedom. Hope you like my take on this.
April 11, 2015
Dear Desert Dancer,
Today freedom is a truce between what we want to do and what we can do – more like a choice.
I see that young boy, who hasn’t moved past the trauma of child labour, borrows my bike for ten minutes and gulps dusty hot air in city traffic of Hyderabad, like it means the world to him and I read freedom, in the twinkling of his eyes. Freedom knows no language except that extra amount of vitality to push the door open – oh yes, the doors always open from the inside.
I see that single, woman, fatigued – who stands on her balcony with a glass of wine and wishes she wasn’t alone. She looks at the sparrow on her windowsill with the fluttering curtain and writes poetry into thin air as if words will give her wings to escape from the world. I look at her pensive eyes and I read freedom.
I walk in the crowd and so many intangible thoughts pass through me like that smell of perspiration – so many needs; everyone I see is more trapped in their own world, than they would like to believe. In those words hidden, desires suppressed behind the necessities – I read freedom in the wait for time when those dreams will come true, if not, to be able to see those dreams, at least.
I lie down on the unnamed rocks and look at the clouds flowing above – even they aren’t free, they need the shoulder from a strong wind to move on. My wings may have been clipped, my legs may be crippled – yet the mind flies on, it knows no border. I am as free as I want to be.
Even when I was born Aphrodite, a nubile adult,
I was married off with a hideous blacksmith-
To avoid divine rivalry
As if, conspicuous beauty was a jinx.
A rattan frame – my bones
Clayey fresh river mud – my flesh
Sandpaper and varnish – my lustre
All those paints – my apparel;
Voluptuousness – can’t help
How male sculptor behold me,
And all that idolatry – that’s confluence of
Your dismay and flailing fragility.
Today, if I say all of us, on or off the pedestal,
Are goddesses and our divinity
Is the pinnacle of love, pleasure and procreation,
You’d succumb to your own prison
Set aside scorn, blinded patriarchy
See your own peril for once,
We are cynosure of genesis,
If we burn today, you burn with us.
This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. Women are revered in this country in the form of Goddesses, but people are just as quick to tear real women off the pedestal. You might even be of the opinion that women needn’t be given the position of a Goddess, just treating her as a respectable human being is enough. With this creative prompt, you can talk about this dichotomy, about a Goddess who has inspired you, a real life woman that you think is a Goddess, or anything else that comes to your mind.
Some eat, drink and find
in earthly glitters,
Some emote on the stage,
Daub patches of colors
Some spend their life
had to say;
Some soul search words
depth of self-
Some live their lives
Some lives, they live
– the chasm between us
Will always be
I am writing for OLN after a very long time. What makes poetry resonate with you? Come, tell us at Dversepoets.