Guest Blogs

Writing, to me has principally been an endless pursuit in isolation. However, sharing it in various platforms and building a cognitive association with other poets and writers through this act of sharing has always been a strong desire for me. As poets, writers, thinkers and artists, whether published or unpublished, we all stand united in our collaborative love for the written world.

In this spirit, I would like to add a new page to my blog, a page dedicated to guest blogs, inviting writing from my friends/fellow writers who would love to indulge in sharing poetry, stories, personal narratives and/or reflective pieces in this page.

January 11, 2015

I am extremely excited to introduce my fellow writer, blogger and poet Rhiti Bose from Bhubaneshwar, India as a guest contributor for the ‘Guests Blogs’ section of ‘Reflection, Ruminations and Illuminations’. Rhiti and I crossed paths in Facebook during 2013 and came closer through our shared journey with words. An avid blogger, a writer of short stories and poetry and also a mother, Rhiti is an inspiration for many. Having worked as an English trainer in Inlingua, Kolkata, and now a freelance writer, she has quite a number of publications to her credit, including her short story ‘Just One Glance’ published in the anthology ‘An Atlas of Love’ by Rupa Publishers, Kolkata.

Together with her friend Sulakshana Chatterjee, Rhiti has also been an editor of the portal/blog ‘Incredible Women of India’, which has showcased exceptional, unheard, true and inspirational stories of Indian women from all walks of life. Her blog ‘Scattered Thoughts of Mrs. Bose’ (http://rhitibose.wordpress.com/) is a wonderful medley of her reflective prose writing, stories, poetry, literary musings and personal recollections. She also blogs at http://rhitibose.blogspot.com/

It is a pleasure to introduce her poem ‘The Mutilated Goddess’ to the readers of my blog, which to me, is a fascinating journey, unfolding the true gift and essence of feminism.

The Mutilated Goddess

Once there was a great temple, built around me
Men prayed, asked for wishes to be fulfilled
Flowers, fruits, incense, candles
They showered me with things they thought would please me
Selfish, greedy, silly men.
Can you really buy a Goddess?
Can you really give her anything with your sick souls?

How can I grant them happiness?
When those hands folded in prayer
Goes home and hits his wife
Those eyes which were closed in devotion
Devours the bodies of women he sees.
The heart which asks for love, holds none for his mother.
How can I bless him?
When his black heart is full of his own selfish needs?

They realised, I was of no use.
I would never grant them any wish.
They stopped coming to my temple, abandoning me.
Mutilated my divine face
Now I live in peace in my ruined state, within the branches and leaves
No one comes to ask for anymore.

Men, silly men, wherever you go
Whatever you wish
It will never be fulfilled
Once you have hurt a Goddess
You will never rest in peace.

Copyright: Rhiti Bose. January 11, 2014

 

October 2, 2014

It is a moment of extreme pride and pleasure to introduce my first guest blogger for this page, my cousin sister Divya Chakraborty, a budding poet and writer whose poems, I think, are brimming with rich images and metaphors. Divya is also enrolled in a Master’s program in English literature at the University of Delhi, and has keen academic interests in literature and writing. My eyes fill up with joy and tears seeing her transform from a bubbly, talkative child to a woman of substance and creativity. Her poems contributed in my blog are inspired by the study of classic British literature, romantic poetry and feminism. The rest is for you to unfold, as you would read on!

The Love Song

It was a love song.
It went like,”Oh the queen of my heart, the relief to my pain…”
But in the end,
The lover killed his beloved Porphyria.

There lies Porphyria.
Beautiful in life.
Beautiful in death.
But alas! It’s the beauty of her body,
Her flawless skin.

Her lover strangled that
marble skinned throat.
Without a gasp, Porphyria left the mortal world.
Her lover is proud now.
Proud of Porphyria’s immortal beauty.
Beauty that he has preserved.

This pernicious bent of mind,
This necrophillic urge of domineering love,
Is it acceptable?
Or does it belie the sacrosanct nature of love?
Is it just about the lover’s desperation?
Desperation to perpetuate Porphyria’s beauty.

Obsessive love for beauty,
For this sheer immensity of appearance,
Its a dangerous possession.
Often bordering on narcissism.
The lover cannot but
Get over his love for self,
Often reflected on the beloved’s face.

This love for self
Knows no bounds.
Holds on to just
Fulfillment of carnivalesque desire.
Call it psychotic desire,
Or sadistic pleasure.
The lover accomplishes what it desires.
The beloved remains
But a corpse to be ravished.
Rather, a life to be destroyed,
Out of pure love.

 

The Woman

If it were to be a tragedy,
Let me not partake in it.
Let me not be the wailing female,
That serves but a menial role.
For it takes away more than sees the eye.

Christ and Satan have both stood their ground.
Let Eve now behold her awe.
Let Porphyria now avenge her honour.

Ages have passed,
So have civilizations.
The deep-rooted manacles persist yet,
Pulling down the likes of Cleopatra and Helen.

A pretty face and adorned body,
This corroded interpretation of beauty,
This femme fatale is tried too many times,
In the courtrooms of so many protectors of law and order.
Let there now be another hearing.
Let there now be another custodian of order.
Let the definition of order be put to test.
Let disorder for once take the lead.

For order and subversion have always allied like brothers.
Let now anarchy and liberty take the baton forward.
Let the kings now be aroused,
From the deep slumber.
Let it not be a lullaby this time,
But the echo of war cry.

Let the spartan spirit awaken,
But let Lysistrata lead on.
Let Draupadi pick up the bow now,
Let the fairer sex fight her own battle,
And let her struggle to win.

No more sympathy,
No more consoling,
Let tears flow their course,
Let them dry to become force.
For its a tragedy like this
That I want be told.
Enough of voiceless presence.
Let the tragedy of strength begin at the new dawn.

Copyright: Divya Chakraborty. October 2, 2014


			

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