"subservience" poems
Yes, I'm a girl and I'm not trying to justify my body language nor am I positioning the rights of a feminist on the top, but
Yes, I was questioned always, even when I was right.
Subservience was legitimized as my trait ever since I felt this world.
Every time when I was buckled under by his lecherous eyes, I was asked to adjust my dupatta well.
Every action of mine substantiated the height to which I'll hold the name of my family.
I was asked to cross legs while sitting, speak amicably, yet not solitously.
Every time I'd to hide my period stain like a ****** blot.
I was asked to gallop my cramps because letting it out is a bitter sin.
Yes, I get my body scanned by their lewd gaze day in and out even when I put my baggiest of clothes on.
Yes, I'm a girl, and I have beautiful synonyms, call me maal, patola, bomb, ***** *** or a girl? May be, let yourself decide.
Yes, I'm questioned on the extension of the Roti's that I make and the smiles that I couldn't fake.
Yes, I'm a girl and I'll stand, and question your authority if it calls for, call me stubborn. Okay!
Remember, I'm a girl, and if you accuse me of being a feminist if I know, and can raise my tone up and against your authority, humanism needs to be checked then.
-APARAJITA TRIPATHI
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Shackled by whims and desires.
The selfless and the selfish, Danse Macabre.
Who holds the key to these manacles?
Is it me?
Or is it you?
You are the spider and I dance through your tangled web of desire.
But your desires cannot be sated by my sacrificial offerings.
Do you desire at all, my dear?
You skitter through the woven webs, devouring the innocents trapped in silken tombs.
I beg of you master, please, show your mercy to your subservient.
Release me so I may release you.
******* is not becoming of you.
1/1/2016
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Cool, gentle air
glides across my face.
Strains of hydrangeas
mingle with THC
and sweet, cheap, fermented
grain alcohol.
The stillness
knocks the breath from
My lungs.
Wafts of voices drift
across the swaying trees
mingling
with the steady chirp of
crickets and a lone car puttering
in the distance.
A gentle whistle
Like the start of piano concerto
No. 15
crescendes
to the roar
Of a thousand bullfrogs
Straining to hit a high note.
Trees bow
To the iron god,
Voices melt into the grating
Metal monster
Declaring their
Subservience.
The air rushes and then
Disappears
Just as suddenly
And the voices return
and the crickets hum their
chorus
and the stillness
whispers
crescendos
screams.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
tell me how to strip off this breastplate
and dress myself in pure, lace bodice
washed in all shades of subservience,
when lilith herself taught me
to bare to no man —
bow to no man.
the soil of these lands are built on liberation;
your ribs stake no claim
to what they do not own.
they merely return to dust and ashes —
the very material
of the land you betrayed —
the land you watched burn down,
and i'll tell you this:
this land, it will drift, shake, crumble
to create a catacomb big enough
for all the deaths
you deserve.
honey, this is no prophecy.
this is no threat.
this is justice out of the ribs
of those who'd fallen;
this is justice at the hands of the oppressed.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 2:53 AM UTC
The side profile of a four-poster bed
Was supposed to be the image of luxury
Not the decadent tomb of my comfort
The sanctuary of solitude and rest
Broken by the presence of you and your four limbs
Awaiting the sleep
Shadows in the dark take on greater forms
And the light shed from the doorway behind your skin
Brings no clarity as you lumber closer
Blocking out the hope of dying lights
With a crack
The weight of your head brings you down
Crashing into metallic springs and I am lifted
In that moment
On the thought that maybe
You have lost your consciousness
Perhaps only your conscience
As your hands slither over the flesh of my
Sanctuary
Routine, my arms lash
Your palms in forceful contact with my forearms
Growing, as you rise to bear over me
My sanctuary shrinking, tight
I relax you say, in pleasure
In subservience
In submission and hopelessness
As I retreat behind my eyes, I rely on my one freedom
To move within the corners of my mind
If not the four corners of this bed
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
Empty glasses sit like soldiers at attention.
8 wide, 10 thick;
ranks for drunks.
The business of boredom
beats the barmaids and patrons
into service,
or subservience.
