I see kids running wild, feet chalk-lined. I haven’t figured out my favourite flower yet So I take bullets jammed with any one of them. This is what it is to be a woman in my days.
Long gone are the days Salvaged by the edge of my stand : Heavy ends held, stringed tight, Sitting in the palm of my arid hand.
I ask for more, I roll it over; I ask for more, I get it again; I was to put up and to lose it all – Yet my eyes follow the hollow snare.
If this is what it is to be a namesake – Burning from the feet, from brown to green – I would let my roots stray everywhere, Watch my fault lines sizzle into a prayer. If this is what it is to be a woman – Clothed in bright ripples, black and blue – I would go high in the desert weather, Watch April raise sand dunes in the air.
Long gone are the days Saved in the backyard of my mind : The minimal escape to redeem The heavy ends of my battleground.
I can see the way you see me, What can I say except that I agree? I bring winter to wherever I go, I am estranged yet you follow.
If this is what it is to be a namesake – Of misconstrued lines with an epilogue – I would set the design on fire and run, Watch my face sizzle like the Venus In the April’s heat, under the burning Sun. If this is what it is to be a woman – Sequins up my arm, blue ballerinas, I would go spinning mad, shameless, Let my fault lines sizzle into a prayer.
I can see the way you see me, What can I say except that I agree? I am in my way all cherries, all limes – Heavy ends held, stringed tight, Hidden in the palm of my arid hand. What can I say except that I agree? This is what it is to be a woman now.
Next to my Virginia’s hard cover are the salmon-pink lilies That my mother has been growing this season. I wonder if I’d weave a flower crown of these lilies Or braid my dark hair around them; I wonder if I’d leave them to just be on their own Or plant them somewhere in my deserted lawn. I wonder if I let them die due to my disposition, Would they wrap their stalks around my throat? I wonder if I pass them on to my lover, Would they seek his whispers and hushed moans?
This weather is of ice and blue ribbons, Of sweaters over summer dresses. I watch the day break, I watch the night fall into my arms. Father sends me a postcard At the back of which I receive a picture – More like it’s a photograph of our vintage times, Of times I have gravely forgotten Of times I’d kill to re-live as his daughter For one last time. One last time.
Let the daybreak come in turns. I am building my fences to go higher and higher. I am a woman weak in my boldest desires. I am a woman sinking into the muddy morass – Dark hair, pearls, dresses, blue, obsessive; Vague reincarnations, corsets and French nail polish. I let the day break, I let the night fall into my arms. The weather is of ice and blue ribbons, Of sweaters over sultry sensations. I am a woman weak in my feminine dark tresses, I am twisted in my disposition. I am a weak woman, I am a weak woman Without pauses and mild punctuations. Already? Already. Already, I am weak in my pauses, I am weak in my punctuations.
Come daybreak And I am up at seven. I wish I could write five, or six here But that would be such a lie to begin with. Not that I am not a liar, not that I am not petty Or sick, sick in my ways But lying here would kill the thrill for me. I have so much to lie about. I have a life ahead, as they say. Dear God. Wish I die before the age of thirty-seven. That’s such a pretty number. But so unserious. Hence, the only limit to put it here. My only reason. Is that true what they say about them? That real men (the real, real men) Are after old money, sad girls and Ford Mustang? Sounds so true, so petty, so sick. If I were to have my way, I too would have it that way. That’s the only real way. Old money. Sadness. Mustang.
What shade of yellow or green do you wonder the plagues are? For me it’s mustard-yellow. Sometimes algae-green. They are the shades of my hyphens, colons and renditions too. I do not trust my man. I am positive he lies to me. His glasses are too clear, his lens too wide for me. He’s such a real man. I wish I could buy him a Ford Mustang. Something sleek. Silver. Old model. Dear God. Wish I had met him when I was thirteen. He could’ve broken me, I’d have let him fall into my arms. Sounds so dangerous, so petty, so sick. If he were to have his way, he too would have done it that way. That’s the only real way, The only real way to love a true woman. Old money. Sadness. Mustang.
I am barefoot against the cold marble floor of my house. The water’s dripping off the faucets, I can hear them piercing into my abyss. My plates are stacked, my clean spoons and bowls won’t fit into your notion. My home isn’t messy. As many would’ve thought. But no, I am not that woman. I am drawn to my mind, I am drawn to the wrong side of history But I am not that woman who fails miserably at the task at hand. I go beyond it, I do it exceptionally well. I might go mad swinging in between excelling and enduring ; Between love, life, duty and death, poetry But I am not that woman. As many would’ve thought. Now, not that I didn’t struggle when I was thirteen. It has taken me an eternity to compose myself Before I learnt to compose these verses, these minions Of my mind that you consume, chew and spit without mercy. I let the eyes go blind. I let you fall into my arms.
