cosines
92w
Random scribble..........
Blue ellipsoidal shaped old man : Earth
silver suit: Moon
Tide
A blue ellipsoidal
shaped old man, elliptically
dressed with a silver suit
starts revolving around a sun-city
and takes a sidereal year to back home.
Due to mutual warm cold influence
of sun-city and silver suit
universe throws some
fibres of gravity
over oceanic eyes of old man
and causes some fluctuations
between eye-water-levels
if ups then high tide
if downs then low tide
_Vandita
thousand_splendid_thoughts
93w
There was a tinge of sadness in her voice as she saw him get up. The other side of the bed where he laid a few seconds back still had his warmth soaked in it. The skin on her waist hugging the imprints his hands have left.
"There's still time to go. Stay. "
Glancing back at her, his eyes carried a different look. A look she has grown to understand after all those years of trying to find paragraphs among his monosyllabic responses. She toyed around with his fingers which held her into a tight grip a few minutes back. Her cheeks turned the same colour of the rising sun when she saw his eyes roaming over her body and then settling over her hazel brown eyes which gleamed under the rays of the sun. Honey.
He again laid beside her, his body facing her and his hands cradling her face between them.
"I can see four suns rising in you." He whispered in a hoarse voice. In two round eyes. In two round cheeks.
"I can see two moons in my universe." She whispered back in a soft voice which could calm the raging storms too. In two eyes. The person cradling her face. Her universe.
He again got up and made his way to the washroom. Her nose dipped into the other side of the bed and inhaled his scent. For a few minutes, she laid like that, wondering if she could bottle up this scent. After all, she was breathing it after two winters.
She flung her legs off the bed and made her way to her phone. Her fingers scrolled to that one special playlist she has been listening on a loop. Every song carrying a different chapter. Chapters folded into a playlist. A playlist containing him and her. Two moons, four suns and one universe.
'Aaj jaane ki zid na karo' floated in the air of the cosy room. Standing in front of the fridge her eyes roamed to find what she was looking for. Her eyes twitched on not finding it there. He loves omelette. Especially when she makes it.
The bathroom door unlocked and he entered the room with one hand rubbing the towel on the wet head. He smiled hearing the song, the lyrics striking chords with what was going in her mind and heart. His eyes travelled to hers and teased her. How the atmosphere came from 'lag ja gale' which was playing in the silence of yesterday night to 'aaj jaane ki zid na karo', his eyes questioned hers.
She turned her back to him, telling him that she was not settling with him leaving so soon. He shook his head and moved towards her phone. His fingers hovered over the pin code, thinking if it was still the same. He entered the assumed four-digit code. The phone unlocked. His eyes shined more than the lit screen of the phone. It was still the same. The date of their first meet.
'Tujhe sochta hoon' blithely occupied every corner of the room and the lyrics flapped it's way to the heart of the lady standing in the attached kitchen, adorned in the shirt of the man who loved her more with each breath he took.
They communicated more through songs when words whirled in brevity. One drop from his wet hair fell on the phone screen, he cleaned it with his finger and the name of the playlist scrolled in front of his eyes. 'Saar'.
"Saar." He said in a voice so she could hear him over the music playing from the speaker.
Her hands stopped from what she was doing and then continued again. She didn't respond, not because she was still angry at him but because this word didn't need her to respond. This word was in itself a response.
"I have to make an omelette. Go and bring some eggs from the market."
He nodded. After getting dressed up when his feet moved towards the door he heard her say.
"Arya, come back soon."
"Sayonee you are still the same. Still asking me to come back soon even though I am going just one mile away."
"For two years you went two-hundred miles away from me."
He closed the door behind him and moved towards the market.
Her hands again stopped from what she was doing. Her heart stopped. Her body numbed. She heard the sound of metal. A metal named as the bullet. A sound of gunfire. From outside.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ps- A fictional short story it would be. Pardon me if it's not up to the mark. I would be writing its further part soon.
#saar #mirakee #writersnetwork #genuine_readers
.
tears
tears have always been a strength,
it's a sign crying is not wrong
cry until you feel right again
©fairytales_
blue_lemon_writes
93w
Let me bath in your verses and wear your metaphors.
Let me feel your skin and breath your cologne.
Let me swallow your kisses and slurp your hugs.