We are watched over
by flickering eyes
which could
stop
staring
at any moment.
Loneliness is a half-pint.
I'm glad my glass is full.
I'm glad the barmaid wears checks on her stockings.
I'm glad the barmaid reads.
I'm glad the economy is ******
so economists have something to make them feel interesting.
I'm glad the lesbians found feminism;
instead of Jesus.
I'm glad for the sad eyed, gray haired drunks
that live off Marlboro Red's and dream-fumes.
I'm glad the roof is stained with memories:
postcards
sketches
photographs
an old box of pills.
And I love you because you're a **********
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
you're the cream of the crop.
mom and dad are proud of you.
this
is the day you've been waiting for.
i don't claim to understand you,
but i can't honestly say i'd like to.
the blue gown that means so much to everyone around you
whispers of the things you gave up,
the opportunities you've missed,
to be here today.
the whispering cloak falls victim to the applause that breaks out
as you claim your place at the podium
top
of the class.
you've worked hard. there's no doubting that.
you're a multi-faceted gem of talent and intellect.
which in reality is subservience and obedience.
i don't doubt that had you not urinated on your passion
i might have respected you some day.
but honestly. i'm happy for you.
the diploma will look stunning on your wall
next to all of your other shining achievements
along with your jarred "talents" and canned pleasantries
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 2:19 AM UTC
Cassandra,
I see you in the words
of Greta Thunberg:
Filled with passion, warnings, truth.
Not believed.
Cassandra,
I see you in the dreams
of Calpurnia;
warning Caesar, bloodied earth
Not believed.
Cassandra,
I see you in the protections
of Tony Stark;
made with fear, love
Not believed.
Did they tell you to smile more?
Ask you why you’ve “gotten involved”?
Did they belittle your prophecy,
Ignore warning after warning?
Ignore you?
Mad woman, hysterical.
You, angered Apollo
Or
Was he always angry?
Did he believe himself so worthy
of your love that he cursed
not having it?
I don’t know.
You probably told someone
We know how that would have ended,
Cassandra,
I see you in the testimonies
of Christine Blasey Ford,
so hurt, pained, strong.
Not believed.
Were you told to sit quietly, mind your place?
When you were attacked was it your body
She defended
Or
Her own desiccated image?
Maybe you told the trees of
Ajex’s sins, because even if
the men listened,
A statue protected him from justice.
Cassandra,
I see you in the words
of impassioned protestors
so bright, so young.
Not believed.
Maybe if you told them lies
they'd believe the truth.
Maybe if you told the truth
they'd believe the lies.
Believe anything you said.
Darling Cassandra
possible bride of Apollo.
definite belonging of King Agamemnon.
Did his children believe you?
Are you a warning to women?
Love who you are told to.
Bow to authority or
Never give up.
Are you a criticism of men?
Demanding of love.
Expecting subservience.
Justice not served.
Cassandra,
I see you in myself,
the pain they caused
the light going out
I am not believed.
Cassandra,
Does it get better?
Have you received the peace you so deserve?
Or are you still
Not believed.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:01 PM UTC
They christened me Pink
in my downy, natal cradle.
It was then that I received my yoke:
I was to pale
'neath the obscure shadow of the Blue--
my rosy blanket-veil of subservience,
swaddled eternal in woman's dues.
They christened me soft
and henceforth i was to give, and so I gave
and caved to the ferocities of Indigo-coated generals.
i must always Behave!
They christened me not
a mindless bot;
I think, reason, and ponder.
So I made the trade from rose to sky
and have since found it ever fonder.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
for some
their sexuality
is intimately tied
to curves and licks of pain
and their own
abject destruction
trussed, ornate
for a brutality
that accentuates
****** lucidity
in the dark caverns
of a perforceive mind
and o so willing body
which
like bruised piano keys
in a triumphant concerto
of ecstasy
aspires
to be played hard
like Rachmaninoff's
beaten ivories
finding immense pleasure
in constant crises
stretched
between the entwined
demand of desire
and the need
for a
a depraved ritual
of exquisite subservience
imposed
by an idyllic master
sweeten the world
my darling
honey machine
industrious slave
bend my beloved
like the weighted ridge pole
are you ready to break
oh princess
of cruel inflictions
that intoxicate
with onerous dark thrills
the sway of your writhe
where pleasure is piqued
by perfect suffering
blood glitter paradise
she beckons
from hells shadowed doorway
enter my love
enter
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
Crush these tired old bones,
squeeze the sadness from the marrow,
grind to dust the pieces of me
and toss it to the wind…
for I am nothing without you
I would rather be crushed
By the plight of humanity than
succumb to the subservience
of apathy.
