|17 Feb 2003 @ 18:42, by Ambika Talwar|
This is my poem in protest--I found that I was becoming all consumed for the last few days and now here it is. And I shall now recover and return to my jolly self. Interestingly, tomorrow poets are speaking out all over the country. Sing the good songs and feel the positive prayers in you reverberating all over to all peoples of our amazing universe...
With my love and my warmest hugs -- Ambika
When Will You Remember?
I am a stranger to your page, to your heart
I am but words spinning in all directions
I shall pretend then to be your sister in verse
I am your sister
I am your betrayed sister
I am the sister you violated with your language
and then with your creations.
You destroyed a part of you and I am still.
I am your great-great grandmother
and I have borne you grandparents, parents
I have borne you sons and daughters
I have borne you grandchildren
and your tears of salt, that too, I am.
I am your child--that once was robust.
When was the last time you held me
in your arms and showed me the rainbow
and told me stories of all our lands? Instead,
you steal my food and give me a bloating belly,
bulging eyes, and uranium bones.
I am the window to your mortality.
You come from me and find the light
and learn the wisdom of the darkness.
You swim in my waters and feed on me.
You climb my pinnacles and claim victories.
Throughout all our histories you dance
with bandy old legs and look for fame.
I am not your fame. Nor am I your fortune--
But. All these came from me --
the tree you climbed as a child--I am that,
the puddles you played in--those pudding
pies--mudchocolatemanna in your
gurgling hands--I am that,
those rivers you sailed reminding you
that you never see the same river twice--that
too, I am--Each moment reveals the wonder
of you--I am but your mirrored moments,
a spectrum of human emotions--joy and terror too.
Am I still a stranger to your page? To your heart?
Am I a sister betrayed? A brother? A grandmother?
Who shall contain you when you die?
I am your sexing--your pleasure giver
across all lands. The stories of your birth
come from me--all kisses eternal, both life
and death, the river of torment, the anguish
are all borne of me--All religions, races and gods
are borne of me-- And right now
I am very very angry. Even in my anger,
I am fragile. Even in my anger, I am
enormously beautiful. Even in my anger
I am your destiny. And I shall not let you
destroy me, for I shall haunt you till you,
a spectral waif, beg for mercy. And no one shall
be here to forgive you if you push all the buttons.
I am your destiny--Better so in life, in sweet pleasure.
So hear my anger or you shall grow blinder.
See my supersonic cloudburst that my eyes
can no longer contain--these tears, hot and sad.
This hatred of my body, you who were borne
of my insides, borne of my tremors, passions,
loves, ecstasy, tears, laughters, digestive juices you.
You salt of the earth! Hear, how long will
you move in your hatred of sweet pleasures
that bring you to fruition? What lies and deceits
must you weave, and pretend that you are men?
Wise men know better. Women, too.
So what have you forgotten? Why?
When will you remember that I was made
for you to protect me, to love me, to enjoy me
to nurture me, to dry my tears, to feed me,
to drink of me, to be proud of what you made of
your time with me--so I can do the same for you--
So that you can be proud
of the stories that you wove with me?
When will you remember?
I am womb. Mother of All Peoples, All Life.
I am all Womb Against Mass Destruction.
This, my proud and angry river,
I spill on the pages of your consciousness.
On the contents page, I am titled "Humility."
Come to your knees.
Read me--I am the story of all generations.
(the web site is still under repair--but do keep the link for later on)