Let me see your vulnerabilities and reflect my liberties.
Let me sing you lullabies and hear your symphonies.
Let me sleep in your memories and dance in your fantasies.
Let me dive into your eyes and absorb your tears.
Let me hold your hand and remove all your fears.
Let me write you on my heart and paint you in my soul.
Let me be your night sky and you be my moon.
Let me be your ecstasy and you be my boon.
Let me be your morning coffee and you be my bedtime milk.
Let me be your parchment and you be my ink.
Let me be your earth and you be my gravity.
Let me be your power and you be my ability.
Let me be your integration and you be my constant.
Let me be your permanent and you be my habitat.
Let me be your candle and you be my flame.
Let me be your photograph and you be my frame.
Let me be your butterfly and you be my rose.
Let me be your poetry and you be my prose.
Let me be your bumblebee and you be my flower.
Let me be your idol and you be my follower.
Let me be your mirror and you be my reflection.
Let me be your force and you be my action.
Let me be your competition and you be my winner.
Let me be your ocean and you be my swimmer.
Let me be your antitode and you be my cure.
Let me be your rainbow and you be my VIBGYOR.
Let me be your love and you be my lover.
Let me be your infinity and you be my forever.
Let me be your poetry and you be my muse.
Let me be your filament and you be my fuse.
Let me be your painting and you be my Van Gogh.
Let me be your valley and you be my hogh.
Let me be your platinum and you be my gold.
Let me be your handkerchief and you be my fold.
Let me be your molar mass and you be my mole.
Let me be your heart and you be my soul.
Let me be your sarcasm and you be my joke.
Let me be your key and you be my lock.
Let me be your Newton's laws and you be my physics.
Let me be your favorite song and you be my lyrics.
Let me be your derivation and you be my formula.
Let me be your isthmus and you be my peninsula.
Let me be your base and you be my perpendicular.
Let me be your star and you be my binocular.
Let me be your atom and you be my nucleus.
Let me be your circle and you be my radius.
Let me be your geometry and you be my Euclidean.
Let me be your Curie and you be my radium.
Let me be your butterfly and you be my nectar.
Let me be your cross product and you be my vector.
Let me be your scholar and you be my mentor.
Let me be your discovery and you be my inventor.
Let me be your rosary and you be my chant.
Let me be your vertical and you be by slant.
Let me be your organic reaction and you be my mechanism.
Let you be my hero and I be your heroism.
Let me be your petrichor and you be my rain.
Let me be your profit and you be my gain.
Let me be your rising sun and you be my rays.
Let me be your week and you be my days.
Let me be your lead and you be my graphite.
Let you be my Hephaestus and I be your Aphrodite.
Let me be your name and you be my meaning.
Let me be your emotion and you be my feeling.
Let me be your diamond and you be my brilliance.
Let me be your success and you be my excellence.
Let me be your impact and you be my influence.
Let you be my god and I be your goddess.
Let me be your entropy and you be my inverse.
Let me be your galaxy and you be my universe.
©blue_lemon_writes
Let me be your entropy and you be my inverse.
Let me be your galaxy and you be my universe.
©blue_lemon_writes
jaya___
93w
THE LA PERLA BRA
I have always had such an admiration for womanhood, and its unfathomable powers. Mostly their brains and also their bodies. I had this deep seated awed admiration for their breasts. Their extreme attraction. The way they amazed me, with the power to feed life, produce food from their own selves. The way a baby sucks them to live, derive its only life source. Their roundedness, their supple moves, the grace and unabashedness, their eternal love.
Long till my adolescence I slept with my mom, close to her chest, and I cannot even with the best of the words available explain the feeling of that closeness, tenderness, safety, gaiety. One woman I admired deeply was my didi, she was my neighbour, 11 years older. Loved me as a little brother, cared for me as her son. I used to spend a lot of my time with her. She was a strong headed teen when I was still four-five, but I always was her secret keeper, friend and recipient of all her motherly affection and sisterly scoldings. I remember the music she listened, her school mates and crushes, and her Agatha Christie's novels. I remember when she used to dress up and do her make up at the dresser. I always used to admire her femininity. Assured and confident, non imposing and open. I used to see her bras, many of them of adorable colors, which she allowed me to see, when I opened up to her.
