Life in the water
1.
This game takes place under the sea.
Life in life, water in water.
And one does not know how to tell
loyalty from treachery,
Or love from the act of multiplying.
2.
Fattery , tenderness, hanging around
near the loved one
circling the friend in magical dance-acts,
coquettish allures and poses
these are not particularly humane
everything began long time back
in the vast expanse of the world of living things.
I understand this,
struck by the stances of love dance
Performed by the sea horse couple
3.
There is a shark named Carpet Shark
With a spotty body in golden, brown,
black and white
The way he behaves with his darling,
the way he holds her by the throat
Is familiar.
Could love be better this way ?
4.
In the world of beings,
our birth has been in the water
In the beginning
Just as the starfish lives,
the jellyfish lives,
the seahorse, the shark
the ova hang by the gelatinous sacks
from the plants under the sea
And we remember our fetus birth,
oceanous, floating, coiled up, primitive
The glass paperweight
In the lonely room, the woman’s hand moves, seeking pleasure.
The glass sphere was on the table:
she takes it up and feels it.
Something so heavy, round and smooth can be so good.
Comforting, too.
She feels lonely.
She feels hungry.
A pincushion or a spice-box, or anything longish, smooth
She has tried to derive
from these earlier,
but how long one can stick to
Just a shape?
The truth, the ultimate is not in the shape.
Then one could have done with the real thing.
The real thing does not suffice.
So in the lonely room, all day long
The hand searches for a comforting, alternative thing.
And at last the glass sphere is found.
Dotted in colors inside.
Inside : extremely good.
Heavy, round, smooth, seamless - so good.
And the woman starts living for the ultimate pleasure, again.
In the darkness
Who do you live with, in the darkness, you selfish, lonely girl ?
Which face do you seek , burning a teeny light, in the darkness?
Burning the smallest candle, who is it you make love with
Under the pillow : scribble scribble : what do you hide?
In the darkness, you shift the pillow
and put your hand, your pen Just in the right place,
and keep it there, touching the letters, don’t move
Once you take it off, you will forget the start and the finish
All the lines will jumble up :
well , I was never in line!
In the darkness , at your side,
the one who is sleeping is Buddha, Shiva and Jesus
Still you are a wench … you are irreligious, hungry, a fallen girl
You take pleasure in yourself, your pen shivers, you take pleasure alone,
and keep your partner in the dark
Oh GOd, please forgive all my sins,
this dangerous passion of writing poetry
In the darkness, in a stealthy notebook ….
Sh..sh..sh..my sweetheart is sleeping by my side!
The Wombspeak
Nobody knows how I clogged myself up
Like those redtaped files of the mean guys
In the offices
This darkness shaped like a pot,
and this pot steeped in darkness
About it everything was pinned and stapled
those “notings” torn, what was inside has come out into the open
And now I speak of myself
In gushes
now I vomit
All the unborn fetuses of your children…
2
a sob has knotted up in my throat
and you call that sob ‘blood’
all the pipes, black pipes are screwed up in rage
and you thought that is a flow problem
if you touch me there will be a sluicing
you can hardly manage
as much cotton wool you stuff in here
as much rags you keep on stuffing
you cannot stop the scream
3
I am only a womb.
I leave this mark
Behind.
Abandon all other identities.
my blood now trickles down in this world of dust
I have seen the blood of the queen.
All other visions are in vain.
All other achievements Become dust unto dust …
my brains, my thoughts
All my stories are held now in this womb-like lore
All the women are now held on this string
One womb holds hands with another womb.
my womb now competes with my granny’s ,
and loses my womb now asks for a conception
as a loan from my mom’s
my womb is now pledging to all successful wombs
my education, erudition and everything I treasured.
Each lost embryo, each abortion
slowly turns me into a repenting womb.
4
one womb had conceived eight times
and all eight times , they said it was a "successful delivery"
the other womb, only once.
First womb (1901-1999), that of the granny
Second womb (1965- ) that of the granddaughter .
Now, on the tenth and eleventh days of every month
The second womb weeps for her
Unborn children.
Now, after every wilful termination and unplanned abortion,
The second womb is
Dejected
Tired
Anemic.
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