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  • galvanizedthoughts 8w

    #imagery #wod #pod #gtwn
    @writersnetwork @miraquill

    Thank you for the Editor's choice

    Wasn't planning to post but saw the challenge so here goes nothing

    Subho Saptami to everyone
    @_firefly @my_cup_of_poetry

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    Tucking womanhood in blouse pockets

    My nth great grandmother
    and nth great grandfather
    fell in love
    as their eyes met
    an oral folklore
    passed down generations
    tied with strings
    as luscious
    as black
    as my great grandmother's
    wet shriveled hair
    her hips would trap
    the fish eyes of my great grandfather
    her saree
    she exchanged for fishnets
    13 she was
    when she carried a black string
    as black as her hair
    to ward off bad luck
    a hook for a pendant
    whilst tucking her womanhood
    in her blouse pockets

    A few generations
    this poem shall leap
    Alike fish out of water
    The wars and the veterans
    Came together
    To pillage their fertile fields
    fields and wombs akin
    The womenfolk would clutch
    the hooked pendant
    untie their long matted hair
    wet shriveled hair
    hair as black as midnight
    hair as black as ominous
    hair as black as a declaration
    A declaration that promises
    the borrowed trauma
    the stollen youth
    the birth rights, human rights
    to the generations
    a future tense
    that will unlearn
    tucking womanhood in blouse pockets
    Till then the women will ride
    tides of tortuous time
    bloody, battered
    bruised broken
    wearing fishnets as sarees
    clutching the hook
    of the pendent
    still as the last thirteen springs of youth
    still as a stillborn
    Carrying sickles for utensils
    Lathi for ladle
    they will move forward
    But till the time comes
    In the train of time
    They will tuck their womanhood
    in their blouse pockets
    to prevent
    to protect
    to provide

    Tuesday 12 October 2021
    ©galvanizedthoughts / Ayushi Saha

  • galvanizedthoughts 25w

    To any person/ reader who has ever read me you must have noticed that I use bright, colourful illustration that I take from many artists who inspire me. So I have created an art account

    Hope you all can give the same love that you gave to my channel and speaking of writing. I'm not coming back any soon so sorry. Take care and stay safe. I'm still inactive and won't respond to messages here so ..sorry


    artwork by Sahana ( if I give mine away what will be the fun and suspense)

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  • galvanizedthoughts 27w

    Those days when
    the skies and your pleated skirt
    Those days when sweat
    dripped of your temple
    like a running tap
    on leak
    While the plumber
    went for his
    annual summer vacation
    while you a dutiful child
    stuck here
    in a room
    No less than a temple
    An alcove
    A nook of divinity
    A hook for
    summer shadows
    You feel the evening breeze
    slip away
    from the tip of your fingers
    that hold a fancy Reynolds pen

    The smell of the incense sticks
    nauseates you
    You stick your head up
    look at the ceiling
    In wonder
    as piles of homework
    now lay scattered around
    You have just received
    the award for the tidiest room

    Legs dangling
    from the corner of the bed
    Can you hear?
    The TV and it's angry blares
    Amma chews betel leafs
    Watching elusive witches
    and snake women
    Your Hindi textbook narrates
    a cunning constitution
    a decree by nature
    that the lion and the deer must
    sip water from
    the same brook that passes
    through your collarbone
    Peace is temporary
    A state of not waging wars
    isn't peace
    Do not confuse
    You mumble

    You look up at the ceiling again
    The fan dangles
    It's lip latched onto the roof
    Someday you would stand
    on one foot trying to balance
    the world in your temple
    like a revered deity
    sweating marble tears
    with the gait of a crane
    other days you would
    want to donne dresses
    with v cut as graceful
    as two swan lovers

    You would bend over
    as the mare and the antlers
    ingredients in a potion
    that enraptured your heart
    in a wicked spell
    Till your own limbs
    Your own hair
    slithers like those
    snake women
    Till a voice hits you
    like darts on a board
    Summoning you
    for dinner
    You'll be brought back
    To your humble abode
    As the chapter of the Hindi textbook
    you'll toss this poem
    under the carpet of ancient winters
    © Ayushi Saha 28th May 21 21.40 pm

