"fistula" poems
As I Move Out,
Butterflies Welcome Me,
Seeing Their Punctuality,
I Bow To Thee,
Further I Keep Moving
To The District Park
The Aroma Of Golden Flowers
Fully Fills Within Of Me.
That miraculous Gift
I Get From Cassia Fistula
That Are In Full Glory
Because Of Its Flowers,
The Cuckoos Coo
And The Peacocks Dance
Fully Drenched I Am
In The Coolest Showers.
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 3:58 AM UTC
How does it feel?
To be a girl,
And to bleed,
Whenever we create
Something beautiful.
The dunce cap
Fills the void;
Where the crown should be.
Life grew
And fed, from these *******
Now ripped apart,
Pieces of shame.
Judas’s Cradle,
Destroyed our flesh.
Left us humiliated,
Like Lady Godiva
Hours of ******
From impalement
In spite of Eve
Whom bit the apple.
Hot irons,
Through vitality’s tunnel
To fallow the holy book,
The Malleus Maleficarum.
Confession induced stoning
Drowning, burning
Just to be whipped like animals
For social bonding.
The battles of power
With the entertainment of ****
Still two Hundred years of
Forced sterilization.
A pear of anguish,
For the miscarriages
A coffin,
For the son.
Who can be civil?
When survival
Even today,
Is about exploitation.
A dowry for obstetric fistula,
In Pakistan.
Under the union of god’s will,
Of course.
The ****** test
Out lives the Bison,
Only still being bred
For the hunt
Mutilation for those,
In Southern Sahara.
Huge abscesses,
To cover the curse.
The breaking wheel
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
THE HAUNTING
The smell of fresh begonias fanned
by rooks and sparrows
from the black ‘n’ white tiled balcony
glowing in a sunset the colourof lovebites
then the candle-glow dims
in the fanfare of light
you switch on from the hall
filling the frosted door like cancer
announcing another re-run
of a once OK drama
played out night after night
wearing me down with your claims
to what you believe is rightfully yours
Excalibur arm pointing your ways
I’m either paralysed or paralytic,
hard to choose as I’m dumbed down
by the never ending story
of your nightly return mocking
the symmetry of your eviction
which gave me a callous, relieved joy …
I’d put your bags back on the threshold
right back where you’d stood
with your Betty Blue smile
expecting me to invite you in
with a pout and a shout
about that ******* kicking you out
Good God, then as now you struck
fear into the very heart of me
Is it still enchanting?
Do you thrive on eternal return?
You linger, shadow filling in the flakes
With your useless key before knocking.
Stop. You. Again. Shape-shifter
Black strychnine swab
Running through me like a swallowed blood clot
making my emptiness fistula full
Listening to your black-bordered rap
of funeral amazement delivering your message
That you’ll return eery night
to reclaim what you say is yours
buried in these walls like a tic.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
I’ve lost count of the weeks.
Grief has made its own calendar.
The pandemic stopped what ambition started
I surrender.
4th March 2020:
My mother has died
I can't close my eyes tonight
not because I am afraid of falling asleep
but of waking up in a tomorrow
where she does not exist.
Behold, the audacity!
I never accepted night,
and still, the sun creeps up
across the jagged Tokyo skyline
ascending the tower ladder,
bouncing off windows,
pushing apart curtains
pouring in from all crevices
as the city flips up
person by person,
onto its stuporous hustle,
as if nothing happened.
-----------------------------------------
Amazing Grace:
A million poems came to hold up my heart
as it fell apart
in my mother's death
I had prepared for this moment,
but what preparations suffice,
when air is wrenched away from breath?
I could write the saddest lines,
sadder than Neruda's
but the tales of her glory
have a more engaging story
to tell.
What would she have said
when she saw herself tagged
in her obituary?
she always counted the likes
and read the comments I receive,
rejoicing momentarily,
in what, she claimed, was borrowed fame.
And now I grieve.
My frantic efforts to capture screenshots
whenever we face-timed,
so I could hoard
her presence.
Oh, bless her essence!
even though her skin-clad bones
had lost the cushion of flesh,
even though the bruit
of the fistula in her left arm terrified me
like a constant 'low-battery' signal,
when she managed to hug me, breathlessly,
that last time,
it was an exchange
of the most amazing grace:
her pain wrapped in patience,
mine in gratitude.
-----------------------------------------
Retrospective Realizations:
And suddenly,
I remember all the condolence messages I have ever written
and retrospectively fill them
with feel, only now revealed to me.
My best compassion and empathy paled in comparison
to this reality.
Death is inevitable; mortality, inescapable.
but life,
with its enticing persistence to carry on,
is cruel.
-----------------------------------------
The poem ends but the pain doesn't:
The real mourning starts
when the visitors leave
and the phone calls end
and the messages stop pouring in,
when you have to resume living
but the dead can't un-die.
Arshia.
22.4.2020
#onewritingaweek
#weekunknown
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
The night she met her doom
Alone,she walked down the street
To spent The evening in solitude
As the sun had gone east
Beautiful, vibrant and free
Young,wild but a teen
Before her ***** was broken
Her girl pride stolen
John doe hid in the woods
Scrutinizing the neighborhood
For a victim to the terror of his room
And wicked relief of his manhood
Suddenly,her hand were clasped
Mouth gagged,legs trapped
She screamed with no sound
As the beast tore her blouse
15,she was in her prime
16,men took her pride
17,fought to be alive
18,finding a switch to her light
Diagnosed and gifted with fistula
From **** that remains a stigma
The night and woods she will always remember,
As she fights to be a survivor
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
They sharpen the knife
Not to shape my life
But to make me someone's wife
That will lead to a strife
They want to bleed me dry
They don't care if I cry
They are not even shy
To push my legs wide open,why?
The scars will last till eternity
Have I mentioned infertility
My ****** will now be with great difficulty
What about the infections due to increased susceptibility
I once had a dream of marrying Abdul Bhula
But because of the risk of obstetric fistula
How can a woman not have a child and be a ruler
Then she will cry having conversations with God in a Dua
If they care
Let them not dare
To do the same to my sister Leah
I know the pain she can't bare
To silence the voices inside my head
This practices must be dead
For our daughters to live happily wed
We have to forget the outdated practices of the dead
© Lone Star ✨ poet
® Jerusa Mentrin
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 3:34 PM UTC