Saturday, 23 April 2011


I'm still under the rage of refusal. The refusal of rape, child abuse, violence , sexual brutality. So I'm still writing.


Many envy people who live in thick walled houses

I don’t.

My thin walls let in every bump, thump and rumbadum dump but

Its nosy vocals reassure me that if I can hear them,

So can they hear me.

I used to live in a thick walled house once

It was safe, private and filled with familiar voices.

Those times were different, where seeking arms

did not meet a surprised bed or

hard floor but a beating heart.

I remember, however, a little girl who lived behind thick walls.

Evil waited for her at the bottom steps under the very last

deck of floors and took her into the hollow,

covered her frightened lips and plunged.

Every time, her lips got less frightened and

opened in gaped resignation.

Evil took again and again; walls did not protect her.

They were too thick to let through the sound of her shocked heart.

Soon evil got bold and moved from under

the darkened steps and into her walls,

underneath a sister’s nose, who, instead of offering hopes of protection,

blackmailed for adolescent wiles.

So thin walls may be flimsy, exposing, nosy and

noisy, still, they suit me fine.

For in this noise and within these walls.

I find safety in every bump, thump and rambambam gump.

For if I can hear them, then surely, happily securely,

they can hear me.

Friday, 22 April 2011

Bow of Rayne

Why do women get hurt so bad? Especially by some man they know and usually trust? This is a question I have been asking for some time since I heard about trafficking and , rape and violence. And why is domestic violence called that? There's nothing domestic about violence. The word domestic means tame, homely, sheltered, so how can violence be domestic?
This poem is raw and written just as I feel it, I hardly ever write like this but I just couldn't help myself, it just poured out so it might need editing but for now. read and feel rage whenever you come across violence like this

Bow of Rayne

A woman was raped last night, her legs spread, her pride taken with gritted teeth, open moans and shuddering conquering thrusts. The walls echoed her shocked disbelieving groans as the growing rage in her bones bounced off the floor to collide with her skin as she lay open, spread, helpless

A million visions of a billion deaths, a thousand questions of how she could have found death like this; so brutal, intimate, violating and strange in something designed to be familiar in the hands of a man meant to be father, friend, protector, lover, him

Her bones ached to desert the body that helplessly got plundered endlessly for six minutes, wishing to be dancing in the moonlight again, in saffron robes, with purple weaves of a silky scarf, whispering love words to her intimate parts, setting fire to blood as they echo the constant refrain ‘I know you, I am you, I was born you’ but

The floorboards, instead weep a new tale of a raiding of treasures carried in a pouch behind a zip to be washed away, running into the sink like suds from a clean plate, but you and I know there is no cleanliness here

This raiding has taken innocence and her soul away in a plastic bag and dumped it on a highway, a river, leading surely to hell and as he shudders in accomplished ecstasy, withdraws, stands and closes the door behind him, trust has sounded the notes of betrayal, become fragile and broken apart , threads gossamer light and unreliable

The door closes, his arrogant release stinks up a maddening rage, terrifying in its whoosh, holding knives, guns, every form of protection to stop that which already has happened

And while this sofa daily takes the rock, rock of a damaged body, and hearts are ripped out and the telephone wires are cut, cut out questions, concerns. The storm of bewilderment gathers and pours forth like a single unending note of wailing, undiluted

Piercing the roof, scattering birds at perch till it reaches a sky that absorbs and says nothing back. Then it rains and she seeks punishment in every way , wishing a bigger, darker death but she never finds anything bigger and darker enough and grey clouds soak her with grief as she breaks anew daily hoping today is the day she dies

Nay, her eyes open again and men become ghostly shadows, evil and harmful and her purple gives way to black and brown and deep and gray and gray and gray again.

The walls spoke out this injustice and I cried out a stream to she who laid in the deep, wishing death of fathoms deep would consume in its visit. My tears reminded her somehow of saffron skies and purple hues, blues, greens and red. Red that invited her to be sexy again, to be woman, to be deep, rich and proud

To kick the arrogance in the nuts and enjoy its constant agony of eye watering crunch and pain. We know it would never be enough, yet somehow whatever way justice comes, it finds us dancing on rooftops saying love should not be thrown and sorry is a word we’ve provided exit for

In this dance, this place takes leg upon leg, swish upon swish and wraps it up in lavender, green so rich, it hurts and penetrates the womb planting a seed that beckons to the deep of what we are and will continue to be

We swell with righteous anger at this arrogance; shut the door on the thief who steals our souls in broad day while we sit. We clubber him jointly till he surrenders in pain and acceptance that these women shall not sit no more, we give birth to this rage that rips apart whoever, whatever threatens us ever again

No more will we sit and watch our beings be taken, be stolen and thrown away by word. No more will our worth be down-priced by slaps, punches and rape and by God, no more will we seek love from some clay feet god by way of sorrow or death

The house where rape happened has collapsed on itself; here it shall happen no more.