Let us be the architects of our flesh,
rebuild the house of our souls.
Let’s create our own fingerprints
so that when you come searching for
me beneath the rubble of humanity
I know which hand to reach for.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
Woe to you, my dear Epsilon! You were ill-fated by machines,
Those that breathed life into your *****
Those that brought bliss to puppeteers.
Alas, poor Epsilon! You cannot dismantle the tower,
For you are of bad faith, the roots grew deep
Far beyond lamentation.
Play me a song, foolish Epsilon! Express to me your sorrow,
Compose for me the hymn of your alienation,
A requiem for subservience.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 10:43 AM UTC
Amandla!
Locked in societies cages where the sunlight streaked in with
black and white uniforms with bars and batons
to hold them in place
shackled to their destines
to die in policies polluted by skin and colour
these people fought against
The oppressors determination to reduce
An entire nation to subservience
Until one man swam against the apartheid tide
To a prison of meaning.
At last in the wide open spaces
Where freedom grew with the flowers
With chains of people dancing in the streets
Of hope in the future
Alas the high tide turned against
Them and those at the front row who lead
The back row to brutality soon found
The dancing invited the shackles again
And they all locked themselves in the same suffering
As before, one by one.
Except no one they could blame somebody else
but his own black brother.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
Constantly averting controversy,
Hurting from unnerving problems.
Not the worst thing I've unearthed inside,
The birth of mind-disturbing strife attacks my life, so I
Turn the knife and end the plight, cause
That's the kind of fright that strikes the right delight I see in sight.
In darkest night, sin harkens.
Vibrant demons mark their silent dealings with violence.
Screaming stops my lungs, no breathing,
Retreating feelings try to stop the gun from ringing,
But the voice inside my head that's pleading
Remains important and so appeasing.
Like a fiend I resort to that deemed purport,
A pristine contortion of me and distortion,
A means for war, hence demons worsen.
Cursed, I've seen adverse **********
Burned, at least the urn was worth it.
Dreams are but a sea of urges,
Waves of hurt; a ****** circus.
Earth was keen to be so perfect,
But dirt, it seems, reversed its purpose,
Purged of peace by scheming serpents.
Words convene to verse excursions
Terse, obscene, and birth diversion.
Learn to breathe when yearn disperses,
Purely seek to preserve incursion.
When earnest deeds immerse subservience,
Evil creeds are sure to surface,
But thoughts serene will soothe the burdens.
Heaps of greed control these words,
Though, predisposed in certain versions.
Weeds they grow in fields of ferns, and,
No one seems to know the urgence.
Flowing streams bring treacherous currents,
Twists and turns that reap insurgence.
Since discernment keeps deterrents,
Court the beast with immense observance,
Or disease will curse life's brief occurrence.
Treat the deepest ravine of courage
With leniency so peace emerges.
Dreams are but a grieving circus,
That creep beneath your bleeding surface,
Seizing leagues of zealous verbiage,
Leaving hurt to skirt loves purpose, return concernment;
Submerge the cures for feeling worthless.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC
Counting strands in laces
Tucking the dangleys
Into my boot
The spaces
From the chain
Remaining
Healthily
Away
As I Peddle away
In the rain
Makin the same
Mistakes
Again
Light headed
Escapes
Fading into
Landscapes
Placated
By this spaceship
And riding it
Into the wind
Wallowing
In its glint
Grinning
In the ambiance
Subservience
Unto the stretches
Fetching this
Fire inside
Felt
While I
Ride
The back roads
Dark and cold
Forboden
And alone
I'm riding home
Hoping for
The worst
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
man emerges from this
darksome ether.
this: time suspended
in the ballpark, without fetters.
i have dreamt the truth
of my vicarious call.
is it not that my measures secure
these constitutions
of ineffable fruitions?
it is likened to our heartland's
acrimonies: dreaming in the
misty vale of sleep is the word
and its insistent void,
riddled by amorous intent
of barefaced realisms.
there is nothing here but
subservience of fantasy's burlesque fanfare
on broad vaudeville.
man sinks into the bottom
of this, rests in the
soft hands of this earth-woven
word - a poem's importunate nativity where all supremacies
are born ceaselessly!