    Artwork by Sahana
    #pod @mirakee @writersnetwork

    Suggest me a title please @thelazymitochondrion @my_cup_of_poetry

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  • galvanizedthoughts 29w

    Sanctuary of sarees

    Those days when
    we carried plum
    on the cavities
    of our cheeks
    those days when
    we carried
    jams in our
    breads and
    our heart a tiffin box
    sandwiched between
    two slices
    of ripen oranges
    and the skies
    looked like
    Ma had smeared
    marmalade on it
    with her favourite
    butter knife
    those days
    when we didn't rush
    to the clothesline
    to pick up our
    satins silks and sarees
    as thunderclaps
    Monsoon's arrival
    those faded sarees
    would hang still
    still as a fortress
    carrying stains
    of tumeric and fish fry
    years of
    and snot
    invisible to the naked eye
    Yet resilience
    even when
    is a force
    to be reckoned with
    So on days
    the escape artist in me
    wanted to
    my thresholds of being
    I would pin and unpin
    those rusted clips
    to create
    my own sunderban
    out of sarees
    I would layer
    and spread them
    thin and immaculate
    by learnt tidiness
    like butter breads
    and marmalade spreads
    I would carry orange slices
    and arrange them
    as continents
    on oceans of
    blue sarees
    and once in awhile
    put them in my mouth
    they'll accommodate
    alongside the plums
    a flavourful recipe
    Till I chose to
    I'll sprint across
    flocks of green sarees
    my forest floor
    wearing yellow frocks
    innate instincts
    gait of a
    royal Bengal tiger
    I'll make
    toothpick horses
    kissing life into them
    and jute baskets
    to handpick mangoes
    to make more jam
    as I trace topographies
    across valleys of
    the brown ones
    and when the skies
    wears pink headbands
    I would tie my
    Ma's brightest sarees
    the youthful pinks
    as flags to defend
    my patriotism
    towards my skies
    this is when
    I know
    I am home.
    © Ayushi Saha
    19th May 2021 2.06 am

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod
    Artwork by Manal Mirza

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  • galvanizedthoughts 31w


    A vigilante
    the shirt of the skies
    are now stained
    as red as a newly wed
    the silence wails
    for the pious
    and fallen he is
    a vigilante
    Ayushi Saha
    30th April 2021

    #gtnapowrimo21 #wod #silence

    @writersnetwork @mirakee
    Artwork by Manal Mirza

    I'm still not back

    To all the people who do not know the mythological context
    In Ramayana, Jatayu was believed to be the son of Aruna and a nephew of Garuda.
    A demi-god in the form of vulture, Jatayu was an old friend of king Dasharath, father of Lord Rama.
    Jatayu was the first person who tried to rescue Sita from the clutches of Ravana while he was taking her to Lanka.
    He fought valiantly with Ravana. However, Ravana clipped his wings and severely injured him.
    Even as Jatayu was battling with life, he managed to inform Lord Rama about Sita's abduction.
    Sensing that Jatayu won't survive, Lord Rama, a Vishnu incarnate, decided that Jatayu must attain salvation.
    In present day Kerala, Chadayamnagalam, a few kilometres from the Kollam district, is believed to be the place where Jatayu fell after his wings were clipped.

