They are going to burn me

Oh Heinety, canst I change thy name
So your skin singes with every lick of the hot searing flames,
Cringes,
evaporates,
To the tune of animal cries of deranged rage.
To sightless eyes hungry for blood.
To drugged thoughts craving to crush.
To the joy that comes from seeing pain.

Oh Heinety, thy name is mindless violence,
on an orphan girl,
The dispensable sacrifice.


To read more about the situation in Orissa visit http://orissaburning.blogspot.com/

Most misty Bangalore mornings

On the right side of the Banaswadi flyover
Runs a road
One side lined with yellow lumps on metal grey
The other, full of throat clearings.

In the soft mist of winter
The shallow putrid gutter flows,
Foul and fetid,
Men with rakes
Make little heaps of plastic and black mush.

Little kids run barefoot
Snorty and naked
playing and nagging
(across the road and along it)
Others sit empting their bowls like others before them
The ladies in green overalls
Bend double
dust pan and broom
collecting heaps, stuffing them into bins
tinkling along
on their push carts.

I race by
Looking for the blue bus ahead
Watching my every step
Not daring to swallow.

6th January 2008

Untitled

come oh yearning,
live in me,
permanently.
Give me the courage to make you reality.

23rd June 2008

Seeking expression

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
deep in my inner ear
it vibrates
a scream in a lovely song
a headline on a web page

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the squint eyes of a scrawny man
in the scent on the air
a wizened old man totters by
a cough in a quite church

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
so I recite the serenity prayer
take a deep breath
sip water
push back the pain in my throat

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
my memories meander on a soothing violent current
jaws clench in determination
a quiet pledge
a loud thanks giving

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
tears in my rice
an instinctive flinch
come fill my nails with grit
let me hold on to the warmth of the dying sun

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in a new borns cry
an empty chair at the table
in that feeling that wont end
In the discomfort of my questions


yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
the face contorts in a cry
the familiar texture of a shirt
the blue of mouth wash
yellow marigolds on a grave

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the unspoken voice of a strong lady
first fruit of the mango tree
crumbling beams of the wooden room
empty bottles in a dusty cupboard

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
old pictures in a draw
a scapular and an old watch
come back, oh come back, come back, oh come back
what would I not give to have you back.



20th June 2008

Scarlette Eden Keeling

On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
Scarred my spirit faltered
Like my feet on soft sand
My skin decorated with intricate patterns of yellow
As drugged intentions
Entered me
High on fantasy.

On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
The salt water floods my nostrils
Calloused hands bite my skin
Blue green red panic plea
While romance slept
Tucked under her down fluff
I became cold meat for breakfast.

On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
swaying palms, warm waters, blistering suns,
bronzed skins, hookas, trance, textures
Tattoos, morality, colour, corruption, ego.
On the gentle waves of the Arabian sea
Under the ethereal light of the moon
There I set sail for another world.

10th April 2008

Building a memorial for fallen heroes

Where women fall,

There the grass grows.

Greener for the fertility.


They fall

Acid burnt,

Charred,

Cut to pieces (sometimes cooked),

Beaten,

Bloody,

Diseased,

Violated,

Unloved,

Objectified,

Vilified,

Demonized,

Haunted,

Taunted,

Deluding,

Where women fall,

There the grass grows.

Greener for the fertility.

Disabled femininity

disfigured bodies

forsaken womanhood,

yet our wombs cry,

tears of blood,

our bellies yearns to swell,

our breasts crave to feed,

our stumpy arms long to caress,

the flesh of our flesh, blood of our blood,

but our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.


We long for love, to give it,

to feel it grow within,

our mauled bodies refuses to accept us, an afterthought,

so we shred the days and nights to seconds,

grope within the crevices,

and pray to be found,

all we come up with are spirogyra like desires,

leeches that suck the aspirations from our souls,

for our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.


I wrote this poem after a heard that a severely disabled girl had become pregnant, out of wedlock, and the ruckus this created within her family and an NGO on disability that interacted with her. The sexuality of women with disability is an unaddressed question. Most people believe that women with disability have no right to love or be loved. We fail to realize that a women with physical disabilities is just that, physically disabled, and it does not automatically imply a mental, emotional, spiritual or psychological disability. We, non disabled people do not loose an opportunity to sit in judgment of persons with disability and ram our opinions on them.

Untitled

I know not what made you,
when,
how.

All I know is I feel the sting,
here,
now.


3rd October 05