Chauvinism’s foot pressed firmly on the reverse gear the cycle of life hurtles at break-neck speed back into the dark ages of yore crushing progress in one fell swoop
Men! Strut your stuff pick up the arms go on a rampage hunt down dissenters as well as naysayers brook no argument cock that snook bam! wham! the sham of civility shattered gleefully justice will be served by the barrel of the gun!
Women! Cross your legs and press your knees together you are being recast as damsels to be disrobed and used as a product your body no longer yours your life worse than chattel barefoot with swelling belly; that’s your destiny.
Rights! What rights! might is right and how can the right be wrong bring forth in this world the unwanted raise an army of abandoned, misfit kids then give them the licence to hunt and gather.
Rejoice! Patriarchy rules again we are in the war zone fodder for the frontline should be churned without shame the darkness of heart envelopes the world maniacs are in charge life is cherished the living be damned!
The grainy texture of hazy memories evokes myriad long forgotten tastes some ambrosial, some miasmic some that leave me pasty faced.
suspended in the half light of living an unnamed bird flutters haplessly singing no song of eternal hope yet it can’t stop whirring its wings endlessly.
tonight the moon’s forehead is lined with worries the fragrant skies will smolder throughout the night heaving under the haze of monochromatic thoughts the sun’s endeavour to slight the moon may never come to light.
time fades bit by bit bleeding every second hunger throbs voraciously in my aching bones tears gather drop by drop in the hollow of my neck I brace myself for the colossal shadows of unknowns.
’tis not always in your face oft it is subtle camouflaged in persuasion sometimes a veiled threat the pressure to be a part of the herd; elite or otherwise you know it is not right but you give in to blend in to belong
’tis gaslighting by another name breaking their rules not toeing their line seems more sacrilegious than any other wrong you know it is wrong yet you give in to blend in to belong
And then comes a time you realise you are an individual an outsider in a sea of conformity sometimes an outlier; which is okay doing your own thing doing what your heart desires and you stand your ground no longer giving in no longer trying to blend in no longer trying to belong finally free to fly solo.
Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Sanaa, says: For Today’s Poetics, I want you all to think along the lines of Peer Pressure.
And with fingers entwined we lay on the mud floor counting stars and gifting each other constellations. During the day we dodged the streaming sunrays as we dreamt with eyes wide open our upturned palms caught the crooning raindrops rainbow bubbles our prized possession the whispering trees our steadfast guardians the laughing blooms were our playmates we had little then but life overflowed with laughter now there is no dearth yet no reason to laugh too.
Written for dVerse MTB. Today’s guest host, Anna, says : Gnomic poetry is the long lived and loved practice of moralizing in verse. Choose a maxim, aphorism or proverb, the focal point of your poem must have a moral or assert a philosophical position on life.
The sea of intemperate words turned cataclysmic heated arguments rose like angry waves fanaticism battered tolerance the red-flag of religious bigotry overwhelmed me with helpless rage I retreated to my inner island cold anger has chiseled my quill it spells out the unpalatable truth.
Written for dVerse and wdys. Today’s host, Sanaa, says: Carve us a poem out of the word “Spell,” and make it precisely 44 words long, not counting the title ofcourse.
My furlough turned out to be much longer than intended. I had thought it would be easy to keep up with blogging while visiting my mom and brother’s family. With other siblings and their kids joining in, it turned out to be a fun family get together after three long years. I don’t watch TV news but a completely avoidable controversial comment on religion, which brought international shame(and provoked this poem), sickened me to the core. I stayed away from writing to process my despair and anger. Today’s two prompts seemed the right vehicle to blog again.
(There are) many stories which are not on paper, they are written in the bodies and minds of women. Amrita Pritam
his, “will you cook for me forever!” that had seemed the most romantic question then, was my undoing as I happily immersed myself in pots and pans, tied to the invisible post of domesticity; I lost my true ‘self’
my turmeric stained fingers had no time to stain paper measuring lentils and rice, I forgot to weigh in my views relegated to the background I became a mere prop; useful but useless
every night i braid pain, pillowing my head on it uncoiling itself, it slithers on to my chest humming a mournful berceuse to lull me to sleep the moon wanes dolefully behind pewter clouds smudging my cheeks, as i forbid the tears from falling
oblivious, uncaring and narcissistic he sleeps deeply, purged of his angst and manliness
i find blisters on my heart as the morning dew falls suppurating in the dappled sunlight as dawn brings more unwarranted outbursts my mind; a numb cauldron bubbles with indignation but is conditioned not to boil over a tempest brews in my chest screams suffocate routinely in my sternum when I throttle the voice that clamours in my throat
i don’t recognise my body anymore bruises speckle my once smooth skin like blooms of putrid decay; hurting but not painful then wither away, to make place for more
i am a book written in tears and blood my resilience keeps my spine intact though it would be a relief to crumble a poem dies in my womb everyday while waiting to tell its story
my story is intertwined with the story of every woman that needs retelling every generation.
Written for dVerse poetics. Today I am the guest host at the pub. For poetics we are invoking famous Punjabi writer, Amrita Pritam. We have to use one line from the five given, as an epigraph and write a poem.
When a man denies the power of women, he is denying his subconscious.
Like an offering at the altar of the spirit, our names slipping out of our lips, became a sacred hymn.
(There are) many stories which are not on paper, they are written in the bodies and minds of women.
Perhaps I will become a ray of sunshine, to be embraced by your colours. I will paint myself on your canvas.
Look further on ahead, there between truth and falsehood, a little empty space.
Also written for Sadje’s wdys and linking to Eugi’s weekly prompt.