Issue 1 : Nov 2014

Editor’s Note

The Woman Inc Poetry Project has been a very satisfying experience so far. We have grown slowly but steadily. While some are already well-honed voices, there are some fledgling ones that are sprouting first wings. Very proud of both, and very pleased to announce this, our first issue.

Art by Smriti Sangal
http://www.smritisangal.com

Three Poems by Anu Mahadev

Autumn

It will not be far now, that silent snow’s
coruscation veiling your windowpane,

wavering light falling like voile threads,
chroma intersecting with a profusion

of clustered shades. I watch the stream
of passing faces on the glinting mirror

in the alcove, untouched. Your bracelet,
string of jasmine flowers, withered beyond

repair, an ornate vermilion box, gathering
dust. Saris folded with mothballs lapsing

into tarnished stupor, their silken threads
fighting the signs of aging. The present

has dissolved, you are the catalyst. These
bright silver linen sheets witnessing this

gradual decay, defy no more. It is still
too early, the cornucopia of scarlet, bronze,

crimson, cyan replacing chlorophyll with
carotene, this unreadable cipher of color.

As for now the season holds nothing but
dwindling promise of the last, hourglasses

tip over, times change, diminishing unspoken
hopes. Butterscotch glowing leaves console

me with their fiery hues, fire in their veins,
frost covering this vivid mauve carpet.

You emerge, drape this drab terrain.
Your foliage remains unchanged.

Author’s Note : This poem is dedicated to my MIL who passed away earlier this year. Last October, around the time fall was at its peak here and in Vermont, where we were vacationing, is when we got the news that she had been diagnosed with liver cancer. I see her every time a leaf falls, and the season changes. I keep her tethered to me this way.

The dancing girl of Mohenjo-daro

She sits on a parapet, red sandstone in her blood
Watches the tulsi plant in the center of the courtyard.

Rain-streaked spots spatter around her, ricochet
off her impervious skin. Jasmine petals flutter

onto her bronzed fingers, scar them with burns.
Bangles size up her arms, a sense of urgency

clasps them to her papery wrists. In the sky
the clouds wring out the last drops of monsoon,

sponge it clean. Water mixes with the muddy
gully, carves its guilty ravines on her wet palms.

Its that time again. For silver anklets to dance
on uneven floors, for the sun to sink into the Indus.

She scrawls her name in paddy fields, hangs her hopes
on mango branches, braids her hair with flowers.

Its time for fireflies to hiss in the crypt of her heart.

Author’s Note : I imagine what it would be like to be one of the dancing girls of Mohenjo-daro, to be her in real life. Yes, it is based on the archaeological find of the figurine and it led me to ponder what her life then must have been like.

Mistress of Hearts

I’m busy. I hold myself up with tape and glue
each day. You rip me apart each night. I wish
you were made of papier-mâché too, you would
then rustle in my hands, crumble at my touch.
I tear off the stars in the sky, darn them into you
and drape you like a quilt. One that vanishes every
morning. This poem drifts in, with the poet. It takes
one look at the discarded drafts on carbon copies.
Yes, I don’t exist within the realms of these words
any more. The poem does not reside in me. Maybe
you do. If this is what it takes to make you write
one-liners to me, I must stop. The alarm clock tears
us apart, while I hurry to suture us together. I’m awake.
Awake in your bed. I know, this is all just a dream.

My typewriter sits at the escritoire, menacingly cold.
I pour your empty words into it. It whispers through my icy fingers.

And I wish, for once, I could just parade you
out in the open, like this poem. Till then I remain,
mistress of hearts, with the writer’s block.

Author’s Note: Mistresses are women too. They have normal lives for the most part, one would not spot them in a crowd, but only they know what secret they keep. I wanted to try writing one from their point of view.

Two Poems by Lopa Bannerjee

Red: Withering, Flickering

A red stream dances in the folds between my lips
Often cracked, chapped, gliding like a boat
Holding remnants of untold tales and washed out desire.
I have bid adieu to the crimson flowers
Of long-lost calf love, dancing, dangling,
Sailing in thirsty kisses of the summer morn.
My body burns up in flame, in my tattered lips
Fury holds me in his embrace. The lipstick
Is an illusion of poignant tales of romance.
In the peeled, dark tissues of my skin,
A red river flows like an endless, sacred journey.
I slip down in her arms, blown away,
Knocked down by her silken ripples.
I go down the river as I listen to her laugh loud,
I listen to her unveil, mock my long torn pages
Of amorous, blushing beauty.
I dance, I let the river run. I am still a delicious nymph,
Quivering, tender, disrobed. My lips, they are
Faltering, withering, reckless, flickering like candlelight,
In dim light, they still whisper the treason of love.