February. Dear God. A leap year at that, too. My heart has me by my throat. And, it’s only The twenty-sixth today. I cook my meals, but I am done With this day already. And, it’s not even five o’clock yet. Did I tell you I was up at seven this morning? My mind’s so in sync with the bloody nature That the shades of my soul are – vastly green and blue. Outside, the weather is of ice and blue ribbons, I am wearing a sweater, and underneath a summer dress. The day breaks And rapidly pops my veins beneath my flesh – I can almost feel the explosion blasting off my bones To pieces, to these powdered pieces that turn to liquid, That mix with my spit, sweat, blood And turns my dark tresses to white. My nails break, My lashes fall like Autumn leaves onto my cheeks While the Sun washes them from a mild shade Of tangerine hue to bright yellow and, To an ultimate white. Over time, the process has become less painful. I am a weak woman but I am learning to pause. I cannot hold my breath So I am learning to write my lines short – Without butchering the spirits of my hyphens, colons And my original renditions – I am learning to write With pauses and mild punctuations.
The aroma of this black coffee, the texture of my mother’s cake ; The noises tearing my balcony door down, The brown leather of my journal’s case. Fuck. February twenty-sixth. My heart has me by my throat. He sees a future, he tells me so. He is positive about it. Now, don’t mistake me to be ungrateful. Or worse, a coward. You know I go with the flow. I have rhythm. But one of my own making. I am in pieces ; I am an unsolved puzzle at best. But At least I come in a box-carton with four walls. And he’s no ordinary man, no ordinary man at all. He’s a real man (the real, real man) And he knows his way around. He tore my walls down Last summer, I tell you He showed me the threads of eternity in one singular day – Can you blame him? I have a mind against my will And the almond eyes of a child ; my lips sit supple between My perishable cheeks, I have a woman’s bold thighs. Come February, he has me by my throat. I am a woman sinking into the muddy morass – Dark hair, pearls, dresses, blue, obsessive but What’s lost is lost. Darling, what’s lost is lost. If I were to have my way, I too would have done it that way. That’s the only real way. And Darling, what’s lost is lost, What’s lost is lost.
I am so sick, so petty in believing I could find an audience Like you, made up of people with varying tones And with purple, green, white point of views. How could I? How could I betray my own to agree with you? I am here, I am here in a continuum of my own making And I cannot let you in. It is mine. All of it. My space and my time. All of it. I want it all. Now, don’t mistake me to be ungrateful. Or worse, a coward. You know I go with the flow. I have rhythm. But one of my own making. You know my heart has me by my throat; I am a weak woman Without pauses. My voice is almost like a transition – Child-like, feeble, sweet – and I speak without words but I am drowning the crass noise, I am beginning to reason ; I am beginning to find a voice to surrender my renditions. I am innocent and I run with naked feet in lavender fields. I am innocent and my ink flows through the time’s tidal creeks. I am innocent and I play the holy tunes on my guitar as a testimony. I am innocent and I am in sync with the nature – blue and green. I am evergreen. I am timeless. I am innocent. But you know, I’d not care much about the judgment. You know I am a weak woman. You know already : I am free. I am free. I am free.
So what do I do with my mother’s salmon-pink lilies? Dear God. Wish I die before the age of thirty-seven With their stalks piercing deep into my throat, ripping it apart. Dear God. Wish I had met him when I was thirteen with The pink lilies rapidly popping my veins beneath my flesh – Feeding me the explosion, blasting off my bones To pieces, to these powdered pieces that turn to liquid, That mix with my spit, sweat, blood And run dry choking the breaths out of my cold corpse. I watch the day break. I watch the night fall into my arms. I am a woman weak in my boldest desires. I bid farewell last night to my one true love, to my man In this weather of ice and blue ribbons, In this weather of ultra sultry sensations. He cupped my face in his bold, bold hands And parted with quoting the lines – “Light of my life, Fire of my loins” * – And now I am, I am, I am the woman Sinking into the muddy morass – Dark hair, pearls, dresses, blue, obsessive; Vague reincarnations, literature and French nail polish. And now I am, I am, I am the woman Being made and unmade, switching between blades and The world’s ongoing charades, I want to surrender but I am free, I am innocent ; I want to succeed in the versions of my renditions but I am a woman weak in my feminine dark tresses, I am twisted in my disposition. I am a weak, weak woman. I am evergreen. I am timeless. I am innocent. But you know, I’d not care much about the judgment. I am innocent. So I play the holy tunes on my guitar as a testimony and sing – What’s lost is lost. Darling, what’s lost is lost. If I were to have my way, I too would have done it his way. That’s the only real way. And Darling, what’s lost is lost, What’s lost is lost. If I were to have my way, I too would have done it his way. That’s the only real way. Old money. Sadness. Ford Mustang. That’s the only real way. What’s lost is lost. Darling, what’s lost is lost. That is the way. Old money. Sadness. Ford Mustang. Darling, That is the way. Darling, That is the way. Darling, That is the way.
