It was like a dream within a dream.
Hers was an existence,
just a memory on an ancient one,
reflection within reflection within reflection.
Everything borrowed, everthing snitched.
Everthing forgotten, skeleton of rememberance,
Somewhere withing the skeletons,
Lied a worm, gnawing day and night.
A phantom soul, everychanging.
From books, to books, to books of life,
Two dimensional everything,
Except perhaps, the worm.
One day, she decided to cure herelf of it.
She arranged the bones, anatomically perfect,
Plucked out the worm and set it on fire,
For an instance, she felt the hell inside her.
Someday, I am going to read this to my daughter too.. hopefully. Happy reading my Phantom Readers..
Point B- Sarah Kay
Instead of mom she’s gonna call me point B
Because that way she knows that no matter what happens,
at least she can always find her way to me.
And I’m gonna paint the solar system on the back of her hand
so that she has to know the entire universe before she can say
oh, I know that like the back of my hand.
She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you
Hard.
In the face.
Wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach.
But the wind knocked out of you is the only way
to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by bandaids or poetry
So the first time she realizes that wonderwoman isn’t coming,
I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself
Cause no matter how wide you stretch your fingers,
your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal.
Believe me , I’ve tried.
And baby, I’ll tell her.
Don’t keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick.
You’re just smelling for smoke,
so you can follow that trail back to a burning house,
so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire
to see if you can save him
Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place
to see if you can change him
But I know that she will anyways so instead
I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rainboots nearby
because there’s no heartbreak chocolate can’t fix.
Okay there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix.
But that’s what the rainboots are for,
because rain will wash away everything if you let it. ‘
I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottomed boat.
To look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist
on the pinpoint of a human mind because that’s the way my mom taught me,
that there’ll be days like this
there’ll be days like this my momma said
When you open your hands to catch
and only wind up with blisters and bruises.
When you step out of the phonebooth and try to fly
and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape.
When your boots will fill with rain
and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment
and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you.
Cause there’s nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to
stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.
You will put the wind in win some lose some
you will put the star in starting over and over
no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute
be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale of one to trusting I am pretty f****ing nave.
But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
And sure, it can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to
stick your tongue out and taste it.
And baby, I’ll tell her.
Remember your mama is a worrier,
but your papa is a warrior and
you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.
Remember that good things come in threes,
and so do bad things,
and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong,
but don’t ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining
and your voice is small,
but don’t ever stop singing,
and when they finally hand you heartbreak,
slip hatred and war under your doorstep
and hand you hand outs on streetcorners of cynicism and defeat
you tell them they really ought to meet your mother.
( This poem is for the street kids. They have this specific spot in the entrance of a tourist hub, back home. They live with a wall, actually, they live with only the wall on their back. They sleep on the dirty pavements, empty dendrite tubes and dogs lay scattered about, with nothing but rags and newspapers on them. And behind the wall, there is some high class bureaucratic office. Very apt situation there. I do not want to say that they are the sole responsibilities of the government, and from what I have read and heard from friends who work in development sector, NGOs, street kids are the most difficult to deal with. Sometimes even more than the children affected by wars. I think it is because, these kids have already given up hope of life... they sort of live like zombies, but I would also like to believe that there is hope for them. I want to work with them in future, first I have to finish my own education, earn a little, be financially independent before I venture out. But once I do, they will definitly be where I will start my work. May be run a workshop where I can bring them in and teach them poetry and art... I do believe that poetry and art can heal human souls... may be not entirely, but it could... I believe words have magic. Lets see what the future holds.)
In this country of faceless gods and goddesses, where the history has crumbled away, like the layer of cheap white wash they put on decaying walls of ancient palaces every dashain, the future sleeps on stinking coarse pavements stick thin tangled limbs and mangled heads with no dreams with nothing on but soiled clothes and occasionally a dog or two.
These are paper flowers with newspaper thrones on them. These are aborted lives living in live carcasses. These are abused sons and daughters; childhood recklessness of runnin away gone bad Hunger for food and love gone desperate, now they exist, stomach full with smell of dendrite and shoe polish, heart filled with empty emotions. I have no wish when it comes to them, I am not strong enough to love them or rich enough to feed them all. But I will, may be buy them a packets of noodles or Glucose Biscuits, May be even 25ml tetra paks of mango juice. With this, I have done my good; I become impermeable to the infinite sadness in their eyes. These open wounds of humanity, stop bleeding for me ( for the time being) to wade through.
I wrote this down few weeks back. I was tired of giving answers to people who always questioned why I was still single (?), why was not I thinking about future ( they do know I am pursuing a BAJM degree part time after work), was I now a lesbian ( hahaha) and all sorts of questions that annoy the shit out of you..someone even said that my market value had an expiry date.... so I wrote this for them. Take is with a little bit of salt.. sweethearts :)
You talk of me,
As if you are talking of canned goods,
Items displayed on the shelf of a department store
Or
A pack of frozen meat in a butcher’s shop.
You say,
Your market value will go down; you have an expiry date,
So get a husband soon
When the time is still your friend, you might just be able to catch someone.
But, do you understand?
Comprehend even,
For a fleeting moment that,
This!
This one in the shelf might not wish to be purchased
Let alone opened.
Because,
I am more valuable than any goods that could be displayed in a department store shelf.
I am more than a pair of breast, ovaries and my sex.
And I demand of love that is as humble as first rays of sun.
Yes!
That would be the only currency of my trade.
You will be dry, you say
When it is time to sow the seed your womb will only be a thirsty land,
Drought.
But do you know?
My life doesn’t end with my biological clock hitting the menopause.
For which, there is plenty of time still.
Do you realize that
Even if I may be unable to bear a child of man,
I could nurse a hundred and more
Even when my nipples shrink into dry raisins,
I have inside me the love that never dries up.
Your life will be empty, so find a man soon who can fulfill you.
You say,
You don’t know how to love,
Surrender.
But do you see?
My life is much more
That the ‘relationship status’ in my face book page.
Or much more than having to find a man
to understand the meaning of my life.
That my heart is fragile, broken but full
With scares of judgments such as yours
And I wear them like war paint on my skin!
Yes!
I am in a war
Against time, I don’t expect a victory there
( who has ever won time?)
But I am waging war against mind like yours
That puts labels of expiry date and price tag on our female-hood.
If you would really want to sum up a woman’s worth
I say,
Measure the depth of her soul,
The expanse of it,
Find the price for her heart
That is vulnerable yet nurturing. Put a price tag on a mothers intutive touch that heals the pain of scraped knees and paper cuts, or a shattered heart and broken dreams. Measure the strength of a sister's lean shoulders which can carry the weight of your sorrows like feathers. Or a lovers gentlest caress that shakes the core of your manhood when she touches you there, Right there,
On the nape of your neck
Or the invisible line between just where your torso meets
The bush of your ecstasy.
Do you not know?
That I walk slow,
Through my life because I know
My life has a meaning already
My existence needs no stamp of approval from you
And I am much more
Than the view of me you could ever surmise.
That I am a woman
And that itself is
Enough!