Author’s Note: I wrote this poem as a response to one of the weekend writing prompts in The Woman Inc Poetry Project’s Facebook group. The images in the prompt, ‘red’, ‘lipstick’, ‘river’ tempted me to write this poem and I am extremely happy to present this poem as a dedication to us women, our physical and inner beauty and our unwavering quest for passion.

Purveyors of Sin

Purveyors of sin, let me close my eyes and drift off to my own shadows.
The sun doesn’t have enough radiance for this crescent night to fade away.
You pounce on my blindfolded body, lusting over my flesh,
Your filth, saliva and masculinity trickling down my skin,
Skittering across my face.
I am a maimed, deformed corpse, an unrecognizable mass
That you trample away in the blinding traffic of the day.
In the dark, thick smoke of death,
The world will come to mourn my impending doom,
Snip me of my pride, screams and sobs ripping up the air.
Whom will I tell that not my body, not my female organs,
But my heart, my being, my conscience
Has been dug into, cut open, beaten up?
I lay hapless and worn, the scars in my soul
Infected with the germs of your horrendous crimes,
Falling off the precipice of your lustful minds.
Let my wordless mouth shut by your filthy, hurtful hands
Plunge from this deep, dark abyss
To a world of light and sanity,
Where I can reach out and shout.
I need to shout and give vent to my scars,
I need to pour out like a rainbow in pain.
I need to dance again in the radiance of the sun,
I need to bleed again, as the wounds seep into me.
Purveyors of sin, cut me open, and crush me again,
In the deadly alleys of the night.
I am but a dissected wound, lying on this cold bed of humanity,
Pounce upon me again, in the ignorant darkness of your lust.

Author’s Note: This poem is a prelude to my essay exploring the theme of rape and sexual abuse in India, which has been published in ‘Incredible Women of India’. Through it, I attempt to be one of the collective voices of desperation against the ruthless sexual violence perpetrated on women, being a sister to their wounds.

Two Poems by Monica Oswal

तुम

आज तुम फिर वही उन अक्षरों के बीच आ पहुंचे हो
जहां तुमने मुझे जन्म लेने को
तड़पते देखा था
नाल काटी थी जिसने
वो तुम्हारे ही तो सशक्त हाथ थे
बिन कम्पन के उठे रूदन को
तुमने ही तो वहीं पर
पीठ हौले से थपथपा कर स्वर दिए थे
पहना दिया था लिबास नीली स्याही का
एक उघड़े थरथराते जिस्म को
और मर्यादा का उसे नाम दिया था
चीर कर दसों उंगलियाँ अपनी
भावों के लहू से तिलक किया था
उँगलियों की शिराओं में
उफन उठा था जोश तब
शहद नही तुमने जब, पर
कुछ स्वर रख दिए थे उनकी जुबां पर
और एक शगुन की थैली वार दी थी
सर पर से जिसमे
जाने कितने व्यंजन खनक रहे थे
वाक्यों से लबालब
दो शुक्रगुजार होंठ हौले से हिले थे पर
तुम पन्नों के हाशियों से परे कहीं सरक गये थे
न्योछावर कर गये थे जीवन एक
और अर्धविराम लगाये
तुम लुप्त हो गये थे
आज जब मैं पूर्ण विराम पर
हाँफ कर दम लेने रुकी हूँ
तो तुम अन्तर्यामी
फिर मुझे खोजते वही उन अक्षरों
का आशीर्वाद देने आ पहुंचे हो
तुम्हारे ‘आयुष्मान भव ‘ से मैं थक सी अब गई हूँ
संयुक्त वाक्य बन कर साँस लेना है अब
इन मन की भाषाओं का सफर
अब और एकाकी तय नहीं होता..

Author’s Note: This is a poem very close to my heart. It came to me in a flow and is addressed to the energy which makes me write.

Old Man Tree

Between the palms of his gnarled hands,
the old man gathers fallen leaves,
tucks them neatly in his tattered ruck sack,.
The wasted leaves murmur to him,
Almost deaf yet
he hears them
and with his cataract ridden foggy eyes
hushed them with a
glassy stare.
No words are needed,
they understand each other.