* Taken from the opening lines of Vladimir Nabokov’s 1955 novel Lolita, as it is.
Listen to my man. Listen to his words. Listen to what he has to announce And Learn from him. And, his slow music. The Golden Hollywood : The sick, sick beats. Listen to him. The slow-song dance, The black jewels, The torn manuscripts. Learn from my man. I have found in him what I seek; Now, his beauty is my new routine. I am his woman And, he is my legacy.
Do me a favour. Return my grandfather’s vintagetelephone To the broken man who owns a mansion In the streets where my mother mourns The death of my illusions (You dread my illness When I have none to spread) ; Then pass my letter on As a lost one Found with moon-white flowers And, my brother’s gun.
Watch him go, Go alone into the midnights Into the winged – days And, into the whispered – nights. Watch my man. Watch him move. He says I form as an angel, As an angel in his rubik dreams ; He says I am in the spotlight – Golden on black, Fancy and fire. He is fancy and fire When I am in the spotlight. He says I am his favourite woman.
Do me a favour. Read the blind man my written fate, But don’t you read into it too much For you do not know what led to it. No, you don’t. (You seek me as your own Not in relation, but in stone – You could toss me as a pebble, And, I would cease to be on my own) ; Keep your eyes open But the senses numb ; You do not wish to interfere in one’s story; (You don’t know what you seek) Like the rest of us. (You search for the path I would trade for my younger years.)
I am heading into my honeymoon. My palette of emotions, Soaked in my poems. My ecstasies, Etched into my troubles.
I am heading into my honeymoon. I am in the open-sea under His Sun : With no ends to seek, with no wrong turns ; With no walls around me of fallen civility, With no brass pins of history neath my feet.
I am heading into my honeymoon. My knife neath my pillow In the bone-dry weather. My nascent love, Blooming in the tropical summer.
(I need your torchlight no more, Nor your surveillance, Nor your love, Nor anything that ever existed Between the two of us. In the blue open-sea, with no strings in sight No one is a father, no son needs a guide.)
I have a mind burning with fire – Rock music, Comatose; His caramel eyes, Wet mouth and fingers. He paints me red. He makes me move slow – In slow motion, Like my spring collection; I am blue Under his catholic sun. Learn from my man. He has found in me what he seeks; Now, my beauty is his new routine – From my auburn roots To my pink fingertips. I am the beauty in his new routine. I am his favourite woman, And, he is my patrimonial legacy.
Mornings begin, blooming into a rosy day Where we wait patiently to be devoured By the horizon shift – silver to orange. Rays hit the pores of our skin, Craters of dark spots come to light. Breakfast is an old thing, We eat our own existence now. The blood dripping off your mouth Carries the aroma of mist, Envelops our existence, blanketed by honey.
I eat the flesh, through mauve nails Ricocheting between kisses and customs. As I lie naked on a bloody floor, Flowing from my veins are remorse-rivers. You’re one holy dip away from purity.
I write, let it all out on ruledsheets Holding the worst weapon ever created. The weapon stinks of my existence, A genocide of its own- Killing those who read Living those who write- A catharsis, unknown.
Mirror barely gets my glimpses, The alleged beauty, the alleged truth. Sea of humans suck our golden lymphs Repeating the age-old truth, truth and beauty. The outlook of my existence nips The buds of creativity, On most of the days, I simply exist.
Apologies sit on my lower lip Whilst upper lip grows moths. “Surrendering” is the only ritual poets perform, unconsciously. On rest of the days, they simply exist. A molten ball of sickness, A burning desire put to sleep.
I hide from scavenging eyes To tie my hair in a messy ponytail. The question mark on his face The denial in my existence Put trembles in the minds. Strangers stare, upholding their expectations On the top of it, organs of shame exist.
My head blasts off vague memories And, my behaviour is erratic. As swift as my lovers, my mood swings are- Voluptuous. The iron gate shuts off with a thunderbolt, Fear drips as melting nails from fingers, As colostrum for an infant, As kisses of a desperate lover.