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  • galvanizedthoughts 33w

    To the girl who held poetry under starry night

    She bartered the blues
    of her ink
    with the blues of
    the starry night
    in retaliation
    Van Gogh coloured
    the skies pastel pink
    Her almond shaped eyes
    and maybe
    Gogh's almond tree
    was a rendition of a
    thousand brush strokes
    each trying to imitate
    her giggle
    her hair now flying
    freely as Monet's each
    stroke follows it with
    a love so pure
    Devotion is what she
    would show to her skies
    to her starry skies
    each night as she
    and poetry sat under
    a large banayan tree
    recounting tales of the
    type of women and flower
    Frida would paint
    She has our hearts
    until she and poetry
    become one
    one love
    one devotion
    until all of us learn
    that the skies are a
    we knit
    filled with love
    and that poetry
    and her can be
    only recalled together
    with warmth
    © Ayushi Saha
    17th April 2021 22.28 pm

    She is @my_cup_of_poetry

    Dedicated to Sakshi Di. Imagine my happiness when @writersbay gives me her name and to dedicate a poem to her just one day before her birthday.

    Happy birthday to the most versatile, very loyal absolutely beautiful and my biggest constant in my entire writing journey. Sakshi Di ❤️ I have never shied away from showing my admiration towards you. You are a strong, beautiful and courageous woman who I will always love and look up to. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

    #weekendc @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod
    Artwork by Hanifa Abdul Hameed via colorsofhoney


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  • galvanizedthoughts 33w


    My amma and her amma
    and all the ammas before
    would grind the earths soil
    into tiny bead like pearls
    with a wooden mortar and pestle
    as they would lend the soil
    the freshness of their
    fatigued sweat
    the skies now touched
    with this act of charity
    would shed some tears
    Like a child in a sermon
    as the women kept reciting
    the sun now in between
    their clayed legs
    baked in a furnace
    would shy away
    as a new bride
    on her nuptial night
    my grandpa carried 8 annas
    and an entire village
    in his pockets
    however he could only fit in
    his share of skies,
    Not the skies of an undivided
    so he travelled with 8 annas alone
    and a chapbook on
    His roots
    So on downcast afternoons
    he would sit cross legged
    like a lotus
    that rises from mud
    the mud its roots
    he would sit recalling
    the grinded chillies
    and the guava trees
    the sun, you and I
    would listen
    with rapt attention
    until one mayday
    you would finally gather
    the courage to ask
    Where are you from?
    That day the woman
    Of the household
    Stop grinding soil
    And the wetness
    Of the kitchen stone slab
    Seems unnerving
    the guavas now lay
    on the floor unattended
    as the condiments and chilli
    powdered to dust
    Lie unfaltering
    Until grandpa
    smiles, he smiles
    like a daisy
    his lotus eyes
    shine brightly
    the deceptive adversities
    he has, as a lotus
    a watery chuckle erupts
    as the skies
    of a now divided India
    mourn in remembrance
    Of the massacres
    © Ayushi Saha @/Galvanizedthoughts 16th April 2021 9.48 am

    #wod #roots @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

    #gtnapowrimo21- read my other works here

    Kasturi- it is the musk of the deer that sits on its navel yet the dear keeps foraging the jungles for it. Our roots are where we stand yet we keep searching for them across man made maps
    Artwork by Manal Mirza