She was like that. Anyone could tell her anything. I told her once, I remember my agony and dilemma those days, that I recognized myself as a girl. That I want to sway my hair like she does, do my hair on my shoulder like she does. Dress up like her, wear a bra and have the power of femininity. I remember how confused she looked, seeing a 9 year old go on in such misery. But I also remember she didn't rebuke me or not take me seriously. She was not able to comprehend my situation completely but she was sensitive and did not shove my words like the elders. She was accepting and listened. She had asked me, "What do you want to do now Rosh?" And I had said "Di, I want to accept myself as I am, and come out as I am in public and I want to become like you", tearing up in the middle. She had hugged me, and promised me a way to get things done. I will never be able to express the relief I had felt in her arms. Of being understood. It was like I was living in the open for the first time- coming out of an attic of self doubt and suicidal thoughts and bullying and confirmations.
She made me her best girl friend, showing me her girl things, gossiping with me, and allaying my anxiety and watching over me. She was amused by my fixation for breasts and told me that when she was 13 and had started sprouting breasts, she was not such a fan of them... she didn't want them to grow as they made her conscious of what she wore, how she walked and ran. She told me how men had started leering and whistling at her, how she had felt uncomfortable every time her scooty jumped over speed breakers. But all this never came to hinder my love for the most pristine and beautiful creations of God.
When I was 15, and I had fights at home with parents, over my trans choices, I had made up my mind to undergo a sex reassignment surgery done. Be what I am. I remember how the two of us had researched like hell to get the details of the best place to get it done. We have zeroed in on Thailand and laughed and cried our hearts out at the cost of this huge step. Over time, my parents understood and decided to be my side, which is such a privilege.
Turning 18, I was nervous and excited to get my surgery finally when I came to know of her leaving for Canada for her research. She had tried all her might to postpone but it could not be done. We cried that night as it was our dream to see me transform.
Today, it's been a year post-op and an excruciating painful journey of recovery and self discovery, I have been blessed with all I wanted to be. I have breasts (silicon ofc) and till today I can't believe myself with these blessings and haven't met di yet but today i received the gift she sent me ... A La Perla bra (just like hers!) which I had always admired in her wardrobe!
And a note which said that it was I who made her love her feminity in true sense and appreciate the power bestowed in womanhood... I cried bitterly and kissed the note...she helped me make my discordant thoughts into a splendid poem....
And I am happy....
//A poem begins as a process of stripping myself naked and covering myself with figures of speech//
......................................................
Copyright Jaya Harfkaar 19-9-20
it's a work of fiction. Catch all my stories at #storiesofJ
Catch all my posts on lqbtqia+ life at #j_for_lgbtqia
#atticc @writersnetwork #pod @mirakee #poem @writersbay #genuine_readers #daadigotyourback
Edit: most of my learning and knowledge about trans lives and trauma and the entire sex-gender conundrum comes from Trinetra Haldar Gummaraju and Alok V Menon (ind0ctrination and alokvmenon on IG). Do check these amazing peeps.
Pic credit: Caroline.chagnon on IG.
.
cosines
93w
Melting galaxies stir as your Parker's ink and give a spiral form to deranged rows of your poetry. So that subjecting to its gravity, I would offer my name to your verses and all those damped pages of your diary will start smelling again as rings of celestial whiffs are emitted by Hawking radiation.
We're standing on different galaxies of the same universe, where thousands of half dead clouds are craving for reincarnation. Someday we'll see collision between them, a clash between our frequencies and fewer than few points of infinity, a number of rhymes will emit, for completion of our poetry.
There're some quasars in you, I want to indulge in and want to embrace all those regions of your heart where the cosmos has left a boreal space for me.
I don't know how many tongues are there to write our love. How many earths are still isolated in your cold-ink, but there're some phials, filled with liquor of crescent moons, I'm drunk over; but over you.
That intensity of your lyre's notes, creates a pseudo vacuum in outermost cells of my heart's bloodless walls and offers me some comets to drink. I give rise a poetry for your eyes having a gravity same as black holes and we don't remain incomplete anymore.
Feeling You all the time, I don't feel when the dark hue of night kisses the blueness of airspace. When those serums of your poetries fill rhapsody in air and for me, there remains no difference between bounds and infinities.