Do I even smell of you? Do my bones lick the touch of my existence? Do I even exist? Do I? I appear, I disappear; resurrect from dead. A reality is denying its reflection. Or, just another living paradox, driven by madness? Does that make reality an illusion?
Women are magical But, shameless women are mystical. Lashes of introspection sit around oils of retrospection Flutter around with enormous wings Woven of sharp blades and, Stitched on blood-sucked parched skin. On the night of full moon, They simply resist.
Finale touches me but ceases to exist Once it flows along the remorse-rivers. An emotion presses itself into your chest, We know it. We hear it thrashing our left breasts Whilst the red organ pumps more and more. On most of the days, we simply resist.
The buzzing sound Rings in my ears As I fight to keep promises Made long, long ago.
I wake up amidst Drifting away from them. Clock strikes 4 o’clock. I count minutes – Those were wasted To shun the buzzing sound ; Those long-lost promises Make my jaws and chin melt away.
Teeth dissolve, along with my dreams. Dim-lit hallway. Lilac skies above must be soaked In liquid madness But I am untouched As the green seawater. Dreams. Dim-lit hallway. I open my eyes. A wire is drawn from one eye to the other. The delightful pain of keeping promises Comes alive in the eyes Where I bury my long-lost promises Every night for four hours, And a half.
Afternoon naps. Left paralyzed, fire is poured into my veins As the sound of promises rings again.
“… It holds ground not just in those legends, myths and religious texts, but in science and philosophy too, where reason, supported by concrete and explicit evidences, is of supreme importance… In my forty years of rigorous research, I have found that, in simple words, beautiful dreams are made up of crystals, from the golden threads of our deepest, purest desires; bad dreams are made up of worms and sicknesses of the mind; everything else that lies between the two is just a passing stage, as insignificant as a thought that travels through mind, through various transitions, back and forth – from good to bad, from moral to immoral, from health to sickness, from hatred to love – without producing an output, without giving us a concrete foundation upon which we can base our hypotheses and theories… Each dream goes through these three transitions, back and forth : from one stage to another, then to another, to another and so on. (Please refer to the diagram below for a detailed illustration of the three stages.)… The moment you wake up from a dream, you shatter it. Since the Stage of Transition is insignificant in the process, what one remembers afterwards is only a small fragment of one of the two Primary stages, (in whichever stage the subject is at the time of waking up) which diminishes from our memory with time…”
My favourite German author has written extensively about dreams and their interpretations. Last Friday, we borrowed his best-selling book from the only library of this town, six months after we had submitted a request in the librarian’s office for the same. I cannot read German, and the old librarian does not believe in distorting the beauty of a foreign language by feeding translated versions to the young minds, which should be willing to embrace a new language, as he says, rather than worrying about reading great books with their limited linguistic skills. We had a week to return the book, without delay, whatsoever, the old librarian had told us.
I cannot read German, and the long teaching hours at the university, which often stretches its arms and legs into my luncheon and tea breaks, allow for nothing but a single-breath pause on Sundays to improve my linguistic skills, so I turned to him, but not helplessly. He read the book to me with utmost patience and sincerity, translating each and every sentence fluently into a language that I understood; he read to me in lyrical passages, in complete submission to the great author’s experimental work, even when he was tired to his bones after the day’s work.
The book ran only for a hundred and fifty pages, and took three of our evenings; and it spanned over thirty topics in a random manner, but without incoherence – for one must mention those three words after reading a great book; after reading a great book for the first time; after reading a great book for the first time in a translated tongue; after reading a great book for the first time in a translated tongue about a topic that is abstract, unfathomable and beyond the limits of human mind.
Nevertheless, it would prove ambiguous, and incomplete in its value, to one’s pursuit if the goal is to understand what is real, or what really a dream is. It has value, for a great book always has value, but not of academic importance. One must read it only for amusement, only to distract, or rather to consume, one’s mind.
Such magical weather! – He had said this morning before leaving the apartment for his walk. He is always dressed in a white shirt; perhaps the only aspect of his outlook that does not change with the weather, or with the time of the day. White complements, and in a way, completes – coral red, emerald green, faded blue, dull grey, blush-peach, black, and pearl white as well – all of those shades, I feel, hold great value in my life. He said it – Such magical weather! – out of habit, but with great conviction in his manners, which I have come to praise as his, indisputably, and everyone would agree, the greatest asset. And, men with great assets win great acquaintances, great positions in the society; they are respected in the highest, and in the lowest rung as well, circles of able men, and of women. I glance at the window pane, the weather is miserable! – Harsh, unbearable.
