I wonder

I am actually wondering if people still like my poetry. I realised today I am not as prolific as I once was like 5-7 years ago. I also wondered if my poetry stills means anything to anyone. I know through my entire time writing in this blog for almost 11 years that it has been a bittersweet, but meaningful journey. I had my lows and highs. I was able to share some of them here. I was experimental, logical, emotive, attempting to positive and empathetic but also at times mislead. I am happy that I have grown up so much. Matured more than I could have ever realised when I have started. This has been a very personal and intimate journey for me. I have been very fortunate to have had it. I Thank Allah Almighty that I did. It means so much to me.

So, I wanna continue forward. I wanna keep on writing poems here. I wanna keep on experimenting and writing my feelings. If the years back was more an experimentation I think the years would be a mix of confessions and memoirs as well.

I wanna thank everyone who stuck by me as I kept on writing here. I hope to keep on writing more and more.

I feel Blessed that I can write. I Thank Allah Almighty. I just feel blessed to get to know these poems and also have them in me.

Continuing on the journey of writing poems

Much love and good luck and prayers to me and the readers ❤

Peripheral I

walking down the path
exploring the stoned pavement
clinking of my boots underneath
tingled with my breath

the night is vast and the sky vaster
as I move along; trying to know the streets
near my temporary home
as if I am sewed on them as buttons

passing a bus stop a blonde beauty with
her phone on and a man suddenly says
“five minutes” to me and I just move along
not letting him ruin my sense of liberation
that straddles my lungs and makes me feel
one with omnipresent strings and stabilities

reaching a lane that only goes down to
liquor stores and convenience shops
where cars slope down hills and adjacent
is a island like a park with few people trodding
it is not past midnight; hardly evening,
but this part of the world knows winter
as a solace of the hearth; warm meals and
lustful covers and perhaps the odd shift
looking onwards — with its half hilly and
urban scape everything — Leeds is breathtaking.

when I walk back home I know I will receive a call
from Mom past so many miles and seas
asking me if I have eaten and asking me
why my usual routine was overturned
and I can tell her of my boots clicking on stone
and me nibbling a quiet dinner by myself
thinking of her and others; heater on
and forgetting if a moon had been out
walking with me as well.—

*feels like a companion piece to Mari’s You Within

palm of a blue giant

a blue giant branched out in my palm
feeling me the force of love
pulsating in the corners of my smile
universalising my cure to frailty

each page then resounded a letter
that was me in the finest form
filled with peccadilloes but also purities
and the horse did not come to bring apocalypse
of a degeneration but a prince who was I
fighting with my sword and scimitar

an oasis branched out in my iris
a solar system of planets and stars
in the constellations of my all my deeds done
and all deeds to come
finding that I was bracketed as the moon
with the definition of suns

I glow because my luminosity
is the only one who I can proudly state was me.—

dichotomies on the move

you cusp me but I was already a cusp
my poison and pleasure all corroded and rusted
like a knight’s sword and shelter
an ambiguous sex that travels alone
with breasts hidden and chalice overturned
ripe as the green and an anomaly within some neo-structure
what is theory without practice? And, what is hypothesis without the daydream?
The lamb who sits with the lion is the predator; strangle the claws with sheers of clouds
sky meets earth; the tiger needs the night and the day
and I always thought the dichotomy in me
was a hybrid who ionised and deflected when needed
after all magnets know the method so does the madness
leaning on the serenity if iron; meteoric as I traverse the rainbow
storm meets heaven and nirvana meets the moss.—

a female’s tale

I suppose I will be understood — when I die?
that death be my proof seems such a simple thing
a cliche, a blinding light which has no priority: no proprioception.
I am not going to die, soon, if I am going to die at all
it is a stupid thing to make immortal the person who has no mortality
denying them their temporality is denying them the identity to live

so, I will not die today or tomorrow, or the day after, if I am able to hope so
— I will torture you with life, with my life, the life that you wish to deny me
I will live with, with my sins, blessings, regrets and asking my God for forgiveness
I will live it when I exhale and inhale, when I wear a burqa or a miniskirt to chide you
for trying to shame me for my veil and legs — for in each I brought the beauty of living
which you wanted to deny me — by a choker of silence, no fetish I gave consent to
no sexualisation I gave consent you. I am sexual in my billowy robes; modest as I bare my legs: my lips and eyes will insinuate life which you tried to martyr me for with the helm of the shirt, with the housework I will do and you will never give me credit for and the children I will raise but will respect you more and the precipice of my tongue wanting release — a smarting, shattering, constructing orgasm which you feel you will deny me and I am a slut to want for more.

