The
Poetry of Ayesha Susan Thomas
God
is a Man
I pray
Every night before going to bed.
Before and after
Every meal.
No man
Has seen my face
Since the day I turned 13
Except my husband.
My daughters
Are good
I teach them well
But take no praise
Upon myself.
The Holy Book
I know by heart
Recite it in my sleep.
Cut my flesh
To show my pledge
Devotion eternal
I said.
But....
Last night
They came and took my child
Flesh from my womb
Blood of my blood
Killed her
Threw
Her remains into the dustbin
With flies, wrappers
Banana peels
Then I know
Within my heart
You God
Are not a woman.
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Me
Fat, flabby body,
Vacant eyes
Chubby cheeks,
Pallid, spoilt-milk skin.
But sometimes,
When I least expect it
I feel a twitch in my fingers
A sudden spark in my brain
And then I'm running furiously across the page
Skipping, screaming
Flying with my words
Twisting and dancing
Spirit without a body
Wisp of smoke in the air
Higher and higher
Higher
Burst into flame
Of a million different colours
Flat
Then like a balloon losing air
As it climbs down from
Its dizzy height
I am myself again
Boring
Plain
Faceless woman, lost
In the crowds of civilization
But sometimes,
When I least expect it,
With my writing-
I can fly.
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Dead
My ink is running out
The voices around me fading
My eyes have turned inward
Upon their sockets
Searching through the dusty boxes of my mind
Ancient wisps of memory
Forgotten leftovers of life
My fingers are cold against my cheek
My eyes stung by the wind
Sleep grows as she grows around me
Cocooning me in her warmth
Holding me tight against her breast
Bearing me through those invisible gates
That will close behind me forever...
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Glamour
Screaming, squalling,
Breathless abandon
Pounding, hurtling,
Jumping, crying,
People thronging,
Feeling, dying
Rolling in the dust
In sickly pallor
Breathing for a glimpse
A minute
From the squalor
To touch the hem
Of the skirts of glamour
A sequined façade
A painted mask
To hide the truth
Behind the cast
The work, the hours
The tattered lives
The broken homes
The cold franchise
The sleepless nights
The failed records
The pain the hurt
The desertion and grime
Hidden behind a cloak of smiles
Dentist's teeth and golden lies
A mask so fine, intricate and real
Specially designed for the public ear
Crafted in platinum,
Tailored in silk
Blue gauze and flowers
Lily scent and mink
Stitched to perfection
With careful delicate hands
Striving to keep the impression
To hold still those adoring eyes…
top
Ayesha is a 16 year old homeschooler and aspiring poet from Bombay,
India. She has been blogging for just over a year now where she
is known as Maya. Ayesha would love your feedback on her poetry
and writing style. You can read more of her poetry at www.ayeshathom.blogspot.com
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