Why crave that random
love, when we have
this Self-Love.
Is there not a dignity, in
claiming the love which
is ours and belongs
to us.
Author: Tanya'sopinion
A teacher by profession, a poet by heart and a traveler by love
Poison
Metamorphosis
I grew up beyond the grey walls….
Walls that changed hues under varied spells,
mama would strictly keep me inside.
The thick silver parapets adorned tiny holes,
black ashen specks from where I marveled
at the cruel oddity of the world.
A faded sepia of Papa hung at a crooked
angle-tilted towards outside,shadowing
other picture-frames.
The grim monsoons brought spree of life
stamping on foundations of boundless
hedge, spreading its tentacles…
Vile serpentine vines of bougainvillea invaded
sacred space, by keeping me in restraints
stealthily crawling into me.
I see scaly lizards licking the swollen damp
crusts of the walls, that now turned
purplish hue, squeaking hushly;
“papa zedes, papa zedes
papa zedes, papa zedes”
Terrified of clicking sounds,every monsoon
I meticulously filled up fissures with
Papa’s old black and whites.
Once smacked across the sugar face smiling,
I always beamed when I sobbed inside,
tongue at loss of words….
I covered the last fissure with the only picture
I had of Papa.
Forever barricading myself with-in walls, I
metamorphosed into silver, a mass of
cemented blood in concrete limbs.
Fortifying myself of the lingering echoes…
“papa zedes, papa zedes
papa zedes, papa zedes”
Happy Girls 😃
Misery can’t transform
curves of smiles into straight lines,
because I simply love being happy.
I’ve a thing in my life for myself.
There are occasional miserable
men but mostly, it’s the colourful women
and only women around.
Maryln, Rita, Greta all abound.
For Audrey and I know happy girls
are the prettiest girls.
Countdown For The Day
Morning sun shone
in its full glory.
Coffee quarrels
and stiff body.
in its full glory.
Coffee quarrels
and stiff body.
Artificial catnap,
guess sleep-aid pills;
again did it’s wonder.
Neighbor’s black poodle,
Vanity lazing on mosaic porch
Lusting a blooming orchid
licking edges of master’s fingers…
Spray roses with no
fragrance hung neatly
in cheap Edwardian vase
on a yellowish marble mantle
Incoherent gibberish bla bla
of quirky Morning shows
incredulous laughter
delinquent sarcasms
Countdown begins
midst sips of sooty coffee.
Quality of life measured by
barrage of human folly…
The Black Art by Anne Saxton
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
Madam Giselle’s Pride
“Makeupum Divina lipstickum
Hail Oh, scentum , perfumee lios
Goddess Stilettum que sara sara”
Madam Giselle woke up to one glorious afternoon,
and damn those long-long lashes stretching little
over than the river Nile. Sparkling stilettos towering
way above the heights of the leaning Towers of Pisa!
…
Having Insight 24 inches waist Madam stretched her back,
skillfully squeezed her belly to adorn golden Victorian
corset, but it wasn’t to be easy for Gods have conspired and
were hell bent to bring down the penniless heiress from the
25 floor Ivory Castle.
…
As madam painted her face white with crushed powders of
corals from the far-off Gulfs in the fashions of Japanese Geisha
Fluttered fake lashes, ostentatious snobbish smiles extending
little more than her chiseled jaws, heavily armored with
French powder and perfumes.
…
All the effort to slay any man who dare to passed by, hurriedly made
her way through the narrow allies of apartment suit in a
perpendicular fashion to avoid crushing her precious creases.
Oh so much pride, such high vanity, but she is indeed a beauty!
…
Tragedy fell upon! A loud thunder as heavens roared
heels cracked the sparkling Stilettos fell apart before her careful
gaze giving way to the bare ankles. It was to be the
first omen,
…
Acrimonious beings floating fluttering in air laughing,
giggling; a loud thunder & descended million unwelcome
tiny crystal droplets, soaking the kohl smudged eyes
cascading into pools of black waters….
…
“Why it had to happen to me” ,cried Madam Giselle
Was my crime to be in vain or was it just a naive disdain?
For tell me folks is
little pride bad for a woman of my type?
The Greater Tragedy Than Oedipus
Tragic Oedipus wandered blind
In the bazaars of colorful Athens
crimson blood oozing out
from hollowed eyes.
Cursing gods
for his fate so harsh
carrying shame of
copulation with mother.
Strong guilt sits heavy
for slaying, his own father.
Roaming from street to street
Asking same question,
“Why was I the chosen one”
Begotten out of the cursed
Womb of Jocasta
Doomed by abhorrent
act of Laius
In self pity and gloating
had he forgotten of the
little boy sodomized
Shame horror
subsequent death
Chrysippus condemned
for acts of evil that men commit
for which naive boys
and girls pay heavy price
In his misfortune did he
think of young Chrisypuss
dishonored , violated.
Did he not ponder upon
wickedness that men carry
atrocities for which many
Young ones are robbed
Of single drop of dignity.
In the bazaars of colorful Athens
crimson blood oozing out
from hollowed eyes.
Cursing gods
for his fate so harsh
carrying shame of
copulation with mother.
Strong guilt sits heavy
for slaying, his own father.
Roaming from street to street
Asking same question,
“Why was I the chosen one”
Begotten out of the cursed
Womb of Jocasta
Doomed by abhorrent
act of Laius
In self pity and gloating
had he forgotten of the
little boy sodomized
Shame horror
subsequent death
Chrysippus condemned
for acts of evil that men commit
for which naive boys
and girls pay heavy price
In his misfortune did he
think of young Chrisypuss
dishonored , violated.
Did he not ponder upon
wickedness that men carry
atrocities for which many
Young ones are robbed
Of single drop of dignity.
Computer Dementia
My little lippo lappy
has missed passwords
and emails again ,
I feel this computer business
is nothing but in vain.
Yearn those days of Camelot
when paper and pen were
still a thing…
Now the screen is all blink blink,
I guess my heart will sink.
Little lippo lappy hurts like a bee-sting.
Mad Man
Sorcerer he imagined days of virtuosity
those hours of maniac creativity.
Ladies and only ladies objected to his mighty chicken;
but never a ladies man, he was a bloke
Now as his mind became flat with hay
and ethered breaths as he lay.
Pancing back and forth in strange darkness,
gazed at the sky full of moons in naked starkness.
Mother stood in embellished wedding frock,
a chalky dream, it was never to be a cakewalk.
Midst cat droppings, and shattered dreams
he wished to defile a flower again.
But he was nothing but a Mad Man