You are the slut for being scared of me — scared of all that I can achieve and all that I am more — when I wore the apron to shine the bannisters or cook the food I am still a soldier battling as an architect, close to godliness, close to the apex of a trinity: soldier, sage and stable revolutionary with all the vices and virtues you needed and more. I am the same when I wear my shoes; those minimum pumps required by corporate to stand in toe in height with men; or, many a times look taller and deadlier than them anyway.  What they think is the erection of the tower of their own bones, so amazing right, just is an ivory tower of height not the tusk of the mammoth, or elephant, not the planetary audience — when I wear the proper shoes to school but fail because I am nice — because you wanted me to be but wanted a coquette too which I could not be and shamed me the once in a blue moon grades I got because you were afraid to admit you underestimated me. That I was out of your league.

My lips be nude or doused with rogue — or doused with the flames of gasoline fuel I will not die today, by immolation, by spears, stones, guillotine or bullets, or you choose to efface me day in and day out like acid rain on the face of what you think are statues. I will not die today of ennui, of boredom, of lack of recognition — I have my cognition, my gears, my sword, my stones, my glass shoe that I sharpened to my spear and I have the hijab, the nude hair, the scarf, the nun’s habit, the shaved head, the colour blue and the habit to be relentless in my bones and marrow. My flesh may have been born from a rib that means I can be you and more. That was the lesson you should have learned when you swallowed the fruit with me. I am poison. I am potion. I am elixir. I can be edenic in the core. I am a rampaging beast but I also show the compassion of brotherhood and sisterhood. I am XX. I am what some call woman. I am mostly female. I write the laws of the feminine. Not you. Queer or straight. Religious or secular. I am irreplaceable. I am the rib you need and the fruit you will want to swallow. I can kill the serpent, the trickstar. Both the sinner and the saint. I will not die today. I live in everything in the ether.

How to Win an Argument With Your Misogynistic Boss – Hacker.Ninja.Hooker.Spy.

Sometimes there are a few instances you get pretty annoyed and livid. When you meet dehumanising pieces of shit (I had to curse).

Below is a link Aussa Lorens about working with her boss. It is absolutely horrendous experience. I mean I was shocked he had a gall to say all of these things to his employee.

Then again one of my ex-bosses was a misogynist too. Not to mention not many men could also work with him because he had such a discourtesy for human decency and personal dignity. One of his longest employees is a man but that’s because he “acts dumb” in front of him to get by. No one can stay with him for long as he starts attacking your shortcomings like a shredder with paper.

That person also gave penalties to people for questioning him (maybe it was one time but it wasn’t right). One of his most talented employees was a woman and she had fights with him due to his pretty irrational and demeaning behaviour. There was once an incident where the young woman was so irate with him she said, “Perhaps, you should just give this article your name as you changed so much of it.” And he gave her a cold, stink eye and replied: “For the next couple of issues your name won’t be added to to your articles.” As in ity would just label “Staff Correspondent” or, something. That is the epitome of rudeness.

I digress. Going back to Aussa it seems her boss has hired her to just complain about women to her.

Boss: “You always do this. No matter what I say you’re going to come back and say it’s what I wanted or what I didn’t want.”

Me: “Wait. Are we talking about the same thing? It’s me, Aussa, your employee. Not the girl who dumped you when you were a freshman in college.”

Boss: “I know how women work. You’re all like this and you don’t even know. I’m very good at reading people, you would think it was funny if you could see how similar you all are.”

Me: *decides to just look at iPhone so he will stop talking*

I mean then wouldn’t that by correlation make all men alike as well?

Well, it continues to get worse:

“Watch how the waitress doesn’t even look up when the door opens. But all the men in here pay attention. It’s so funny to me how oblivious women can be. I guess it’s all evolutionary though— men are the ones who had to protect everyone. Women just needed to be a pretty thing to take back to your cave.”

It’s called waitressing. It’s a fucking job. She is not gonna look up all the time as she is fucking doing work like getting your fucking order. Many men workers in these kinds of services I have seen are impersonal fuck. It’s like if they get a better job their manners go with it at times. You know who are more helpful than women in these kinds of jobs? If you go to Morrisons in the UK, perhaps not all branches, or even Boots, you will see the male workers there will take your empty cups for you and stuff and not act holier than thou like some of the female employees I have met. They also don’t like you are POC but the men don’t care. Yeah, it’s not evolutionary. It’s how you are raised. Actually, one of my friends, who is male, said that men were considered more expendable at times as women bore children and took care of well the next generation (or, such is implied). Women also protected. Just because protection styles are different doesn’t mean they each had lesser value you horrible human being.

