THE MEETING PLACE

the meeting place

so we meet again, under purple,
two shadows, not yet blackened.
inevitably, again reversal meets,
under purple, not yet black-end.

why do we meet? who are we? two
or many? multiply legion to soften
one another, insatiate eyes remain,
tolling, blanket of purple, a soft-end.

where did we meet? to what end?
end to end on end, head to feet,
toes to nose, navel to navel, even
the purple unfolds, uneven deaf-end.

and we are those that meet under
purple to sink into black, to shake
hands with eyes and eat bread in
secret, to flow satiate to dead-end.

ELF_ASURA

samia's original version of the poem animated

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8gZhyV1wWs

influenced by beckett.

They come,
Different and the same.
With each the insanity is different,
With each the shape of lust is the same.
Shameless.

Darkness over the face of the deep
Earth, shapeliness forming out of
Waste,
Void.
Nothing.

Empty.
With each the lack of love is palpable.
With each the relief they get after they fall or fail lifts and buoys them up.

Different and similar?
Different in the end
Though the same.
I remain or have ended up sane.
Behind the seemingly shapely-shapeless shamelessness of my lust.

They still come.
But.
Love is Elsewhere.
Yet.

my take on samia's poem

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJhDjQIp7Tc

OPEN, EYE

A bunch of pale-yellow, wrinkled Indian

Women wrapped in grey, cotton coverings

Chant-faded, wind-blown granny slokas

Worm-holing, eddying, meaning less and less;

Oyster-shell mouths, closing, opening

To drone a requiem for dull-clad Indian

Women dyed in yellow, orderly saris

pleating a culture of blind humming,

drumming up the ancient, spent, ashen,

sperm of routine, illusions and emptiness,

Voices drowning, bowed down Indian

Women lie down, thighs pried apart

by lusty, wheat-eyed industrial men

Carving up, fragmenting Sita’s purity,

burning, pock-marking, disemboweling

This bunch of cow-ish, cowed down Indian

Women bent down, beat low, eating dust,

Offering cold-spread buttocks to fascists;

Pink-soft vaginas speared by black lingams;

See now, watch how, the Third Eye opens.

krittika sharma's new poem -edited by a.v.koshy

Pink.

But how could she tell her mother
The room she saw a week ago
Had pink walls, pink toys,
A pink tape-recorder,
The volume peaked to drown her shock,
Give her a new notion of the colour?

Always think of pearl,
The beads that fell yesterday.

Always think of pretty flowers
Like the aging bougainvillea.
Always think of lace,
Grandmother's kerchiefs.

Always think of lip gloss,
My lips when you smile
And for summer days,
Think of candy floss.

samia's new poem

remind me
how i was
remind me
who i was

so self-assured


remind me
of my posture
remind me
of my voice
that mesmerised you


remind me
of the gentle words
that made you agree
to dance with me


remind me
of how i talked
of beauty
of music
of the lyrical
and of art


remind me
of myself
so ready
to embark

the journey
to discover further


remind me
how i needed you
even then

that's where my


downfall


did begin...


how i let myself slip
from my hands into yours


how i let my mind
waste
wither
rot
stupefy
slowly
kill me,
my serenity
calm water
birds in the sky
my joys

only one
that was left
you
and through you all


and i know
it's all my fault

and now i tread
the longer road
towards the road
i walked before
on my own
SAMIA SINGH