During 2011 many visitors were searching poems on non-violence or violence against women. My book Aaurat Shabad & Shakti presents many poems about women their virtues and their uniqueness. Poems reflect woman as a symbol of capacity, capability and calm when respected and loved.
.Non-Violence is the way of life, says Buddha:
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From a baby little girl
to young beautiful bride
to mother to grandmother
women fly on their dreams.
Women are angels -
gifted with wings
glide with the wind
move with the waves.
When the blows of harsh words
break the wings of dreams
we simply continue our flight
silently, journey never ends.
We keep on flying
on the wings of imagination
moving along the wind
we are like bamboo trees!
Dreams are just dreams!
When reality hits the heart
it bleeds inside the body
not happen to us: dreaming!
Soft mask of fresh smile
we put on our lips each morning!
As if the dark nights were only in the dreams!
The bamboo trees dance with the wind!
I am real. Touch me
touch me with your flesh
feel me with your senses.
I am not dead.
I throb.
I pulsate.
I breathe.
I am alive.
I can rewrite my fate.
I will write a new script
of my own and will live it.
I am
an incarnation of the Kali-
the goddess of power.
I will illuminate
in many forms
I am Durga
I am Chandi
I am Bhawani,
and I am Kalika –
the mighty goddess Kali.
This time I will become the Kali –
I will grow
many hands on my body,
and would hold
a shinning sword in my one hand
and a skull of the devil in the other
I will appear on the stage
riding over a lion
and roaring with eyes sparkling.
I will chant the sermon
of the tenth Guru:
“O Lord Shiva,
bestow upon me
your benediction
so that I will never be afraid
to do virtuous act.
If I am under attack then
empower me O, Mighty!
so that I can protect myself.”
By Surjeet Kalsey
Yes, they are still sitting there
quietly waiting for someone
someone will come
and inscribe their fate
on their foreheads
or a stream of passion
would spring up from within
or a straw would become a pen.
Women are sitting in the house
as if they are stitting on the street
without its floor without its door
but walls are still their retreat
Voiceless women live in this house
within these four walls
without its door, without its floor
quietly they wait for someone
would come and spread out
earth under their feet.
The tale they wanted to tell
that has become aged, stopped.
The tale is circling within circle
from ages and their voice is not heard
their eyes are lit like lamps
on their wrinkled faces – waiting
waiting and waiting someone will come.
Their story is being written in their wrinkles
they will bury their story with their bodies
or a straw would become a pen
or they would remain voiceless even in this age.
The above poem was read at the Festival of South Asian Literature on 26 Sept. 2009 in Toronto in the opening session of the conference.