My Boss:“Well it’s a lot harder for us guys. Women just want to be provided for. I’ve read a lot of books about it. Women need security. But for us, we need someone who is fun to be around but then she has to be attractive or else we can’t help it if our eyes wander. Sometimes a girl is really cool but you just know that you’re going to end up sleeping with someone who’s better looking. But it’s in our biology.”

Me:*looks at iPhone so he will stop talking*

My Boss:“I know you don’t like to hear this, but I’m just being rational. You women always take things personally because you’re emotional, but I’ve read a lot of books about this topic.”

Let me  get this straight. You compare all women to be like well similar or same and then accuse Aussa for taking things personally when you started it. I have seen men lie to people and date (seen women do that too). Men considered less qualified than me in the so-called social strata get women from all walks of life be interested in them. You know who had trouble dating? Me. But you don’t see me blaming all men all the time to my employers or employees or even my friends. I mean many people don’t like me. They think either I am too childish, too flawed or not beautiful or matured enough. I mean if what this jerk said is true I should have had over million + dates like every other day even with his logic of disloyalty as I am said I am fun and funny. So, yeah even before migrating to another person a person should have a fling with me right? So, how come that doesn’t happen? It doesn’t happen because not all men and women are like a disgusting wreck like you, you stupid boss of misogyny and misandry.

Finally, if Aussa, a woman, is so fucking incompetent and it’s in her DNA why did you hire her? Why did you spend all this money on her as her employer? Why did she stay despite you being a jerk till now and try to help you? Why is it that she is the one you decided to complain about all women to? Are you scared saying this to someone of equal standing in the workforce? Are you afraid to say these things to a woman you wanna date?

Doesn’t that make you incompetent as fuck to hire her then? 

Shut your mouth you mollycoddled idiot. You just wanted a nanny not an employee.

 

via How to Win an Argument With Your Misogynistic Boss – Hacker.Ninja.Hooker.Spy.

Dreamforce’s ‘Women’s Innovation’ panel is why we should stop babying female CEOs

When offered the opportunity to attend a woman-focused panel at a major event, my sanity-defense sensors begin to fly. It’s true that I believe that female

Source: Dreamforce’s ‘Women’s Innovation’ panel is why we should stop babying female CEOs

What My Uterus Can Teach You About Being a Tech Leader — Medium

But Rahm Emanuel had also apparently been unimpressed with the focus on Wojcicki’s role as a mother of five instead of her groundbreaking contributions to the tech industry. As the session wrapped up — and you can see the tail end of the interview at the 40:30 mark of this video — he said,

“Can I say one thing? You know, I watched your interview with the CEO of YouTube. You know your first four questions to her were about her children and you didn’t ask either one of us about our kids?… If you want to get to know Ari and me, we could spend until four in the morning talking about our kids.”

Well said, Mr. Mayor, well said.

Spoiler alert: my uterus doesn’t have much to say on the matter of technology and how it can improve people’s lives, though my brain has…

Source: What My Uterus Can Teach You About Being a Tech Leader — Medium

I do find this a problem really. You are doing no woman or man a favour by only reiterating their maternal or paternal instincts. I am not happy that this is pretty still undertaken by interviewers. Being a mother and father may not completely compliment what a person’s job style or thing is. And asking females/women constantly what sort of mother or pregnancy they are having is sexist. Unless, it had a point. I think the fact that she can balance these things is a testament to her strength but to only focus on that and not show her work ethic is going nowhere. No man or woman in such interviews needs to reiterate to the world that they are a parent. That can be done in other ways.

When Woman Is Boss: Nikola Tesla on Gender Equality and How Technology Will Unleash Women’s True Potential | Brain Pickings

I like a lot of articles from brainpickings.org and I like to reblog many to all of them if I could. I really liked this article as well. I hope it can be enjoyed with many of Maria Popova’s other works.

via When Woman Is Boss: Nikola Tesla on Gender Equality and How Technology Will Unleash Women’s True Potential | Brain Pickings.

shapes of woman

 

in the pretext and pretense of a stare
gazes up, paraded on, like a sort
of assorted DNA vectoring packaged
and turn sour; plasticity and plastic
shiv darts of stares and shivering and
triggering from the ostensible practice —

