Long Married woman Poems
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How would I have any idea what I think, if I couldn’t read my own poetry?
When I sit to write poetry, my mind transforms the blank screen into a flurry of words and then sometimes a story that I had never heard before emerges.
The Hippy era in the 60's was rife with poets, and songwriters and public speakers all voicing their thoughts, their feelings, their dreams and their protests, and I was one of them. Through the life of a married woman, poetry was practically a forgotten art. Oh I still loved reading it and had a huge collection of poetry books by the greats, but rarely ever wrote a poem.
Then came a thing called COPD. Forced into retirement at 63, and within four years I was spending most of my time in a wheelchair. Little or no voice left, could only walk about 10 steps without gasping for breath.
Recently I found SOUP. I tried my hand at poetry again. Its become an obsession. It wasn’t only the poetry, it was the companionship of like minded people who were willing to encourage and praise others. Not working creates a doubt of self worth. Writing poetry restores that feeling. You can create something pleasurable for others. It’s a confidence booster. it’s a big part of my life now. I cant participate in activities, but I can write poetry.
I can sit by a lake or jump from a plane or climb a mountain, all from the safety of my wheelchair. I can fill a sleepless night by creating or just chatting to a mate. It feels like I am still alive.
Black Friday
So here we are again
My reflection and I
The worst of friends
As we’ve always been
Surely nothing could be better
I am a happily married man
With a beautiful wife
And a lovely child
But something has grown
Out of the unknown
A latent energy
A mysterious
Creeping and suffocating
Loneliness
The reason for this
I can’t attempt to analyse
When I try, I cry out
With surprise
But I am surely mad
You may say
It can only come to bad
You may say
And yet it is there
A lurking, choking, mysterious
Loneliness
So here we are again
An evening full of pain
When all my work is done
When my wife and child have gone
And where are you?
Waiting on a wet Friday night
For your lovely child
To finish her dance classes
Surely something could be better
For an unhappily married woman
Returning to her home
Waiting for her drunken lover……..
Don’t get me wrong
No indecent proposals
Only a wish to share a common feeling-
Loneliness
Monika – this is just one moment
And we have to think of our lives
Our responsibilities.
But can I dare ask you -
Despite my religious restraints-
Despite the fact that my carnal desire
For you may seem like playing with fire-
Can I dare ask you-
Knowing that we are cautious adults-
Can we one black Friday night-
Share our loneliness together?
Maybe I’ve misread the signals-
Maybe I don’t know what I’m saying-
Don’t get worried about my suggestions
In an age of obsessive sexual insinuations-
I repeat one last time tonight
Can we share our loneliness together?
AHALYA
She is thirty and two
Her face has lost it’s soft
She is a professor in her subject and
Her second nest is her college
She is a married woman -Her
Past had a pleasing romance
She loved a man for love and
It grew as night in a moon
Bad rituals pushed her in a hell
In the name of marriage with an impotent
She lived with tears and pains and
Spent her days in the burning fire of lust
He became a patient to his death
Ptiy Ahalya whispering for her fate
Her hero comes again to take her
Out of emotions she gave her to his hands
It spreads to the ears of her impotent owner
He cursed and sued against her in the court
He argued there she is immoral and
She is having affairs with many
Poor Ahalya denied not in the court
Court separated her from His life
Ahalya isthe poor victim living with her tears
Her hero once again vanishes as air from her life
Ahalyas are not one or two here
They are more and more in this world
Their tears are making seas and oceans
Not to think they are always calm and quite
Before their ANGER realize your sins
Saktheee S Ravichandran
A friend of mine and Me
Accustomed to things done quickly and without time
Because we're retired
We just attended the marriage of convenience
Of another friend of ours
Who married a married woman
From the Dominican Republic
In the chapel of the Monastery of San Juan (Burgos)
Whose husband was left waiting
At the entrance to the Monastery.
The ceremony was officiated
By a city councilor
Applauded by the small audience
Jumping with joy
The Dominican woman's new husband
Upon receiving the three thousand euros
Of the agreed-upon arrangement
Longing to have a honeymoon with her
Even if only for a little while
And she very happy to be able to obtain
Her residency papers on the spot.
From there, my friend and Me
Because the bride and groom didn't invite us to anything
How stingy!
We went for coffee, a croissant
And, perhaps, a quickie
At the Halo Paris Café
Very close to the Monastery.
There, we were served very kindly
By a Moroccan girl, Jalila from Marrakech
Who, without knowing me at all
Addressed me after serving us
Saying hopefully:
-I see you as virtuous and noble
With a good salary to take care of my mother
Who wants to come see me
And get Spanish citizenship.
I'll give you three thousand euros
If you marry her.
To this I replied:
-That sounds good to me
If I marry her at the same time
With you
That way I can have two glories
That your Allah allows there and here.
She replied disappointed:
-Not that. I don't like sharing the churro (prick)
And you enjoying our toast
Which is blood relatives' and tastes like nothing.
Think about it, and tell me
Another time you come back here.
I told her a little before leaving
Touching her breast without realizing it:
-Jalila, when I'm about to die I'll let you know.
Bring me your mother
So you can give me the three thousand euros
And she can show me her nest of Moroccan falcons
Which will do my soul a lot of good.
Sense-sational Denver sings of setting, nature and motherhood.
A twang in his voice, strings sing along, a lullaby of blessings,
by a mother to a son, born beneath “Bitterroot Valley” skies.
The son, protected by a mother about to die; as she suckles him.
