Poetry (Unnamed)
by Adriana Nordin Manan

Early morning arrives; a new day is here,
In its bitterness you start working,
Without a hint of hesitation.

The children have been awaken,
Told to bathe; please hasten,
But hush as you move,
The man of the house is still asleep,
Disrupt him from slumber and havoc shall be wreaked.

The morning meal is on the mat with frayed edges and holes,
Enough for five mouths which don't include yours,
Your nine-year-old is told to take not even a bite,
But to instead feed her brothers aged eight, six and five.

Beads of sweat slide free,
As you shoulder tasks so heavy,
The sun burns in its entirety,
Your company while slaving ever so tirelessly.
Come rain or shine you have things to do,
Even when with child there is no rest due.

For all that you do,
Nothing belongs to you,
Your honor is based on how he chooses to treat you.
Your body is his whenever he wants,
To claim ownership a mistake,
Your life would be at stake.

They say that you are from the Third World,
One where their rules don't apply to you and your kin.
The world where scissors and string,
Simple art supplies for their children,
Are all that you have to bring yours into this world.

The idea of justice is foreign,
To you it's non-existent,
To them it holds true,
Except when it comes to you.

The thought of a better life
Is merely a dream for you,
Not a degree, a Lexus, not even a house or two,
Oh no you see,
Running water will do.

The burden of life
Full of strife so rife,
Shouldered so numbly,
Tearing the heart incessantly.

You are a woman of the world,
Your story the same,
When in Tamil Nadu, Lagos, Sumatra or Bahia,
We call you our comrade; mother or sister,
But to you we carry the role of neither.

Erased from our minds, thoughts and decency,
Your story will never cease,
Its end we do not see.

We do not see it now,
And we will not see it then,
For how does one see,
When pulling blinds down tightly?

You are a woman of the Third World-

And for that your voice remains unheard.

after an evening of penis envy and castration anxiety...



we conclude that it's really about limited imagination and a lot of power...



we're simple like that :)

Variations of the Same - by  petrag </span>

             One stray hair floated up and down as he breathed. I watched his nostril boredly. The alarm would ring in five minutes, and I was eager to leave.

            It always came to this. Despite best efforts, each one was the same. It did not matter whether we met at work, in a café, seated side-by-side for a play – they were all alike.

“Nora,” Suzie would say exasperatedly, “They’re all different. We can never tell what you’ll go for next.”

Why then did every relationship eventually feel like a dreadful Groundhog Day revival? Like a bad film that refused to stop playing over and over, no matter how hard one tried to influence the turn of inevitable events.

Good God, I hated this. I heard a muffled moan.

Bleakly, I realised his grunts no longer held the power to create desire and arouse. I toyed with the idea of smothering him to death with a pillow.

Two boyfriends ago, I concluded that there is no perfect way to initiate a breakup. Opening phrases had a tendency of sounding like bad pick up lines. Explanations just made things worse.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” (It’s you! It’s you!)

“We’re no longer traveling in the same direction.” (Who are you, Marco Polo?)

These were the kinder explanations, which unfortunately were too vague to cause anything but confusion.

Then there were the accusations.

 “You made use of me.” (It took you this long to realise a fact like this? Thank God I’m getting rid of you, you vicious, slow sap.)

“I can’t believe you’re willing to throw everything we have away.” (What? Boredom? Your adolescent-dick jabs at raw fish, poodles and men in tights? I could maim you blind with wasabi, present poodle your ass, strangle you with tights – but I’m too kind. I did masturbate to the lead in Swan Lake, though – not that I’ll ever tell you)

 And how does one choose not to answer?

 “What’s he like?” (Nothing much, but it won’t be you I’ll be seeing next week, thank God.)

“Who is he?” (It’s a she, but I don’t think your ego can handle it.)

            “Do you still have feelings for me?”

             This always stumps me. Yes, I still care for you as a friend. Yes, I feel like punching you. Yes, I might still feel like fucking you – but you annoy me too much to be anything but. Yes, I love you and leaving you feels like I’m manually removing an organ – but it hurts too much to stay. All of which amounts to No.

---

             The rain was pounding on the sidewalk as I struggled against the cold wind by pulling my coat around me harder, tighter. Water splashed as vehicles flew past. For the first time, I noticed how the puddles split and formed again.

            “Taxi!” I waved my hand frantically and called. It refused to stop. Angrily, I stomped on the ground, droplets pouncing everywhere. I shook my coat rather ungracefully, balancing briefcase and umbrella.

            Warmth greeted me as I stumbled into the cab. The driver looked bored. He was smoking in long, luxurious drags, fingers clasping cigarette gently as he rested the heel of his palm against the window.

            I peered in the mirror. Makeup looked fine, I looked fine. I refused to fall apart.

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