March-8

 

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.International Women’s Day – March 8

 

A Century of Our Struggle!

by Surjeet Kalsey

 

100 yeas of struggle:

women of the world marching on

continuously marching on

and keeping their struggle alive

for equality, respect and dignity!

Yet the destination is far far away

there were thorns and stones on the path!

Marching through centuries on the rough road

our hearts ache and our feet bleed with blisters.

 

Somewhere on the way we are lost!

As if we fail to feel the pain of another 

of our own and stand against each other

making to feel insulted and ridiculed

in front of others in the crowd.

Still marching on the never ending path

women hold hands and many banners

marching endlessly together!

Sometimes we feel that we fail

ourselves, our own struggle, and

we ourselves squeeze our own blisters!

Shamelessly, nothing moves forward

we are still on the margin, we are

still being stoned, still being raped

the violence has not stopped

seems as if we have failed ourselves

and we are blamed for. The society,

the history, the trends, the attitudes

are still chanting Manu Simriti….

A century long history of our struggle

will continue to end our sufferings

Our  sacrifices will continue to get freedom

from prejudices and offerings of humiliation.

Struggle will continue, March on! March on!

Voiceless Women

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 sprung up from within

or a straw would become a pen.

 

Women are sitting in the house

as if they are sitting 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!

United We March!

WIN Award

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.surjeetkalsey-Timeless-1.

.The following information is sent by Ashok Bhargva to share with everybody:

.WIN 2013 Poster FINAL..

Please click  for more information:  http://writersinternationalnetwork.wordpress.com/awards/

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Farmworker Women

Farmworker Women

(Dedicated to all those women  working in the BC farms)

Women come and work in
the wide spread BC farms.
Smiling and energetic they come
from the land of Punjab
educated, uneducated, married
unmarried young and old
all become slowly and slowly
hard-working farm labourers!
 
From the land of the five rivers
soon women arrive to Canada
they work in the farms every where.
Many of them are attracted to
Fraser Valley ornamented with
sharp rich colours of raspberry,
blue berry and strawberries.
 
Brides take off their gold and silk
come wearing  t-shirts and jeans
with soft henna coloured palms
women come with holding babies
women with pre-schoolers
women with grandparents
women with old in-laws and
some with old parents
and aunts and uncles
women with large families.
Women work around the clock
their hands work non-stop
in the fields of raspberry
blueberry and strawberry.
Women pick mushrooms
cut broccoli and sprouts
marshy land is under their feet
under the rain of pesticide
their hands get blisters
their feet get swollen
their eyes become watery
they breathe on fumes
and their arms, necks and faces
get infected with killer pesticides.
Working the soil they become soil.
Women work day and night
their hands work non-stop.
Longer hours more than dawn to dusk
women work and get tired
come back with aching feet and hands
when are taken back to their homes
in a stuffed van of a contractor
where they can not even breathe.
Working women, labourers, they just work !
 
They come back home late at night
tired and then they start home-shift –
cooking for their hungry children
for their men, for their large families.
they wash everybody’s dirty dishes
and do everybody’s laundry.
Women take care of everybody
– crying hungry or sick children
Women look after everybody’s needs
remain unaware of their own needs
women go to bed vary late
after everybody’s gone to bed
and after making preparations
for everybody  tomorrow’s work
and they have to get up very early
before the first ray of the sun rises
and get ready to go to the farms again.
 
Farmworker women are brave- Zindabad!

by

Surjeet Kalsey (1985)

To Mother

Mother I will born again!

 I look into the mirror

a history shrieks at my back

I carry the ruins of the civilization.

Every woman does. Every mother does.

 

I look into your eyes: the darkness

life perhaps is walking dead

through me and someone tells me:

                        you shouldn’t be

                        shouldn’t be alive.

 

This is a night before,

this is a moment before

I allowed myself

                        to be scraped out

                        of your womb,

my unformed

unborn shreds of tiny body.

 

The devil of tradition

takes over and hovers upon you

the very moment

you conceived me.

They say they see a devil

in a pregnant body,

fearful of the unknown

demand only male air

which sometimes they

themselves don’t have

in their male body.

