Epithet of Feminism
I ain’t any standard for the liberation
yet a pinch of lady in me disgorges
everytime I have to
subjugate and swallow chauvinism.
I ain’t any prototype for the delicacy
yet a pinch of lady in me is gratified
even with the trivial credit
in the assertive swarm of gentlemen.
I ain’t any voice for the docility
yet a pinch of lady in me embers
when I contemplate dissociating
myself from the middle-of-the-road.
I ain’t any illustration for the elegance
yet a pinch of lady in me resonates
in ecstasy and elation in
his assuring and gentle stroke.
by
SWATHI B
swattalk.wordpress.com
Who is this Gorgeous Girl?
Poetry
Sophie Camalin
I look at her, every time
she throws a whimsical charm
her capricious ash-brown hazel orbs,
never fails to make my heart throb
and a face that’s
half naked
between her
disheveled tousle
dark and wavy her locks
cascading her kiss curls
streaks of auburn in between
alluringly extra special
naughty-naughty her looks
baffling her gazes
mischievous her deeds
impish her actions
she stares like a child
that just lost a balloon,
with pouted lips,
trying to smile
magnetic that smile
takes me an extra mile
raspberry those lips,
her talks like wafers crisp
soft and shiny her skin
makes me go insane
squashy caresses her touch
she takes my heart in a pouch
the attitude she shows
my spirit and heaven, it blows
who is this gorgeous girl? I wonder
and discovered I was standing in front of the mirror
Behind the harbor of Trafficking
They sent me into an ocean of dreams and promises
Promising me the pay is greater
Employees nicer
And customers will praise me.
I was given a room with one bed
and no light of hope.
They come and then they go
Am only a hundred dollars.
I’ve been painted for profit but no price.
My once innocent world ripped at the seams
by their sharp needles.
How it hurt.
It’s a never ending cycle of storms and hungry waves.
Their ugly unholy hands.
Nothing to drive them away.
The only way
I escape
is by shutting my eyes
until he’s done.
But it ends as quickly as it begins.
Am drowning in an ocean of doubt
and not dreams.
He calls me “baby”
And I do what he says,
Cause I am.
Children are victimized twice:first by the handler who exploits them and secondly by the individual for human flesh; who solicits them. They are selected as skillfully as any predator chooses its prey often to as many as 50 Jack’s per day. What’s interesting enough is many of the buyers of child sex are married men. Imagine being so physically degraded and the humiliation of being like cattle and flesh to be sold.
Child sex trafficking is as a billion dollar industry. But at what price is it really? It’s at the price of these little children girls’ and boys’ innocence taken away. This act of malevolence and spleen should be stopped.
Rushda Rafeek
Sri Lanka
A Love Note
You are
the answer to my prayers
the reply to my questions
the smile on my face
the sparkle in my eyes
the happiness in my heart
the peace in my spirit
the fizz in my actions
the sweetness in my words
the cheer in my ways
the love the dwells inside me!
- Sophia Carmalin
A Little More Love
Open your heart and get the feel of it
blossomed through the time,
the radiance, the content, the peace
What else can I ask for…?
A lil more…
Â
Hugs and kisses flowing all through…
Laughter, fun, joy streaming all through
Roses, teddy, chocolates pouring all through
What else can I ask for…?
A lil more…
Â
Tears rolling down, a shoulder to cry on,
A stranger to depend on, any moment, any second…
The feeling is so strong, not forgetting any rhythm…
Â
For a second I was carried away
For a minute I lost it
For a lifetime I learnt it
–Kala Pillai
Turning Leaf
Sometimes, colours have a way of predicting things
A grey sky is supposed to be the harbinger of rain,
While a bright blue one indicates a calm and wonderful day
A green twig is said to mark the beginning of spring…
Now looking at this turning leaf the other day
I wondered if it knew that orange meant it was wilting
Further it made me ponder,
Do we know what the coming year is to bring?
Are our hopes, dreams and wishes crafted by colours too?
Colours that just our eyes are not accustomed to see?
I asked the leaf while I was painting it,
The leaf simply said “every colour is truly worth living”
Dream for 2010
Another calendar rolls over, and dies
Another generation is born, and cries
Y2K is a distant, almost forgotten memory, we have Y2K+10 at hand!
10 years into a millennium once believed to be impossible
and we wait for the dreadful date the Maya hung upon us
December 21, 2012, all calendars would die, or so said they
Fear not my blog, for even in the dreams “beyond the mortal coil”
I shall, in those unseen times, tick over thy pages, year after joyful year
Perhaps then would not be some lazy rant, or broken verse
but the continuing melody of unending hours
the mind, freed from all other maladies and phobias
would bask in the enjoyment of unknown delicacies
and would conjure up flavors hitherto untasted
Oh, a thought drags me back to the mortal present
One family now grows into two, and that denizen of the same womb
sister dearest will soon adorn another household with her grace
a happy occasion that will mark this year in our minds
off we go to the bazaar, buy an year’s load of festoons
let the whole street know of the occasion awaited
its time for sweetmeats, for gossip,
for rice grain blessings and eagerly opened gifts
let the season passes, from winter unto summer
onto the monsoon of bridal tears, Godspeed
and then, let the year slow down, and relax in the autumn afternoons
Only then, let it take stock of itself, and only then, dream of what can be
Yet Another Monsoon Rain
Art and Poetry by Anuradha Chandrasekaran
The raindrops fell down one by one
Drenching me as it came down upon the ground
As I stood there transfixed
My thoughts wandered across a time long gone
I remembered rushing through these rains
Both of us clinging to the handle of that one umbrella
Did we want to stay dry or get wet in the downpour?
I wonder if we even the noticed those drops of water
Another time, another monsoon day
I remember waking up and not wanting to get out of bed
I remember the piping hot bed coffee
And a voice, a hand, replete with comfort and warmth
Ah! Those beautiful rainy days, How I have cursed them
When they were the cause for traffic on the road
And all those tremors my mind went through
Just because you came home an hour late
Some joys, some fights
Some smiles, some tears
A raindrop sometimes personifies them all
A raindrop sometimes takes you back
Today I stand, without an umbrella
Without a shield to protect me
All I have, to give these raindrops are my own memories
All that remains are few tiny drops of water
A day that approaches… approaches the past
Indeed I was a youngster then, indeed am no wiser now
Sure, you were the smart one, no doubt, the more adapted
But perhaps I understood you then, and not so much now
or perhaps it is the other way around
either way, the lion will never catch it’s tail
the circle will never cease at a certain point
the unfortunate misunderstandings of Friendship’s past
will perhaps come back to the limelight
as a future content to share nothing but what was
The years between us were an unshakeable truth
the memories between us oases in a desert
the space between us, the emptiness between the stars
sooner ignored, safer forgotten, best unremembered
and yet there were these far-flung innuendoes
the embers of a fire that burnt itself
and it that burning, consumed universes
fragments of these now lurk in distant minds
occasionally do they meet, upon the cross roads of time
the same paths that we never chose to walk on
now, angered (cross), offer us no room to pass
A day approaches, and brings another floating charcoal piece
the companion of which was flung upon me post-haste, early
that vanguard sleeps for a momentary eternity, safely defeated
yet the unuttered noises of the coming fleet crowd my mind
they refuse to offer a fight, nor do they volunteer to walk swiftly past
they shall be the guests of the winter perhaps, hibernating, snoring
until the freshness of an as-yet-unsprung spring time leaf shall sweep them away
and going forward, forward, forward… they shall once more approach the past
Picture Credit :
First Issue – Nov 2009
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