The streets outside my window are cold and damp; painted with silver in the routes they lead to – with discoloured water in deformed puddles, muddied with organic filth flowing from the nearby lawns. The Sun is out in the grey sky, the kind of grey that complements the silver of the streets; one can feel its warmth in the dazzling, golden dewdrops on the dried-yellow grass – that one, over that patch of grass, is about to fall to the ground with a swollen bulge at its tip; another one is weighing down a thin blade of the moist grass; now that tiny one is leaving for the grey sky with its golden wings wide open – but the mist, the electric mist, has wrapped the town in an embrace so tight, the warmth of the Sun is extinguished in the same manner as that cloud of vapour, that leaves a spilled pot once half-filled with boiling liquid, in the month of December.
One year is a long stretch of time, much longer than one can imagine, if all the seasons are plucked out of it one by one, and all there left is this harsh and unbearable weather, with nothing but its numbness to offer – its silence, its cold, electric silence – to greet you from the month of January to December. It either rains in bright daylight, as if the rising heat from the land is always mocking the Sun, or the cold, white chill at night hands you the proof that the town is unsuitable for any kind of decent habitation. But, I must admit that nights are peaceful here; they are cold and unsuitable for any kind of decent habitation, but they are peaceful. The past still ties its knots round my wrists and ankles, and the paralysis returns at night every few months, but the nights are peaceful; they are better spent here than at my home in the city. The cold calmness here can pierce one’s skin, but it will not leave one bloodied. It is a consolation that I have been given for leaving the ruthless city behind.
There, each one of them, with drooping head under an umbrella! Why can he not carry an umbrella with him in the early hours? The weather would still be miserable – or magical – whether he chooses to carry an umbrella or not – but we have had enough of that logical argument; perhaps standing behind the blinds and curtains on a Sunday morning has never been of much help to a cause. Should have I gone with him? – Why did I not go with him? – Mornings are pleasant, they are meant to be so, even with wet silver streets at one’s feet and dull grey sky over one’s head, he had said this morning. Should have I gone with him? What difference does that make now? He is out in the cold streets, walking on wet pavements, greeting familiar faces out there – friends, neighbours, children – with a wave of his hand, with the warmth of his smile. Oh, such joy his presence brings to this sorrowful town! I should have gone out this morning; I should have gone out with him! But, what difference does that make now? This is merely a thought passing through my mind; a wish, a fancy; it does not matter – it makes me unhappy, it should not matter.
Why do we never leave the apartment together? Have we ever left the apartment together? – Nonsense, nonsense! We must have! It escapes my memory at this moment – one whole episode can escape one’s memory sometimes – but we must have! It is foolish to question one’s own reason at this hour; the weather indeed is magical – even in all of its miseries – it is a magical morning, it is meant to be so! But, why did I not go out with him? I should have! Whatever he loves, he loves it completely. Whatever he chooses to love, he loves it completely. That’s all I have ever known about that man; that’s all a woman should ever know about her man. I should have gone out with him! But, these are merely thoughts passing through my mind; they do not matter – they make me very unhappy, they should not matter. No! Whatever he chooses to love, he loves it completely. That is what truly matters – Only his love matters! But then, why did I not go out with him?
But God, you are handsome. So handsome. A stroke of blue Against my stone-white palette; Here, a splash of lavender Against my dead-black sky. So handsome. Golden. Golden as a funeral folk song. Beautiful. I am moved By this Beauty Amidst the empty, crying deaths. And I told you, Told you, I had never met a poet before.
The rising day – Slow down. There is no right answer. And I, Write here with no premise; No context, No substance; Without any design. You are not my love. You will never be. My memories fail me. You are a blur: Less than a quarter of this figment. (I am certain) I circle the perimeter Of a fading existence- I am being held together In a familiar pattern. You should leave. Now, away. Go away.
I had never met a poet before. But, In the colour of blood, The night split-opens Into a thousand threaded Grey perplexities When the day breaks And, My stars align along its spine- A new margin. Come midnight- You paint with your words (Many do But none like you; No one ever can, No one ever would.) And, your phrases crush my bones (Never to be forged back again); Your allegories burn my midnights Aflame – In pink, (But God, you are handsome) In pink, (So handsome. Golden.) In pink : My head under water, Pale moonlight above, Borders so blue, So pastel, So solid, So slow, So swallowing: I look into the Abyss. Right there. Right there in you.
Cereus Florus 
You must be logged in to post a comment.