But like eager children,
they rustle more
within his tattered rucksack.
Impatient to speak their pain
to the old man in his tattered clothes.
All he does is
sigh.
Forgetting come easy,
forgiving is so tough.
We lived and are spent
to be shed off
Can bygones be really bygones?
After all we are just carbon.

Author’s Note: When I wrote this, I could feel the connection between the old man and the wasted leaves. They are so full of stories but nobody to hear them out. They are no longer considered of any value.

Three Poems by Alka Shingwekar

I Miss You

And I miss you so.
The way you looked at me
Mocking laughter at something I said.
As you knew before I did
That I lied.
In simple vanity
When I stepped too far from me
Surrounded by success and praise
Compliments turning my head.
I knew when I was ready
To be me, you would be there
And we would sit on the ledge
With moon as witness
Talk of things far beyond us.
I could believe..
Anything!
Even my own goodness
Possibilities as numerous
As the sequined stars laid out on velvet skies.
Every road led to more
Precarious journeys in store
And life would be mine to choose.
And I miss who I was.
With you.

Author’s Note: I miss the person I used to be – trusting, more comfortable with my emotions, hopeful. I had a friend who changed me by the way she believed in me. We would sit on her window ledge and talk all night.

In Memory (Of a Friend)

Mother mine, you know, I danced on stage today,
With all my dearest closest friends.
We wore the prettiest skirts, in silken sway,
Dearest mother mine, and you know what? Then
The music had a steady beat,
Precious mother mine, just like your heart,
The bells we wore wound around our feet
Rang loud so even though we’re apart,
Right at the end, we turned round and round,
And then, mother mine, you know what I made them do?
Spun so fast, our feet left the ground,
Our hands raised up as though to touch you.
Mother mine, if you won’t mind,
Can I please, oh please just this once say
I know you watch over me all the time
But I really wish you were here with me today.

Author’s Note: A friend passed away three years ago now, her daughters the same ages as my own. As an immigrant, I was heartbroken, this loss seemed like the worst nightmare, my children left alone in an alien nation. And for the last three years I have watched as they have grown, the Indian community gathered around! And felt comforted even though I know nothing we do can make up for losing their mother, but still I wanted them to know they were not forgotten or abandoned.

Ask the Stars

What is true peace? I asked the stars, my old friends,
How do you look so serene, so softly spoken?
Admired and desired by all the the people below?
Distance, they said, we are so very far away you know.
From the ones who love us, and those so dear
We burn eternally, consumed by unholy fire.
Distance, you see, can mask almost anything,
Silence between, darkness of absolutely nothing.
What is true charity? I asked the gentle river flowing by,
You do so much good always! She softly sighed,
Give and move on, don’t stop to watch,
Close eyes and ears, don’t expect much back.
Don’t ask how your life blood was taken and used,
Don’t stop to think how much was wasted or abused.
Even as you lose your clean, your strength, your being,
Move on, don’t stop, just keep flowing.
What is real support? I asked the earth,
You give us everything we need, everything of worth.
With a failing voice, faltering and parched
Crumbling to dust, all she could do was dryly laugh.
You lay quietly below, and know you will be trod upon,
Each day take air and water and create life anon,
Yield the riches in your heart so they can adorn
Frivolous feuds for money, here today and tomorrow gone.

Author’s Note: I lost my connection with the charitable foundation with which I was associated, and my friend told me to have faith and fight for what is important. To let go of expectations and not stop my own efforts because others failed to live up to my illusions.

Three Poems by Subhashini Koundinya

The Scribe

Hastily I scribble my name at the end,
Claiming for my own,
This gift bestowed,
That almost everyday ,
You send my way,
This new pattern in a kaleidoscope,
How you toss up the words
And let them fall
To reveal new patterns and hues,
To answer many a unspoken call,
I gather onto myself each design
Tack my name onto them and creativity feign,
To furtively claim as my own,
And not give credit where it is due,
And all glory onto you,
Who am I , to deign to describe,
Your beauty, your creation,
I am, but your humble scribe.

Author’s Note: This poem describes what I often feel about the poems that come to me. I often feel that I am less of a poet and more of a spigot , through whom poetry flows sometimes .Just my small way of understanding the creative process.