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
A flag does not deserve allegiance.
It is only a symbol woven in cloth.
It does represent truth or justice
but the expanding providence
Of undue influence;
Mind controlled population
subservience
to the country you were born in
by chance.
Though it may be pretty
flapping in the wind
it is not a worthy friend
to any woman or man.
It is merely a symbol
waving for the those
who cannot understand
life is more complicated
than their flag lets on.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have
many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,
what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face
chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings
You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.
Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,
I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate
into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness. Delicate essence
the neon sign says, glaring through the
glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
separate had no omen of rain.
I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,
feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.
It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 5:03 AM UTC
Fellow reader, before you abandon this piece,
won't you consider this poem once more?
Before you leave this work to criticize another,
were these rhymes truly such an eye sore?
Here's an amateur at hand, a beginner at the game,
I have already admitted my subservience.
Will the expert assist the rookie today?
Or decline to be thoughtful and courteous.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Should I sell my subservience
of my mind, body and soul
to boss at work?
How much freedom
should my self retain
from my boss?
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
As if dinosaurs still ruled they fool us with the roars of presidents, school us in subservience , whip us into obedience and promise us the carrot cake.
Let them take the high road and they're going to take us down, they're going to sell us off as building blocks,
they're taking us to town.
Wake up and wake up soon, the morons have an auction lot, it's what we call the Moon,
They're selling us, not telling us and there's nothing we can say, except
what grandad once told me,
Dinosaurs have had their day, our turn to rise will come and then we'll watch those buggers run, grandad used to swear a lot but mostly he was right.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
A
tete a tete in Bishopsgate and bankers flock to nine o clock,
trading floors and trading ****** bonded to the company stores
and we're all tied to deals they make and still tied by the deals they break,it takes a special kind of man to formulate this master plan to keep us in subservience,we servants will forever be
pawns to their(duplicitous) meritocracy.I would say **** 'em all ,but I said that once before and now they walk all over me as they walk across the trading floor.
I guess it's breakfast down at Tiffany's, passing those poor folk brought to their knees,
Jeez
I'm getting hungry.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
The templars took the cross
and made it a religion rose
a psychological overseen dome
of acquiesce and admiration
What if there weren't any slaves?
only mercenaries who craved
for power and a subservience rave
across the vast seas and distances
We trace the Omlec race in Americans
way before Colombus leaped his strides
as they left scented archeological remnants
of basalt and granite sculptured rights
The templars took the cross
and created glorified corded bonds
aesthetically covered with an overseer
of utter deceit and embellished conmanship
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC
coming into view
WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE!
you are not as weak as you pretend
you are not as frightened
as you'd have us believe
---
greed
the master
the king
the guru
the thief
the king
------------
in softly placed down images
all are known
-------------------------------------
---------------------------------
and so...again!
we are such lovely specimens, such creatures of wonder!....
such the munificence of our possibility
such the splendor revealed once we stop hiding
within the ignorance of hero worship and subservience!
....
thank nobody but yourself!,,,,, serve all creatures as yourself!
yield to nothing but your TRUE SELF!
who is really the fool?
who is really fooling anyone?
........
to say "i love you" is easy
but not as easy as TO LOVE
..........
feeling grateful all the time
for human greatness and possibility
for you are the source of strength
the seed of pregnant possibility
each and every body
surly this is easily known
----------------------
the love songs linger
the thieves slip into your mind
demanding credit and gratitude
but we are simple thus wise
we are not afraid
of our strength
and so our love survives
to feed the children
and the world again
-----------
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 7:41 PM UTC