Tag: blogger

Diary of a middle-schooler

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“Take off my glasses
My eyes will hold your gaze
We both know it’s been ages
But it’s not about the days
That are gone; it’s only about you,
About us, and your shy confidence,
My bewilderment at your beauty,
My love for you, which had no ends
But which carried on in sorrow –
I have loved you still, as I did
Yesterday, and will, tomorrow.”

Once I thought I’d tell you this
(Years later, when we meet again)
When I’d known you’d never be mine
And wrote these verses in my pain.

Do you remember me, as I remember you?
However, I won’t pretend, I know it’s not true-
I remember only what I thought you were,
My infatuating dream,
The boy with sharp eyes and untidy hair-
You were more than him.

You had your flaws and a snobbish air
But of course I didn’t care
You talked to me once and I flew high
I never even questioned why-
You were the supreme,
You were my dream.

I know you’re not the dream I built
You’re just some pretty guy who’s smart
But what you made me feel sometime
Is what told me I had a heart.

Present

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I exist for the moment
But my back aches with history
They have twisted my tongue into a rope
I’m choking on their words
I’ve coloured myself fully red in their lashing
But they’ve set me free

Oh it’s another postcolonial vomit
Each word I speak
Is a slap of my own doing
I am dragging myself
To reach the primeval forests
Through the mud of patriarchal torture

I take every line of art
To operation theatres
And I dissect it
Until I shred myself to pieces

How do I escape the injustices
Forgive the centuries of their bloody horrors
My back aches with history
I am black and blue
And red
I am spent

Trying to live
A clean Present.

Life between the lines

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I like looking at my half-lit face
A vapid reflection on the bookshelf glass
I see the knowledge gained
So that some knowledge is lost
Outside my window I can reach out
I’ll almost touch the blank wall
But it doesn’t reflect me
Not even a half-frown or a straight smile.

To the poets who can sing of stories
In the breath of history
I am all ears in appreciation
But where am I in the conquered wombs
And the raging warriors
Where am I in the forests of civilisation
How did I swim in the stories
And emerge with a parched skin?

I am closing my soul to every word
Hosting parties for them as guests
I am not the modern living
Nor the past undead.

Sunday Afternoon

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Photo by Rovelyn Camato on Pexels.com
Give me a Sunday afternoon
Of noiseless naps and comforting silence.
I'll compare the blue of the walls next door
With the blue of the sky
With the blue of my veins and the blue of my smile.
It will take me a while.
The ceiling fan above my head
May go round and round
But not the hands of the clock.
Please, make the time stop;
I will give you my nightly sighs
I will give you my evening laughs
Give me a Sunday afternoon
And it will, maybe, be enough.

Sigh.

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I know my thoughts will roam about
I’ve got to bring them home, but how?
They’ll peep in through my neighbour’s door
They’ll tell me what they have more

I’ll play a tug of war with the spies
Reel them away from the magic-eyes
I’m tired, tired, tired, tired
My anxiety soaring higher

Frictionless thoughts will slide past me
Rushing out with lightning speed
I will throw my net but it is torn
I am sick and I am worn out.

My thoughts are still
Beyond my will
Roaming about.

I hate that I love myself

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I hate that I love myself
Even when I can’t.
At me the looking glass gapes
With a shadow as lifeless
As the idol’s eyes in the temple
Looking straight beyond me
When I once used to pray

I hate that I look at the glass
Harder and harder
Trying to imagine myself into
An aesthetic self
A wise woman
A smiling soul
Bubbling with joy
With a contagious smile

I hate that I make myself believe
I need not be anyone else
My reflection is flawed but never me
Only the glass could be purer
Oh I couldn’t be surer

But I hate that I don’t love myself
As soon as my coerced conception
Breaks into pieces
The illusion shattering into shards of glass
Piercing me everywhere
And I’m back again

Stranded in the dark alley
Sitting with my knees bent
Drenching in the never ending rain.

Of cigarettes and ends

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When the blue sky drips down
And darkens into my hair
When my skin is sketched with human dust
I lie down on seas of grass.

Pearls flow out of my half-closed eyes
A gathering grows around me
Spectres and smoke-heavy souls
Touch my arm in a grey breeze

My demure lips part in peace
Closer to freedom than bliss.

Each time my mother lacked care
My father, love
Myself, hope
I sighed.
I blew out lukewarm images
Of the Ones Who Should Have Been.

They have come to visit me, finally,
A swarm of smoke enters my soul
Each whiff a companion
My heart is full.

Adieu

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Photo by Neal E. Johnson on Unsplash
Trailing down my arms 
Your breath takes a walk.
City noises swell slowly outside us
To welcome the day that’s just begun.

I look at you and my eyes announce
I am running away from you my love
I’ll never call you my jaan, my life,
You’ll never know why,
Perhaps neither do I.
 
I bask in your devilish smile
For one last time
One last touch
Before we die to each other
Your lean arms wrapped around me
I untie them
I free you.
 
I still see her in my dreams, honey.
I never tell you
How she smiles in them
How I forget all about how I hate her
Her eyes as big as a still lake
I wake up drowning in joy;
You embalm my lips in grinning kisses-
I cannot mouth the words
It's not you.
 
I never see you in my dreams
But I love you
But you love me
I hear you whispering my name
Your lips quivering in soft sleep
But I’m not coming back.
 
Don’t you worry, love,
Someone will fill the gap.

Tunnel Vision

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My heart is sinking faster than my breath
Red hot metal scraps tinkling like rain
Voices loom outside the tunnel
I've been inside so long,
Do I want to go out?

I could ask for help and shout
But my voice chokes with rage
I want a carnage
Every part of myself torn apart
Sticking to the walls like abstract art
In a room without a door.

Explosions inside my core
Fashion themselves into frail groans
Dissipating into sullen silences
Too misty to grasp too well
Once they leak outside
Into the circle of light.

There's no fight left in me
I become the tunnel
I am my shell
Scrape my remains
Into a putrid bowl of poetry.
You'll finally find me.

Revaluation

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Photo by Valentin Salja on Unsplash
If my memory was mapped with
Blood clots and muted screams
Would I be a patient, or a soldier?
If I were too tired 
To believe in dreams of victory
Should I march any further?

Angry tears facing the wall
I fall, I fall, I fall
Thudding my way down every night;
Rock bottoms and nondescript floors
Are so dangerously alike.

A part of me sings upbeat karaoke
Pauses for breath and asks me if I'm okay
(Forgive me the pun)
And I sing along, it's great
What's the use of wallowing in sadness?

If keeping away sorrow was enough
I'd still have a chance.
But you can't just dance the way
All your life. Aim! Aim!
Be on top of your game!
(I could rhyme this line with 'shame'
If I had it in me. Sorry.)

I am sorry, but perhaps I'm not.
The guilt for the absence of guilt I've got
Eats me inside when I imagine my life-
A cumbersome, crooked centipede of Time
Always ending up smashed into a fleshy patch
A huge footstep crashing down, down, down.

Or maybe I'll just be around
For pleasant winters and sultry summers
Gliding with peppy music
Perhaps I won't be sick.
I think I'll fight it.