Words and letters

In that idyllic, isolated
childhood hill home
I had only words as
friends,lovers
angels and demons

I wrote letters
to myself
to my parents
(who lived there with me)
to imaginary friends

some of whom
became real
in the years to come

Now there are
no friends
the addict words
still want to become
letters

I now make word-walls
brick by brick
between me and the world

it gets darker and darker
inside here

calendars change
dictionaries updated
books released

I am Plath's suicide
Woolf's frustration
Kerouac's disillusionment

my words
strangulate me
cause of death
unknown.
 

HERstory

This was a winner at Muse of the Month (November) at Women's Web HERE.


It was Genesis time
crafted from your rib
you god’s own image
me a mere ‘auxiliary companion’
Dear man, the glory all yours
the blame all mine
I was the temptress
the bringer of misfortunes
and you the Hero


you were the
legendary son of Ayodhya
the ideal man for all times
and yet, a king first
your glorious tale
lives on centuries later
because chastity is always only
a wife’s belt
the test by fire
only for me


In a no-choice polyandry
I was the wife
of five gallant men
polygamous all
my owners by default?
conveniently lost me
in a game of dice
What was I?
in your victory- a prize
in your defeat a price


I was Snowwhite or Cinderalla
always waiting to be rescued
my only chance at a future
charming you
The Perfect Prince Charming
who knew the spotless skin
the perfect hair, the narrow waist
would be an industry someday
and me just a product
on display


all of this remains “HIStory”
Antigone, Medea, Pandora
Kekayi, Ahlaya, Menaka
Helen and Cleopatra
painted black
by male hands
the only colour
for women
all pseudonyms were mine
or I chose anonymous


all the rooms in art, philosophy,
discourse, films, media
already taken
Woolf, Plath, Dickinson
Sexton, Akhmatova
in every century
looking for
A room of one’s own


Dear Jane was right
when she said,
“The more I know of the world,
the more I am convinced
that I shall never see a man
whom I can really love.
I require so much!”

ICE CUBE

My currency is words
language is
my elixir and my poison.
I drink voices and words
the music of vowels
and consonants
the symphonies of silence.

Black marks
on a white page
loaded with meaning, that is it.

UNSAID
is also a word said
red between the lines
hear the pauses
be damned
to suffer
alone in silence
no one else
understands this language

are words language
if nothing is conveyed
meaning is an ice cube
it melts and changes
it all forever.