Ode to the Incredible Woman

pic of housewife

Incredible woman you are,

Your silken tresses, your fragrance

Wafting like a cascading reverie.

Incredible woman, your man molds you

In the clay of his lust, as you tug

At his bare chest, his eyes, tongue

Drooling at the artwork of your neck,

The symmetry, the swelling,

The soft petals of your curves.

 

Incredible woman, the sure remnants

Of testosterone smatter your crimson lips

In the clingy dark, the lipsticked pout,

Peeled, laid bare, slain…

Your satin smile, your starched sari

Striving to sugar-coat

The nights’ roaring darkness.

 

Why do you flounce in lacey delight,

Incredible woman? The glittering waves

Of your curves beneath your saffron drapes

Explode and diminish, as you construct

And deconstruct your own saga of love

In charred, burnt out days, nights.

The seedling of your love,

The living skeleton of bruises, gashes, submerged.

 

Incredible woman, did the verdant young lad

Of your dreams let you bloom for once,

A flower, a bird, a sea song,

When you too were young?

Did the red flame of your body nurse

An eager, lovelorn soul?

 

Incredible woman, in the nights

You lay bare, the flame, gripped, grouched,

The dreamy love became a bluff.

Krishna, the daughter of Panchal

Had lost her heart to Arjuna.

But, what did even the losing mean?

The ebbing, swelling, crushing of the waves

Lapped up by five men, calling themselves ‘husbands’?

 

Bit by bit, the beautiful virgin vessel

Dresses up, one molecule, and the next,

The ‘padmini’, ‘the shankhini’, ‘the tilottama’,

Trampled and stripped off, bleeding

In the roaring, cussing assembly of men.

The Sati, the Sita, submitting, being the pawn

Mopping up the mud and dirt

Of male vanity and viciousness.

 

Incredible woman, did your man,

Your eternal Sakha, your paramour,

Your Mohan in Vrindavan tempt you,

Nibble on you, evade you, wrong you?

Twirl and swirl around him in your shringar.

In the dense maze of your being,

Twisted and coiled, he will be undone,

As you have been, for long.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Color Mélange

 

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Image source: eresaw.deviantart.com

In the dim light of the night
My window bleeds black, blue and grey.
The world, in the other end, a super-imposed medley.
My bare form, a silhouetted memoir, swooning slowly,
I lay, thickly drift, on the spears and barren thorns
Of my red. I descend upon the day’s end,
The red presses upon the bare night’s flesh,
A threat, an aberration, a desperation
Singing all alone, growing wild, and free.

My body breathes in vignettes and haikus
Trapped in cracked, ashen mirrors,
Red, the primordial burst screams,
Falters, dies out, slowly, surreptitiously.
Pink, the color of my labor, swelling,
Crashing against my womb,
Blue, the color of my dried up scars,
Scattered into dust; purple, the color of
The gaping hole where I thicken, and disintegrate.

In soft, little sips, the colors have floated around
Wicked lilies, pretty girls prancing,
Pining, tickling, toying around.
My window bleeds in the nameless darkness,
The rough silk of the night thumping, toxic, piercing.

The world in the other end burns slowly in the flames.
The colors, chiming, pirouette in the faint, flickering light.
I am loving the dead undone of my shringar
A dark brown, fading in the litter-laden night.

Copyright: Lopa Banerjee. March 17, 2015