Her impactful words, he can’t understand, but nevertheless
she blesses him as she says goodbye; for her he’d never cry.
He’d grow up with his uncle; never knew his dad; became a man.
Wild, strong, embraced the seasons as a farmer in Montana.
All through his days, the spirit of a mother’s blessing kisses him.
And I fall in love, my window down, enticed by the fire of John’s voice.
I sing along, glory and all like a teenager, as a stranger smiles
at me, and I have to forever tone down my intimacy; not drawing
attention to this married woman. In “Wild Montana Skies,” I breathe.
Before I knew him…before he played god…I’d see him on stage.
I’d surely heard him play “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” and
“Rocky Mountain High,” in early Navy days, before I said, “I do.”
Somewhere down the line, I embrace the swoon of my heart. As if,
the strumming, refrain, and John’s voice weren’t enough, joined
in the second round repeat by Emmylou Harris; my knees buckle.
Wailing for her demon lover, Coleridge had it right
A masterful poet, his words are ominous, not light.
Did he have his own sweet love? Was she a secret too?
Gothic ideas of mystery swirl around my brain in blue.
Coleridge was a master; his work keeps me on the edge.
His imagery on the brink of pushing me just shy of off the ledge.
Is she a figment of Coleridge’s imagination, or does his own maiden exist?
If she is a married woman, will they never find a bliss or share a kiss?
A secret Coleridge has kept, in a dark, dank, dour place.
His poetry so wonderful, I smile when I see a likeness of his face.
Samuel T. Coleridge, a master whose poetry delights my dendrite stream.
Sometimes his powerful stanzas float into my Gothic current dream.
(Sappho and Leuceus drunk,fighting over who invented the Stanza)
Lesbos howls with song and mgosi tonight,
Leuceus thumbs the table-claims my Stanza his,
I toss my hair,sip the sqo,my daughter lightning-
Let Ogun decide!
He stutters of meters,I of love divine,
He waves his laptop,I smash my Zamalek beer glass to silence
The gods choke at their peptic ulcers-
Mami Wata takes sides.
Tomorrow the'll call me fallen,sinner,muse of rain,
But in their shame,they'll still steal my rhythm,
He'll drown in envy's cup,Ill wake to babalazi
Makoti sing my song
Explanation of words
mgosi-gossip
sqo-as in traditional beer
Zamalek: Black Label Carling beer
Ogun: The god of war
mami wata:mother of water is a symbol of beauty and that's all men want to hear
babalazi-a massive hangover
makoti- ''Maak ons tee'' in Afrikaans meaning ''Make us tea''.This is what will happen to school dropouts;just think about the fate of this one: a young married woman supervised by a grumpy old woman who complaints about anything under the son.
From many houses, pots, tubs
I'm begging my words
the alms of poems
I'm begging from-
the stars
sun to moon
star-spangled ship to the space, cosmos
the drop of the snow
the morn breeze of the autumn
smiling spring rose
the flying chirping birds
swimming pond fish
the shyness of new married woman
cats and dogs raining
matting snake or the quarrelsome butterfly and bee
a falling leaf on the calm water of pool and its ripple,
a puddle, urban smog
known-unknown inspiration or meditation
I'm begging my words
the alms of poems
silently, lovingly, timely
-Wednesday, July 31, 2019 Chattogram
AFTER DINNER CONVERSATION
We celebrated together
The birthday of a married woman
And her brother-in-law.
The table was beautiful
Laden with delicacies:
Ham, cheeses, the finest cured meats
Foie gras, caviar
Rice with truffles and braised beef cheeks
Made by the birthday woman's husband
Papa Pedo (Daddy Fart)
With good white and red wines
And a delicious cake, coffee, and shots.
All of us there were:
In-laws and their spouses
A single son and daughter
And two young children, ages 4 and 6.
The meal unfolded wonderfully
With great peace and harmony
As if everything were a French toast
With plenty of sugar and honey.
Afterwards, during after-dinner conversation
We played various card games
Drinking soft drinks and beer
To our heart's content.
When the little boy
Craved a shot
The word amused him greatly
His mother served him a shot of orange juice.
When he saw his uncle
Go to the refrigerator to get a beer
He wanted to get a can of soda instead.
Daddy Fart (Papa Pedo) opened it, scolding him
Telling him not to have the can
If he wanted, a shot
Or he'd throw the can of soda down the sink!
Which he did because the boy wanted the can
But not the shot.
The boy, at all costs
Fighting with his father
Tried to open the refrigerator
His father forcefully prevented him
The boy started crying his eyes out, shouting:
-I want my can of soda
I want my shot
I want my can of soda
I want my shot
Over and over again, many times.
Because of his crying
The card game ended
Leaving behind a hilarious spectacle
Around the table:
The couple arguing like crazy
The girl scratching her brother's back
The birthday boy
The birthday girl
Comforting her older son
So he wouldn't cry for his brother
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Papa Pedo
Defended the refrigerator
So the crying boy wouldn't get anything.
And the party ended
With us all leaving.
I read the sexiest man that a married woman knows
Is that guy who will clean the house
So I plugged in the vacuum cleaner
In an attempt to turn on my spouse
I made the beds and mopped the floors
Did the laundry and washed the dishes
I even cleaned the outside windows
For a chance to get my wishes
I scrubbed the tub and toilet, too
Used Lemon Pledge to dust the wood
I kept smiling the whole day through
Knowing my reward was going to be good
The trick seemed to work, she got all excited
And opened the drawer where sexy things she keeps
But when she returned all ready for me
I was in the bed and fast asleep