Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Newer Niceties

I am dissatisfied
Being a woman everyday
I am false.
My friends know who is inside me
There is strange warmth
In losing
Outwitting the ardour of impatience
Knowing not why I laugh
At you all so much
Strange theft
Monotonous escape from people’s lives
Marked with knowledgeable
Fears of the neon self
I too am like that!!
I write poems from Robert Frost
I am false.

I am not a prized story
I am only a surface
Reading Plath.

Nothing makes it special.
To be married before 30
Or god won’t give me
Another chance.
Except for that
Laughter of the bitter blood.
Silent and sterile
Stench of the past.

Who wrote this before me?
I am false.
This is a stubborn hell
A feast where I must sell

Tricks of the trade.
Belittled by foolish women
My confused race
My confused men say.
Belittled by foolish men bred by them
And our fathers
I am false
For some who must not know
How much must go into a day
Of gathering sanity
Vodka and slime
Empty womb

Liberty is another name
Of discounted men
Who came your way
And make you a wife
Out of lashed love
And funny eyes
That strays between you
And the sky of hopelessness.

Friday, October 27, 2006

I have not known the streets as yet…….

I have not known the streets as yet…….

I must go now. I must pass between the streets boxed within the grey skies, full of memories of the rains. Did you know that they remain the same within my heart, full of memories of the rains too? It must be getting dark soon and the chill will come to settle between my fingers holding a darkly lit roll of cigarette. The smoke merges with my breath, and I play with it till the dragon in me feels quite regular. I ask myself in a voice, that feels so much like a practiced huskiness, “Am I regular?” Standing alone I let some ash fall on the street and instantly get punctured by the moist floor. I say again “The streets are always wet, my ashes can hardly fly and make a nuisance of my dark overcoat”. But it is a matter of no importance, I decide then and there. The wet floor becomes puddles at places, and I try to skip them by and nibble at the only question that nags my mind “Am I really regular?” I try to dally with the answer for bedtime soporific musings. Then I think, If I must go home now, there will be so much to do with the rest of the day. For instance, I will have to avoid being alone amidst the whole of the neighborhood, praying before dinner, holding hands across fences or already making love in their kitchen. In the street I only need fear the rain and the sky that is chequered with the fate of the stars. It is never regular and yet always the forgotten limit. The street is now a little darker; every window looks warm and lost in velvety warmth that has withstood the daylights assault. There! that’s my home, my house, and my shelter. I will have the darkness to stir from the porch to the bed till I leave a wake of flooded ennui. I am lost within my own rhythm of chores. A sensitized journey along the streets to the unique shelter that I call my home is undergone and a homeostasis is reached for the day, until the day begins again and I start from the same point. I was supposed to know you by name, but I shall call you ‘My synthetic journey’. This is a strange place I must visit, everyday between the sheets of happy colored mazes that make the lusts of my vision quite happy. I crawl with my mind to the sunny garden at the back of my house just from where all the streets begin all over again and I must not complain but they make me feel so less interesting! They are the distance between you and me and I wonder how to walk between them, so that, for once I may lose my way. But they always take me beneath the skies of endless rainbow and a constellation of fate that remain cradled in the basket of puddles, everytime I jump over them and ask “Am I only very regular?” I have known so many darknesses, and yet all think that it is a monolithic smear that either stays or goes away. Have you ever known a darkness that pours like liquid over you when you walk all the way home? Or what about the thick darkness that hangs between you and the people around you, waving and smiling? The darkness that follows me like an endless temptation and licks my feet when I sit on my bed and sigh ‘amen’ for the day. The darkness that I cradle in my arms as I pass along lighted shops with manikin make-up people, choosing what ought not to be regular for them, I clutch it close to my heart and kiss the soft touch of its abysses. I finally enter my house and feel for the switches…

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

fairy doodle

I am a fairy doodle
The biggest ass bird that flies with Icarus
I am a accoutrement of flat discoveries
With a Once Upon a Time love...!!!

I make no sense with poetry and never with my words
I make sense with the buttons of your memories
and when the rain drops down in my pillow
and fly away leaving me chained to laughters
I am a fairy doodle
I am a Fairy doodle

I have no dreams coz I only have maintenance bills to pay for them
yesterdays a filthy flat dumpster and today's a dustbin
Inside my heart
I am a fairy doodle
I only hate superstars with extra cheese
I hate the world's justice with a silly saucepan man
I love nothing but my mom's scorn
For having caviare with boxer shots

I do not know who made the Wall
I am the fairy doodle woman
I am alone in this celophane town
asking for some lighthouse isolation
amidst dissolving eyes that seperate me and you

You the fairy doodle do not forget
you who made the stars throb
you who you who who who who
you you you

I am the fairy doodle still.....
la la la la doom doom dum doom
o am just marooned here
maa aa roo roo ned...da da doom
da doom dum doom doom damn
damn damn am just nobody to me
to you you you who who who damn doom
damn damndamn damn

I am a marooned fairy doodle
from my own damn dreams

Monday, August 21, 2006

Why should women think beyond the present

As a woman what I missed most was an epic heroine who would make me travel my own dreams in my own terms. I miss that still. There was no world for me beyond being a secondary mate on the back of a horse riding along with the prince or the villain or the story. I was never deemed the centre of my own story except for in Romances where there was no flavour beyond what the man-writer thought I was all about. My voice was never there. I was never me. I was living in someone else's dream. I wanted my own story where I am something beyond a final prejudice and an approximation of something multiple, higher and extensive. I wanted to be so special with all the effort a man-writer or a woman-writer would invest in me and make me not so much of a woman but a free spirit. Idiosyncratic, human, a social construct and yet tearing away from it all the time.

The present is full of such monotony and without any understanding of where to start defining a woman. I think a woman is not a definable object. She is a summation of her own quests and achievements. That's where we talk about histories and women. A woman is an epic of experiences and her present is a matter of subjective documentation. Discourse is the very field of wrestling and women should try to derive their own sense of history and thereby create it for our pasts and our futures. A woman or a generation without a voice in the histories is again a story without any place for her. She is a shadow of error.

Woman and her politics is never resolved until she herself write her agenda beyond the present.....