Reading Time: 2 minutes
An intense, woman-centric, protest poem, by Prof. Sanjoy, exclusively for Different Truths.
I am no birdie but an albatross Spanning ocean depths. Those who come Under my wings are kissed by the waves, Their innards digest sharks and churn Wisdom deep caves have bred. I am the barren woman who gives birth To women twisted and killed within By those who promise the moon, Shining in the dark depths of the sky, And then offer it in a bowl of water. I am the female Christ black to the bone Tired of his passion; my life began with it. I shall break the cruce, son of man; Dance the dance of death at Calvary And rise with my sisters at arms. Glories of heaven are meant for those who give up In the name of God. I will not turn my cheek. God was a coward who wouldn’t send His daughter down on earth for fear of rape. I am the woman who will ascend to feminise heaven. Never weep like Virgin Mary for her dead son Curse God for daughters killed by believers. It is because of him high priests of the world Speak the language of the son. My daughters your tongue is hidden in the shoe. Walk up and strike, show them how it works. Show them how beauty of the rose Can grow thorns, make men bleed. Followers of a several times married prophet Have locked you inside a veil. Break open and show how scars speak, Give scars. Tooth for a tooth take. You are the bullet in men’s guns. Dogs have turned against their trainers, They bite the hand that feeds its own food. Revolutions have gone out of hand, Misinterpreted prophecies are carried Like mistletoe’s seed: burn them. Parasites have made a sight of us: With your body don’t feed them. Faces of the ancient law givers Have been stolen by their successors: Unmask them. Let new radicals break Out of books, mark new chapters. Covers have been blinkers too long. They have made a virtue of burning At the husband’s pyre: rise phoenix, Rise, and sharpen your beak. The scores of histories are settled Eye for an eye. Trial by fire For a hapless secondary goddess. The legend of Krishna is celebrated At the expense of unprepared women. Kali was made to exhaust her powers At the sight of her husband. For us, the Gods are no less Than demons: they kill the authentic Woman. Turn your leaves into spine And thorns, bloom like cacti In the arid deserts of men. Break your shells and shine. Pearls! For us there is no such thing as sublime. Make the popes of the world grope, On the earth, throw aerial roots And plug the devious divine. Remember! You are no birdie But an albatross, under your wings Floats the sea of humanity; It shall rise to kiss your feet. The waves are already with you.
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