Woman Made
always the same shop of decency
from where my books and dresses are bought.
my nationality is decided by the
identity i hold between my legs.
i have no Pandora’s Box
in whose depth, i can store my fantasies.
it comes swimming to me, his battle ground;
bringing me currencies, carnal, banal.
other times, my timidity decides
how not to find me left, mid-way.
i flick my pages; a constitution i’ve become,
placed at the highest pedestal; to be violated
again and again.
*Previously published by Gloom Cupboard, USA
Taking Account
I’ve seen female elders
stocking dead cowries in the God’s throne.
I fill the cereal bowl with it…makes you smile;
the child calls it–fish…sometimes
the food even; she will learn.
I don’t know, how your red diary
travels to me often, with outstretched arms;
it was important though, to know
the void left by the moneta pies—to make our home,
was filled with sighs. I thought
they were to be tossed out.
It is an eternal sojourn—
to jostle space with them.
Cretin that I am—
figure out: the frugality does not help.
It is the scrawled sub-formulas—in the air
that I must learn, to read.
***
Impossibly tough stuff, making it as a poet. I commend you, keep fighting the good fight!
Beautiful. I love the line “a constitution i’ve become,
placed at the highest pedestal; to be violated
again and again.” Wonderful work.
Thank You for reading my works.
@ Westwood,
life is tough..far more tough than what I write in my poems. I let the readers create rather than giving a packaged creation. Its a poem and not a tabloid.
@ Anita,
I’m happy that you could find something what you felt for yourself.