Skip to main content

A Poem's Memoir

Poems 

are women.

Widely liked

at times, loved

seldom listened to

rarely understood

and

frequently silenced.


Poems

are women

who survived 

the feticide of audacious ideas

and infanticide of 

unsatisfactory drafts.


Poems

are women 

with lowered eyes

bejeweled by alliteration 

veiled by metaphors

palms henna-ed to mask blisters of truth.


Poems

are women

never looked at

but for aesthetic pleasure

and never

attempted to be understood.


Poems 

are women

deified

so long as it suits

the facades of [those in] power

admired

so long as they 

transgress no "modesty"


Poems

are women

object of a hundred opinions

never safe from [the critic's] "gaze"

and entitled

to no non-conforming opinion

that shall not result in being silenced.


Poems 

are women

quiet rebellion

is the most they can do

sadly, in the jungle

where Aunt Jennifer's Tigers roar.


Poems

are women

birthed from pain

into a world of pain

doomed to live 

as reminders of "endurance" 

of pain.


Poems

are women

it is always their fault.

always their fault,

never that of the husband

or father

or brother

or bloody son of a --

Ch@tGPT prompt.


Poems

are women.

Profound,

but powerless.




The Tranquill Poet 🤍


P.S.

1. inspired by "Kavi Ka Confidential Gussa", Sriti Jha; and a piece narrated by Ratna Pathak Shah at a recent Kommune spoken fest, whose original author I am not sure of.

2. 'Aunt Jennifer's Tigers' is a reference to Adrienne Rich's poem of the same name.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love is why I can write poems that don't always rhyme

Love is why I am prettier in the pictures with her Love is why I love the rain more when we get drenched together Love is why I delete texts; Love is why I send 16-minute voice notes. Love is why I developed courage to experiment with ice cream; and Love is why I love listening at 2AM to her Midnight Library-esque movie dream. Love is why I have reasons to be thankful at the end of every day Love is why I know the bliss of having someone for whom to pray Love is why I am able to plod through the quiet, and amidst the chaos Love is why I know the line “my soul is on tiptoes looking for yours”. Love is why I have no qualms about being my own first draft Love is why I now allow myself second drafts - at life and at my craft. Love is why the past and future hurt less in her presence; Love is why she knows I wish God took CBD’s writing lessons. Love is why I’ve ever cried for someone that is not me Love is why I’m reminded of her when I read Sally Rooney. Love is why I always exceed the wor...
2 comments
Read more

Poetry is inserting line breaks wherever you want

Poetry is writing “she’s a glacier of gorgeousness” without cringing Poetry is allowing yourself to not rhyme all the time Poetry is backspace, backspace, backspace Poetry is telling yourself it’s okay Poetry is “did I write that?” [awestruck] and Poetry is “did I write that ?” [derogatory] Poetry is pausing at this point; and contemplating abandonment  Poetry is mundanity draped in fancy words concealing languor; Poetry is sentences a dorned by a lliterations Poetry is love, anger, pain, joy Poetry is cliche Poetry is carelessly tied strands of hair Poetry is bite marks on the tip of the pen Poetry is using the word ‘strands’ simply because of its visual imagery value (and hence exceeding word limit) Poetry is romanticising everything  Poetry is pausing again at this point; and contemplating deletion Poetry is learning to embrace the mess Poetry is falling in love with the process Poetry is, on many levels, “beautifulness” Poetry is forgetting a perfect rhyme in half a minu...
Post a Comment
Read more

After My Coffee Turned Cold

Read the prequel here : Before My Coffee Turns Cold I watched the sky part ways with the final rays of sunlight I noticed the golden hues quietly recede into twilight I heard the cacophony ebb away into the eerily tranquil night I discovered there was life after my coffee turned cold. I witnessed the world become more home, when I left my heart ajar I left pieces of myself in acts of kindness, and they travelled wide and afar I sat with the waves in silence till they washed over my hidden scars I tasted more of life, after my coffee turned cold. I lived, and in so doing, I found myself desiring to live more  I lost myself time and again, and found many surprises in store I cried till my eyes hurt, I laughed till my sides felt sore I pressed my cup to my cheeks, and it soothed, even after my coffee turned cold. I hurt, I screamed, I cried; I forgave, I walked away I healed, I learned to smile; I hurt again when life came in the way I wiped up the drops I’d spilled, and gathered the ...
Post a Comment
Read more