Your rhymes have some sharp edges and soon they will be more intense even than a claymore. Soon sky will expose the moon behind cloudy curtains and all constellations will plot to go against their rotation, to stabilize their planetary motion. Soon the rest part of our poetry will touch the top of its perfection.
Venus and earth will come more closer and soon
We will.
_Vandita
.
soul
He who was seeking for a peace
perceived my soul
and dwelled there forever
©fairytales_
jaya___
96w
CORSET
I wriggle through tears every time I see my friends and a part of me cry. And commit suicide. Or survive another failed suicide attempt. for the only reason that they can't look like the cis people. That they can't say they are male or female. That transition is a word they refer to in a astronomically different way than you use. That they don't feel that they belong-- to their body and to the society. That they are something and not someone.
My body may be of a man. But my soul is a woman. And I can't be anything else. I think of Lily Elbe. Born a man called Eignar Wegener. I think how she was always trapped in a man's body. How she gagged in a suit all her life as a man. And her suppressed only desire to be a mother. How she died in trying to become one.
I am effiminate and I can't pretend any more. I am not a man. I am a woman and all of you thinking that I'm not doesn't mean anything to me now. You tell me that I am acting strange and that therapy will cure me. What will you cure me of? I am who I am. And it's not a disease.
I like to wear corsets. I can't wear a tie anymore, to please you. To become a part of your parties. To be what I am is above what I look like and what you want me to be.
I am. Just me.
Not a moon. Not a sun. Just millions of meteors falling together and burning ablaze.
I am a bird fluttering in the sky
Suffocating in open air
This sky a cage for me
An untransferable cage
Immutable cage
Widely loved, beautiful cage
A bird always meant to fly
A bird always adorns the sky
Yet I gag
Lightning ripping my soul
Demented, squealing, writhing
I fly with my feathers sore
The water shining catches my eyes
A fish I am escapes my sighs
Laughable, devilish, ridiculous
My thoughts against the will of nature
Hunted by other birds
Pecked till I bled and died
The world was kind, the world had lied.
-- I a Trans woman
Copyright Jaya Harfkaar 2-9-2020
Check out posts On my LGBTQIA life at #J_for_lgbtqia
#poetrywednesday #pod #meteorc @writersnetwork @mirakee @writersbay #lgbtqa+ #trans #pride
.
.
paradox__
96w
I was 7,
when my grandmother died,
I saw some people taking her to graveyard,
I asked them if I can come along,
they told me I can't come
as graveyard is everything
I'm scared of
and I can't bear it.
I thought graveyard is like the look
of my mother when
my father hits her.
I was 14,
When I saw my neighbour's
skin full of scars,
I ,then, thought graveyard
is, like the skin
of my neighbour
who everyday gets raped
by her husband.
I was 17,
When I saw my friend in grief
'cause of her shattering dreams,
I,then, thought graveyard is,
like the dreams
of my friend
which are shattered by
her own parents
for whom their daughter's marriage
at young age
was important than their daughter's dreams.
I was 25,
when I saw a kid's soul
tearing apart
over his poverty,
I,then,thought the graveyard
is like that kid's soul
that wants to attend the school
and live like other children,
that wants to fly and touch
vast sky of dreams but
the burden of feeding his family has caged it.
I was 32,
when I saw an old couple's eyes
filled with tears,
for oppressions done by their kids on them.
I,then, thought the graveyard is like
their wrinkled eyes
which were moist due to getting kicked out
of house by their own kids for whom
they had survived a life full of sacrifices.
I was 36,
I looked at my womb in the mirror,
from where I heard screams
of my unborn child.
I thought the graveyard
is like my womb
from where my unborn child
screams for her father whom I left
for trying to kill my child
'cause he didn't wanted a daughter.
I was 38,
I looked at my child's dead body,
I was numb at the death
of the only light in my life.
I was terrified 'cause this time,
I was not thinking of what
a graveyard is like,
this time I was visiting a one.
I buried my child and
sat beside her tombstone.
It was peaceful there.
It has nothing to be afraid
of, unlike the outside world.
I realised that the real graveyard
is outside of this graveyard.
A graveyard is that world I live in,
Where humanity is dead and
Just the sculptures made of
bone, flesh and skin wanders.
©Kritika
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Miraquill
