Tag:

poem

औरत

by Guest Author

By तबस्सुम आज़मी

बढ़ाती हूँ क़दम
फ़ौरन ही पीछे खींच लेती हूँ
ये अंदेशा मुझे आगे कभी बढ़ने नहीं देता
न-जाने लोग क्या सोचें
न-जाने लोग क्या बोलें
इसी इक ख़ौफ़ के घेरे में जीती और मरती हूँ
मगर कब तक

तशख़्ख़ुस के लिए अपनी ज़रूरी हो गया है अब
उठूँ और काट दूँ एक एक कर के बेड़ियाँ सारी
बग़ावत कर दूँ दुनिया की
सभी फ़र्सूदा रस्मों से
हर इक दस्तूर-ए-बेजा से
ख़ुदा ने जब किसी से मेरा रुत्बा कम नहीं रक्खा
तो किस ने हक़ दिया उन को
मुझे ज़ंजीर पहनाएँ
ज़बाँ खोलूँ जो अपने वास्ते ताला लगा जाएँ

मुझे मालूम है मेरी मुक़र्रर हद कहाँ तक है
मुझे है पास अपनी हुरमत-ओ-क़दर-ओ-रिवायत का
वफ़ा नामूस-ओ-इफ़्फ़त का शराफ़त और अज़्मत का
कि ये अक़दार मेरे पाँव की बेड़ी नहीं हरगिज़
इन्हीं अक़दार के हमराह मुझ को आगे बढ़ना है
मिला है हक़ मुझे भी
वक़्त के हमराह चलने का
ख़ुद अपने ख़्वाब बुनने का
इन्हें ता’बीर देने का
ये दुनिया मेरे हाथों से क़लम जो छीन लेती है
हमेशा चूल्हे-चौके तक ही बस महदूद रखती है
इसे शायद यही ख़दशा सताता रहता है हर-दम
मिरी ये आगही मुझ को नई पहचान दे देगी

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Angry Goddesses

by Guest Author

By Acharaj Tuteja

The kohl under my eyes is a daunting reminder of the witches they set ablaze, did the ashes come from charred bigotry or forged piety? I’m yet to know.
The scars are from all those times the wolves deceived the lambs and preyed on chastity.
All those times the lioness was mistaken as a lamb and pressed against satirical cages.
I’ve told lies, yes but they were only to abscond the strangers who slid glasses of cheap whiskey across the table, paired with slurred remarks of how my deafening roar raises hell too often.
I was the girl, no, the woman who laid one too many lipstick shades – every lover a distinct ceremony of disjointed tints of scarlet.
I don’t bite my tongue or make excuses for furious diatribes.
Because angry women go to war for ascendancy instead.
Our fragility is buried against our sublime past.
We’re too prude and idealist for some, and unapologetically brusque for the rest.
Us goddesses are glitter and prowess and valour and fortitude.
So, does the devil in them crave me or do they crave salvation and redemption through my art?
Latter I believe, because the closest I ever get to repenting my sins is poetry.

Image Credit: Angel Ganev

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A Woman Of Strength

by Guest Author

By PARWAAZ

A woman has died in me
A woman of disease with a lack of peace.
An animal who would toil and ask nothing
A dried leaf who would flutter and flinch.

A victim of sex, an object of jest
Who would only moan at her best.
A giver of life, a dutiful wife
For the treacherous world; alas! so naïve.

No, it’s not death, but a murder
A phoenix reborn, you could shudder.
A cool shade for you to rest
With all respect and no more jest.

A spring of love for you to thrive
Together we grow, take a long flight.
A place of trust and compassion, for you to fall apart
Together we are complete, and broken, when kept apart.

I am a woman of strength you can’t barge
I refuse to be dumb, I now take charge.
.

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