Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together – Vincent Van Gogh

Posts tagged ‘Poetry’

In This Together

I was looking forward to feeding the city pigeons with you.

 

To sitting in the park opposite our home,

gossiping about our days of yore.

 

To attend weddings, and stand like cloth dolls

While the bride and groom bent at our feet.

 

I planned to take in our days at leisure,

Frying eggs, toasting bread and cooking your favourite curry.

 

I wanted to help you find your glasses,

Hand you your towel at the bathroom.

 

We so hoped we could go sightseeing,

And watch the whales in Africa.

 

I looked forward to admonishing our grandchildren,

While you pampered them with your love.

 

I wanted to snuggle against you

When it got cold and the socks did not help.

 

So why did you suddenly take a decision one day

to just lay down and die?

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The child in Her

She lay curled on her bed,

Wrapped in her teddy bear blanket, now threadbare.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, choking.

Her fist a ball in her mouth.

 

Tormented by the prospects of her future.

She did not want to marry a doctor,

She wanted to study, to be a fighter pilot,

To fly the sky in search of her soul.

 

She did not want the burden of docility,

The demur demeanor were her loathing,

The nosepin, red dot, thick kajal around her eyes,

She did not want to be her mother.

 

She dreamed of a wearing a pant, with its perfectly ironed crease,

A shirt tight against her breast,

Stripes on her shoulders,

She was meant to ravage the man’s world.

Meghanath

He would trudge home

Grimy and exhausted,

After corseting buildings with bamboo all day.

Moth eaten, wooden polls,

Held together with thin coir string,

Around dreams that reach

Up to catch the wind.

Precarious, wobbly,

Lives depended on it,

Often his.

And by the flickering kerosene lamp

The rice gruel boiling on the wood fire,

He inks elegant, moving verse.

His voice still floats through my reverie as I gaze up into the night sky.

Gosh, I think, “the only reason I get away with some of the tripe I write,

Is because I publish on a blog”

Beyond Reproach

She takes on the wind,

With strong, steel wings,

Claws pulled back in an ugly black snarl.

Impenetrable eyes that petrify

At the speed of light

The wind jumps out of the way

Just in the nick of time.

 

Grimy dagger cuticles dig in,

Deep,

Instantaneous,

Nothingness.

 

She lifts off

In majestic splendor,

Her breast swelling with accomplishment

Dangling her prize, flaunting it,

Daring nature itself to win it back from her.

 

On the humblest perch with a million dollar view,

She throws one last piercing look at the sun,

Then digs in,

Slurps up the brain,

Throws back her head,

And croons sweet wicked music to goodness.

Happy Women’s Day?

Happy Women’s Day?….. I beg your pardon

Its 8th March, International Women’s Day

But she doesn’t know it.

She wakes up at 6.00 a.m,

like she has for the last 12 years,

her mental clock and love for her family helps her up.

she fills the rice into the cooker, chops up the vegetables

in the yellow light of the bulb.

The chickens in their coop stir, at the first break of light.

the brass pot rolls down on the squeaky pulley

up will come the sweet fresh water

that will quench her family’s thirst

help cook her food

wash the utensils.

it is this well water that keeps her garden green.

Her girls wake up, and help her cook.

soon they will be around the square table, at breakfast

then rushing to school.

they as students,

she as teacher.

She will sing and prance her students through their rhymes,

she will yell,

to hold the attention of four year olds, a few minutes longer.

she will kiss and hug a child that just tripped over,

reprimand the bully.

she will smile and greet parents,

encourage and guide them.

then head home, in the baking heat of the noon sun.

She will come home to heat the food,

her family will be home soon,

they will sit down to lunch, around the square table.

she will listen to the grumbles of her children,

about school,

about their favourite food not being at the table.

they will ask for more food,

she will interrupt her lunch to get it.

she will listen to the rants of her husband,

all the time, silently chewing on her own.

As she opens the back door,

Brownie their pet dog wags her tail,

delighted, to see her and knowing lunch is at hand.

the chickens rush towards her

she throws them a fist full of rice the children wasted.

the chickens will reward her with eggs,

when the eggs are plenty, she sells them to supplement her family income.

Her extended family fed, she lays down for a brief afternoon nap,

but not without a quick read of the papers.

the opposition protests in Delhi,

they will not let an Italian women become the Prime Minister of this country,

a 19 year old maid has been raped by a masked man,

an unidentified corpse of a women is found floating on the river, the police think it could be suicide.

a day old baby girl has been abandoned in the forest, near the States largest medical college.

she dozes off.

At 4.00 p.m its time to wash the clothes she had soaked earlier.

she has a machine, but prefers the physical labour of scrubbing them by hand

she likes the physical exercise,

it ensures the clothes are clean, the way she likes them.

At 5.00 p.m her daughters will come for tea and biscuits.

after a warm cup of tea, she will sweep the garden,

it is full of dry leaves,

the place will be a mess if it rains before she has cleaned the place.

the soggy leaves will breed mosquitoes.

she lights the little piles of brown

the orange flames lick the leaves, the smoke rises, white

drifts skywards,

God will soon send her parched land rain.

Its getting to be dusk,

she calls home the chickens,

catches and cages them,

secures the bolt.

Sets up the fire and places a large vessel of water on it,

it will soon be time for bath.

she calls out to her daughters,

come home,

its already dark and time for bath.

she never has time to sit with their lessons

but they manage somehow.

She begins preparing dinner,

the girls are hungry.

soon it will be 8 and her husband will be back,

soon after, his nightly rant will begin,

they will eat,

often in silence,

edge away, as the rants continue.

The radio jockey on FM will wish all a ‘Happy Women’s Day’

and play songs by women singers.

she will say her prayers and lay back in her bed.

She needs to rest,

soon it will be 6 a.m

and the dawn of another day.

7th March 09

Disabled Femininity

disfigured bodies

forsaken womanhood,

yet our wombs cry,

tears of blood,

our bellies yearns to swell,

our breasts crave to feed,

our stumpy arms long to caress,

the flesh of our flesh, blood of our blood,

but our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.

We long for love, to give it,

to feel it grow within,

our mauled bodies refuses to accept us, an afterthought,

so we shred the days and nights to seconds,

grope within the crevices,

and pray to be found,

all we come up with are spirogyra like desires,

leeches that suck the aspirations from our souls,

for our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.

I wrote this poem after a heard that a severely disabled girl had become pregnant, out of wedlock, and the ruckus this created within her family and our organization since we were in interacted with her. The sexuality of women with disability is an unaddressed question. Most people believe that women with disability have no right to love or want to be loved. We fail to see that these women are only physically disabled not mentally, emotionally, spiritually or psychologically disabled. We non disabled people do not loose an opportunity to sit in judgment of persons with disability and ram our opinions on them.

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