Premonition of beauty

We waited with mounting excitement,
This bundled, shivering,gaggle of tourists,for the awaited moment
Cameras at the ready, to capture,
What the brochures,had promised was a moment,of rapture,
This daily occurrence,of the sun rise,the first light,
That was usually greeted, with eyes shut tight,
First the bowl of the valley filled with golden light
The body tingled at this glorious sight,
The tree tops acquired a new gild , glowed afire,
To see that giver of light, every fibre burned with desire,
The wait , the expectation ,I felt would reveal vast booty,
Waited with bated breath,with a premonition of great beauty,
Till the glorious sun did rise now,
To reflect magical colors off the great peak opposite ,covered in snow,
That beauty, which in my mind, was a inkling dim,
Laid bare, to experience, in the presence of him.

Author’s Note: This poem came to me thinking of a trip to Darjeeling, that we took when I was in my eighth standard. It was one of the most beautiful trips, I remember with many magical moments.This particular poem describes the sunrise at Tiger hill.

Comforted

I carried a troubled mind and a heavy heart to the trail,
But the wind whispered solace through the falling leaves,
The river gurgled with mirth and reminded of happy moments past,
And the last golden rays of a setting sun, kissed away my tears with the promise of a brighter tomorrow,
And in that still split-second, encompassing eons,
I sought and found refuge in you, O Mother
And returned home comforted.

Author’s Note: This is one of my first poems. Poetry came to me at a time when I was going through a low phase and has has been therapeutic. I often go for a walk to a green way by the river near our home, where this poem first came to me and leaves me comforted.

Three Poems by Anupama Maheshwari

वो कह भी गए, हम रह ही गए

वो कह भी गए, हम रह ही गए, और नहीं सह पाएंगे
कभी जितने ऊँचे बिठा गए, उतने नीचे ढह जाएंगे
थी बिजली अपनी बातों में, नैनों में सागर बसता था
सावन अपने ही कहने पे तब थमता और बरसता था
न बादल है, न बिजली है, न बारिश की उम्मीद कोई
गुम हो जैसे मरुस्थल में, मिलने की न तरक़ीब कोई
ऐसे हम उनसे खोये हैं, खुद को भी मिल ना पाएंगे
वो कह भी गए, हम रह ही गए… और नहीं सह पाएंगे
कभी जितने ऊँचे बिठा गए, उतने नीचे ढह जाएंगे
पत्थर से ठोकर खाए हैं, अब खुद बुत बनकर खड़े यहाँ
कितने ही हमसे टकराते हैं, आते-जाते, यहाँ-वहाँ
कोई छूता है तो दर्द नहीं, आभास नहीं, एहसास नहीं
न भूख है हमको जीने की, मरने की भी है प्यास नहीं
मरते-मरते ही जी लेते, जीते जी अब मर जाएंगे

वो कह भी गए, हम रह ही गए, और नहीं सह पाएंगे
कभी जितने ऊँचे बिठा गए, उतने नीचे ढह जाएंगे

Author’s Note: It meant a great deal when I wrote this and it still has a strong emotional hold on me. I have discovered that poetry works as an amazing tool for me to fight back, to tolerate, to come out of something. It acts as a pain reliever when love and life hits hard. This poem has worked the same. I spilled the emotions and felt light right away.

कुछ तो कमी है जीवन में

कुछ तो कमी है जीवन में
हाँ, कुछ तो ग़मी है हर दिन में

खुद से खुद की जंग है ये
मन सब पाकर भी तंग है ये
घर बैठे आराम नहीं
बाहर जाना आसान नहीं
गुज़रा वक़्त न फिर आये
हर आता लम्हा घबराए
वर्तमान कितना छोटा है
इतने में बस क्या होता है
मन तो कल में फंसा हुआ है
समस्याओं में धँसा हुआ है
छोटी ख़ुशी, तकलीफ बड़ी है
दुनिया किसको पूरी पड़ी है!

जब धूप सुहानी लगती है
तब छाँव की इच्छा जगती है
बस बैठे-बैठे सोच रही
और गई सुबह, दोपहर गई!