— how do humans so discreetly, discretely possess the habit
of partition of the body? As a woman there is a heightened language
rampaging like a great quake and mortar frost and yet even the silences
are swords and pulleys and daggers and catapults but then it is decimated
to a vulgarity of petiteness , the small of her back, a inline curved inside of a
hip; rippling binary breasts — a ruin, a margin-space in which one is  situated,
jabbed and pixelated in body-morphs hardly able to yell in fear of corseted lungs!
And the cone of peticoats and the padding of stray bras. The empire and parliament
and grapevine and cities and meadows of vagina, clitoris and sensational walls that
have no immediate beginning and end is reduced to a limited scope of “hole”, “fingered
hole”, “fucked hole” and a weird confectionery name of “creampies” and “gaping” — was
there a shortage of sugar somewhere? It felt as though a wide atrium, arc, landscape,
individuality there — walked on by inhabitants was suddenly dropped like a odd
rocket and soon everything felt sterile and medicinal and atomically just vacant.

Her mouth was caught. She had began to speak a language of her own. She tripped on tongues
and the grainy fields of taste buds succulent and non-succinctly abiding into the throes of her
broad and screaming rib-cage. Accentuated its muscles with a glass of air and a whole bag, bags
of air and felt liberated. It was not cantankerous but music. She felt like the men at construction
who could be hard and soft at the same time and never told that they were eunuchs. It pained her
these silhouettes their animosity clicked and chipped in her heels as she attended the dinner with
the dying concaved grace of a swan feeling a snag of death that comes from fatigue and exhaustion.
Elsewhere a maid marveled at her dress and thought differently — she thought that this beauty could run
and breathe and smoke and chastise and scream and maul and jump and skip and dress nice wherever
she pleased and all she could do is be called a “maid” and be lesser than a woman who had breasts as her
not knowing its because of suspicious “non-symmetrical” body position, done firstly by breasts, that the
socialite and the maid were one and so they both wear glass slippers ready to break and put gnaws on
their feet. Cinderella was the maid who attended the ball. She was both princess and a worker. Glass heels
may break if you climb up high. That is why construction workers wear boots. Boots and harness. They can
spiral. They can be dads, money-making people, brothers and even amateur stamp collectors. A socialite
is always that and a maid is mostly that. Known only by the glass heals that they wear. Their coexistent
language find it hard to see each other. Because they cannot feel the vital need to undress and go running
in a pool to dive. They are submerged in some useless corners of fixed places.

Mentally ill women are equivalent to lepers. They are ostracized as soon as their neurosis detected. Those
of a masculine, male path are given lesser punishment and chances to override the possibilities of breakdown.
Males, having affairs, trysts even experimental sodomy and then with a cup of tea can watch all the pornography
to addle their minds. Their brains numbed, their erections pressed and pounded, they feel in masturbation a sense
of autonomous self and a societal paternity to help them rid them of blisters and sores. They have rooms in the
social laboratories of the world even if it be religiously or secularly frowned upon — a boy, a lad, doing what he does
it’s no star struck anxiety. It’ll tame by all the necessary outings and goings between home-life and street-walking-life.
Though there are dangers he is told, encourage that is manhood is strong, in mind and body and can overcome. Hysterically
Historically — female who do not smile 24/7th are a plague, those who smile 24/7th are a plague. Those who cry in unhappiness
should be sent in sanitoriums and kept there to die. Desperation leads to coerced fitful spasms of something that becomes a crude
line attempt at sex or even affection and even their participation makes them “sluts” and “teases” and “bitches” and “slags” and
much much more. If she is too quiet she is boring; but if she is talkative she is a pest. Pornography shows women in positions
that made them scratch their head for last time a test made that look and feel pretty painful. Constructed fantasies that aren’t
her own make her blitzy and she doesn’t know what pleasure is. Just scraps and scrapes at some corridors running just to
get a climax nor else the erection won’t go down. Her morning erection feels painful, knocks out sleep but she still gotta put
out breakfast. And of course if she wants to do anything out of the ordinary people will type her off, other women will too
there are no porn magazines, no gaming tournaments and no tea-party rock for her. In extended isolation, of knowing there
are existing bodies who wouldn’t give a rat about her body she loses it! Screams it! Pounds the walls! — yeah they called
the cops! In shackles and tagged as maddie she is leftover of some system gone bad. No one asks why a person would do
that.

For a woman is usually called a woman first, a person later.  There is something asymmetrically true about a woman even in
her symmetrical decline to madness and grief….— it is manifested strength in different dimensional chronologies that are not
always the linear lisps of boredom.

Woman, like man and yet kept distanced by some added differences. But why is that when you converse with them over cups
of tea you feel that in your male reflection she had added tea-leaves that show you yours as well as her own?▬