Mad-Method

Polonius said of Hamlet-  Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.

A frenzied flurry of pain,

Follow the same old pattern,

Jump from one blood vessel to another-

Bursting each open.

Faces move past in a blur, like streetlights through the window of a speeding car.

It’s the first step I take every time.

Second, I pause at each face.

I am belted on to the driver’s seat, my left foot on the brake.

A maddening reluctance to feel safe, a desire to fall step by step,

Into a dark abyss of repetition. Of methodical heartbreak every time.

Like scientific results of frenzied experiments.

Maddening results repeated every time.

Who evades the fall? I ask.

Those who speed past faces…fall into an unimaginably circular habit,

Of not falling at all.

And some

Keep going back and forth

To new faces and old,

New faces and old.

Because human actions are a methodical folly-

Repeated in circles and circles more.

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Wound

No doctor, you can’t fathom the

Depth of this wound which,

Runs through my soul and

The blood smeared ball of muscle with

Cylindrical passages,

Both of which carry deoxygenated blood.

I have little hope from,

You, and the philanthropists who,

Offer to stitch my heart severed into two.

No doctor, I don’t doubt that,

You can’t heal my wound and

Also, a local anaesthesia wouldn’t do.

 

Via Daily Post: Local

Pain Pastiche

Snow skin, soft voice,

A frame so petite,

Light steps and shy smiles,

I’m branded beautiful.

But a tug at my reverie, it snaps!

Shards of illusion scattered around,

I am just a black woman,

A thick, heavy, dark, Negro Woman.

So you hate me and beat me,

Starve and enslave me,

But take my loathed body,

Watch me numb my soul, and give in completely.

Purple bruises blend perfectly,

I am blasé to all pain,

My dreams smother in despair,

And wash away in tears which dry…

But I write about waterfalls,

Paint bright pink flamingos,

All in my mind’s canvas,

‘Cause black women with ink and paint,

Are only witches to be shamed and cursed.

And finally I die,

My body laid next to the spirit long buried,

From which I rise another time,

Ready to be tortured, ready to be told.

So here I am again, prettier this time,

With small feet and rosy cheeks,

I thank God-

Now I shall not be despised.

Well-

I am now a Japanese Wife,

Victim of a forced marriage,

A potential actress too-

But you don’t need to know that.

But you should remind me of my femininity every time,

Snatch away the sake and the smoke,

And yes, the life too-

Berate my apparition,

Every time you see her singing to trees,

Crushing dried leaves under her feet,

Plucking flowers on a solitary night.

[This poetry is an original creation, inspired from two masterpieces- “And The Soul Shall Dance” by Wakako Yamauchi and “In Search of My Mother’s Gardens” by Alice Walker. The theme of universality of women’s oppression has been recognised and is the essence of this poetry.]