I have a room of my own, in fact many rooms,
What i need to find is...myself.
I lost it long ago,
when i became happy.
...
My thoughts are painful
They strain against the barriers of conditioning
My smile is mockery
...
Pour me into any container
I remain
The shape of the vessel.
Pour me out
...
The rock boulder standing
Firm on the shoreline
Is woman.
She erodes every day
...
Then.....when I penned
Your return to Earth
I was not a mother
Yet I wrote....for
...
Ears pierced with gold and silver
Dangling beauty,
Convenient to hurt, pull and pinch
Swathed in necklaces of diamond
...
When I die, my son, remember
I leave nothing …not even my name
You carry your father’s.
I bear no grudge to patriarchy
...
With pain, flows poetry
As though the pain does not find a path
To flow, it does through words
Words which are denied, twisted, turned
...
THEY CALL IT BLASPHEMY
They call it a consecrated
place, pure and lofty,
Where the statue of You and I
...
Room
I have a room of my own, in fact many rooms,
What i need to find is...myself.
I lost it long ago,
when i became happy.
I could not create...
in joy and happiness.
I needed to be alone, to be myself
Not the constant juggling between I and me,
the roles, the rules, the always “ÿou” before me.
I disappeared in many roles.
Not that it unmade me,
it made me... perhaps
in yet different roles and images.
It brought a quiet satisfaction...
in feeling complete.
Yet something remained...incomplete.
The rooms are lived in today
I need to build again.