Your translucent skin astoundingly delicate gingerly I run my fingers along the length of your tiny arms how adorable you look curled up on your side your toothless smile has me in raptures my emotions palpably raw and overwhelming I cradle tenderly your fuzz covered head I listen awestruck to your rapid heartbeat your petal soft cheeks I tentatively caress your sweet breath gently tickles my neck I dawdle over the silkiness of your dainty foot marveling at the soot coloured lace like lashes my eyes shimmer with joy, my heart overflows.
Time, O Time, do wait! it cannot be curtains yet some chapters are still left the body may be but a mound of sand ravaged by time’s waves but the heart smoulders still with many a pain to feel alive.
Time, O Time, do wait! don’t be waylaid by the sagging shoulders nor by papery wrinkled skin I do gasp for breath sometimes as they bunch in my rheumy chest but ties of blood do help me up their cheery voices call out to me I think not it’s time yet
Time, O Time, don’t wait any longer! I think I have lingered enough death refuses to meet my eye wavering in and out of clouds of fogginess I hang heavy on everyone’s time promise me an encore in another lifetime ’tis time to finally rest.
(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.
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