Poetry Month

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Poem walks in the Deserted Streets at Night.

Fragrance of Spring Blooms Camellia smiles through my window the soft pink petals bloom the paths are covered with lilac lavender.

Two eyes look through the window
amazed at the benedictions of the nature.
I smell the fragrance of poetry blooming in April
as always and everyday a new poem
is being written on the petals of the flowers
and  on the fresh green leaves.

The two naked eyes of a woman can still see
through the parted curtains
through the iron bars of the traditions.

In this poetry season so many things
hang around on the tip of my pen

pulsating to form a poem:                                                                                                                       A woman is still being stoned somewhere                                                                           a woman is still being raped somewhere
a woman is being beaten to death somewhere

People are seeking freedom of thought
freedom of speech freedom to live                                                                                               seeking safety, respect and dignity                                                                                                   running for their lives                                                                                                                           disowning their countries                                                                                                                 seeking asylum from other lands                                                                                              drowning in the ocean on the way to freedom                                                                                   and dying instead.

Poetry month will go on and                                                                                                          many hearts wailing would go on                                                                                                       under the dark skies                                                                                                                                 a poem walks through the deserted places                                                                                         on the blood drenched streets of the city                                                                                             where every night shooting happens like fire crackers
and every night a number of young boys are injured                                                                    and one or two lost their lives….

I want to pen all the sadness and pain.                                                                                                 I want to tell the lamenting and crying mother                                                                                        whose heart bleeds with her young son                                                                                                             caught in between the cross-firing of madness                       if my words can stop her heart bleeding….

A new poem is being written                                                                                                          about all the centuries old issues                                                                                                  while thinking poetry in the moment                                                                                         frozen in the dead of the night
walking on the concrete sidewalk
I just stumbled on a big pothole                                                                                                        and fell backward landed on my right wrist.

And after… …                                                                                                                                               I could not even hold a pen in my hand                                                                                                   not even the mouse neither could I click                                                                                     with my fingers those letters                                                                                                               on the keyboard  to form a poem!

And the poetry month would be gone by                                                                                           leaving me with this incomplete poem and pain.

And the poem continues.

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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!