How easy it is to play ignorant

and blame a woman for

not delivering a male child!

 

History laughs.

Nothing has changed

between now and then

from the ancient midwife’s

making the newborn baby girl

suck her poisonous thumb

to see her unborn body

through ultrasounds and

wash her out. Difference?

Only it looks more accurate,

more sure, professional,

and six months time saver.

 

After I opened my eyes

for the very first time

in the day light

I found myself alive

pulsating, and  crying.

Only after sucking on

the poisonous thumb

I was declared a dead-born!

 

Now it has changed.

I am not even allowed

to be born.

Sex-selection labs,

testing and selecting

        the only sex: male!

considering female foetus

as sub-human demon

her right to be born

            is taken away!

 

Traditional bound parents

find  a relief in aborting

their female air.

They earn an other chance

a privilege to try again

until they get it ‘right’.

 

Mother, I feel your sighs

inside your womb

I sipped your salty tears

inside your womb.

You know this sanctuary

this sacred place you offer

for both male and female

is safe temple for me.

Over a span of time

and countless loathings later

I will come again.

I will be born again and again.

I will dwell in this sacred place again!

Don’t you worry mother!

I will be there again!!

You know, I know

if we keep vanishing ourselves

the day is not far  away

when the human race

will no longer be there!

 – A poem by Surjeet Kalsey
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2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,600 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 60 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

 

 

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Some Thoughts

Some Thoughts


 
New poetry book: Colours of my Heart/ by Surjeet Kalsey
 
 
 Poems in  Surjeet Kalsey’s new poetry book  “Colours of My Heart” portray picture and mannerism in which women are being treated in our society even now while living in the most advanced countries.
                                                                                    –  Publisher
 
In this solitude – broken things/your body did not leave the house./I was punished to live/with a dead body/which silently was eroding/ my energies my self-esteem/and was stealing my soul!” This plaint from the poem ‘Living with the dead’ illustrates the poet’s sombre reflections on vagaries of life.  Another poem ‘The Priority’ dwells upon the manner in which women are treated in the society. However, if you are under the impression that this is an anthology of laments, banish the thought. There is a streak of feminist assertiveness in the poems like “An Incarnation of the Kali” and ‘A Warrior’ when she proclaims, “I am a woman warrior/who believes in Self/and only in myself/and does not need Krishna/to be my charioteer/and utter sermons from the Gita“. The feminist motif is predominant in this collection, as typified by the poem ‘I don’t intend’ (85). The term ‘feminist’ here is used in the sense more as a woman’s awareness of its rights and her rightful place in the society. The poet also portrays other moods ranging from reflections on lunar waxing and waning to self-abnegation.
                                              -Brig R K Sharma,   The Tribune, Chandigarh
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Colours of my Heart

“Surjeet Kalsey’s new book of poems ‘Colours of My Heart’ is an introspective perspective of the plight of all women. Kalsey’s  selection and placement of words weaves a poetic pathway that awakens and heightens the reader’s senses. Her use of colour as a definition for emotion paints from a palette all women can identify with a world where men and women betray each other, i.e.: ‘Jealousy’ …so they prey on other women’s partners; with exotic lingerie and vodka, they hunt their prey, and suck on male vulnerabilities… Her writing is provocative, hopeful and empowering.”

-Valerie B.-Taylor,   President/Facilitator New West Writers                                      Co-ordinator/Facilitator Renaissance Books
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Colours of My Heart by Surjeet Kalsey, Tarlochan Publishers Chandigarh, 2011.   Pages: 96. Rs. 160 (India) Canada/USA $15 + postage    To secure  your copy of the book please contact at this email:
kalseysurjeet@hotmail.com
Tarlochan Publishers, Chandigarh, India.Watch for the coming book launch and reading dates..

Woman’s Hands

.by Surjeet Kalsey

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Name any work, chore, skill, art
 
where women’s hands are not seen.
 
Women’s hands work non-stop
 
round the clock everywhere.
 
Women’s hands are hermits
 
protectors and great healers.
 
                                                                                                                                                        From Foot Prints of Silence