फिर शाम पड़े बच्चे आये
सोचा उनको सिखलाऊँ
पर वो तो समझ नहीं पाते
इस जग को परख नहीं पाते
उनका अपना वेदांत अलग है
जीने का सिद्धांत अलग है

न कल की फ़िक्र, न कल की चिंता
वो आज को पल-पल जीने वाले
आज का अमृत पीने वाले
चारों पहर वो एक से रहते
खाते-पीते, हँसते-गाते
एक समय में एक ही करते
उससे अपना पूरा मन भरते
नहीं बँधे वो किसी डोर से
कहाँ खिंचे हैं किसी ओर से

मैं ही यहाँ हूँ, और वहां भी
वो तो बस अपने पल में हैं
उनका जीवन सरलमय है
न आशा की परिभाषा मानें
न अपेक्षा- अभिलाषा जानें
उनकी निष्ठा बस उस पल से
क्या करना है उनको कल से
आज-अभी जो बीत रहा
पल वो उनको जीत रहा

खुद पर उनका विश्वास अलग है
दुःख-सुख का एहसास अलग है
न उनका हँसना-रोना झूठा
जो अखियों से मोती छूटा
दिल तो फिर भी कभी ना टूटा
क्षणिक अश्रुओं की वर्षा है
जो पल बदला, वो भी बदले
रोते-रोते पल में संभले
फिर साथ मिला तो भूल गए
और नए पलों में झूल गए
वो क्या समझें कल की मुश्किल को
उनको जीना अपने पल-पल को

मैं ही करती हिसाब बराबर
ढूँढा करती जवाब बराबर
छुप के हंसती, छुप के रोती
फिर जब-तब मन चाहे कहती
“हाँ, कुछ तो कमी है जीवन में
हाँ, कुछ तो ग़मी है हर दिन में!”

Author’s Note: I have tried to compare our complex mental state as adults to that of children’s simpler being. I have closely observed children’s everyday with life and how easily they live each day to find complete satisfaction in simple pleasures of life whereas we struggle hard each time to attain one day of contentment.

इश्क़ का वजूद है!

हमने तो समझा, हम हसीं लाजवाब हैं
मय हैं, माशूक़ हैं, आशिक़ मिज़ाज हैं!
फिर जो मोहब्बत से मुलाक़ात हो गई,
खुद पे जो नाज़ था, उसकी रात हो गई!

हमारी है मिसाल क्या, हम भला क्या चीज़ हैं!
खिलती बहारों में अदना सा बीज हैं!

फ़िज़ाओं में आकर्षण, हवाओं में रूप है
मिट्टी में रंग हैं, सार है, स्वरुप है
उषा में लालिमा है, सूरज में तेज है
बादलों की पालकी, आसमां की सेज है
पंछियों में गान है, ऊंची उड़ान है
फूलों में इत्र है, दिलकश सौंदर्य है
मोगरे में गुथे जो, मीठी वो महक है
चाँदनी में उठे जो, कैसी वो कसक है!
सितारों में शाम है, हसरतों का जाम है,
प्यास है, बेचैनी है, हलचल तमाम है!

रुमानियत की हमसे, न हस्ती है, न जान है!
शोखियों से, मस्तियों से, ज़रा सी पहचान है!

देख देख इनको हम ताज्जुब, हैरान हैं
मुक़म्मल मोहब्बत है, हुस्न का तो नाम है!

Author’s Note: This one is very close to my heart. It connects me to the beauty outside, to the extreme works of art and nature, and then also puts my own self into perspective. The pride that I carry, beauty that I hold, it is all so relative. Love and romance take the lead each time.

Poem by Pallavi Kwatra

The Taboos of Proximity

On an unexpected day,
When all was the perfect setting for love,
You and I met.
The heart was in delight,
And the bodies in ecstasy, for discovery.
A long wait had preluded
This impending communion.
The words had brought us this far.
But now, they served no more.
A new journey awaited us
Where knowing would take new forms.
The boundaries had now to dull,
And the fences pulled down.
The beauty of love
Now seeked newer dimensions.
The wrinkle on your forehead
Was a UN invited guest.
Where was the place of worry?
When love flourished all around?
In deep contemplation, you spoke
In words that choked on tears.
You had been struck, unalarmed
By the taboos of proximity.
Love has a strange silent strength
Even when it seems fragile like a flower.
And with the patience of a saint.
I declared that I’d wait
Until the pangs would famish and wither
To the rains of my love.

Author’s Note: Love moves at it’s own sacred pace and sometimes lovers might not be prepared for intimacy at the same point of time. But, this short write up peeps into the grace with which love waits in patience and grace.