    @hayat_ @my_cup_of_poetry

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  • galvanizedthoughts 34w


    When I was born
    A month before
    my prescribed arrival date
    The date trees rejoiced
    as the winds that rolled
    off the blistered tongue
    Of the Sun
    enveloped me into a
    familiar womb's embrace
    My mother, declares
    me as Kalbaisakhi
    the unpredictable
    pre monsoon storms
    I was as old as the
    lines on my single finger
    as the aunties exclaimed
    Your mother had too
    many dates and Gulab-jamuns
    while you were in the belly
    that is why your skin is dark
    I ran away, my tears
    watered the dormant seeds
    Of the earth
    And earth lamented
    it's loss
    by thunderstorms and
    rainless clouds
    The tin roofs that fell
    the coconut and date trees
    bent over
    in respect and subservience
    I plucked two rainless clouds
    and strung them with my hair
    around my arms
    as armlets
    Then on my generous vacation
    courtesy to summer
    On the simmering heat
    of the broth
    Of the skies
    As me and my friends sat
    huddled in a windowless room
    preparing a skit on Ma Durga
    They exclaim your hands
    are too dark for Durga
    Your hands are perfect
    to represent Kali
    I run away
    tears in my eyes
    This time
    I put on my anklets
    And motion my nimble fingers
    Into Vayu mudra
    suchi and mrugashirsha
    As each time my feet
    taps the floor
    a thunder howls
    rhyming with my anklets
    I pluck the dates from
    the trees and
    put them across the flowers
    as they multiply into
    a million eyes imitating
    those of lord Shiva
    as my skirt whirls
    brushing across the earth
    the earth lends me it's dust
    the dust now rises
    with the wailing winds
    from the womb of a
    now dissected earth
    As I set free
    the rainless clouds
    From my armlets
    Each time my legs cross
    A humourless lightning
    Flashes across the skies
    the rivers are my teachers
    they teach me how to rage
    As torrents of downpour
    greets my now blistered skin
    they seek to drown
    the skies in vengeance
    However as the date trees
    plead for mercy
    I lose my tempest
    I see the destruction
    I have caused
    Annihilation on my fingertips
    So I kiss the leather skins
    Of the mangoes
    And send my greetings
    to the now ecstatic
    farmers and
    Kiss the soil
    the heat now on my blistered
    with the promise
    of a return
    each summer when
    someone calls me as
    © Ayushi Saha 14 April 2021 10.42 am


    This is based on a personal day to day experience of colourism
    All the events mentioned above are real and have happened with me. My skin has always been something I have been criticized for. This poem is me, reclaiming my worth, my territory.
    @anvaya thank you for being there and pushing me to write this poem

    @hayat_ @my_cup_of_poetry hi!
    Artwork by Manal Mirza

    My other works in the series #gtnapowrimo21 #gtwn

    Mudras are finger postures used in classical dancing such as Odissi. Odissi is the dance form that I learnt.

    I had uninstalled this app and now that I opened it, I am greeted with such a pleasant surprise.


    Thank you so very much for making my day @mirakee and @writersnetwork on 14th April 2021

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  • galvanizedthoughts 34w

    unlearning generations-

    My great grandmother exists
    as a pencil drawing
    my grandfather drew
    when he was 5
    he was a child of
    undivided India
    now a torn piece
    of the pencil drawing
    exists as the only
    memorial of her
    along the lines
    drawn on the map
    by borrowing my
    Grandfather's pencil
    Now birthing a
    divided India
    her thick eyebrows
    felt like grass on the field
    that grew too high
    annihilating themselves
    rendering the fertile fields
    My grandma would
    drown mighty rivers under
    her luscious hair to meet
    my grandfather in the temple
    their love as pious as
    the thunders that roar
    Like the royal Bengal tiger
    her worlds would crumble
    like grass under big black boots
    as she balanced the earth
    on her maang tika
    Who said it had to be turtles
    My ma sacrificed her
    education to ensure her brothers
    got theirs then
    Now all big with their big black boots
    Leather jackets and suits
    Would trample over the grass
    constructe dams
    and place placards
    over the cardboard earth
    they have claimed as their own
    So when I am born
    earlier than the prescribed date
    She declares me as Kalbaisakhi
    the pre-monsoon storms
    that brings relief to the earth
    grass, souls of soil
    drowns river in its torrential
    downpours and breaks dams
    roaring, majestic as a tiger woman,
    the earth now her jungle field
    She whispers the afternoon
    chants in my ears
    that she learnt from her
    great grandmother
    and melts gold coins
    and rips open her piggy bank
    from her mortgaged will
    and promised dreams
    into steady meridians
    each time the flowers that
    grew under my skin
    wilted under the currents of
    subservient rivers passing
    through the gateways
    of the old dams
    that were constructed on
    now barren lands
    that her father, father's father
    father's father's father
    had inherited
    And every afternoon as
    my earth would crumble
    Ma, would utter the chants
    And I will be reborn
    and she redeemed
    © Ayushi Saha @galvanizedthoughts 11.04.21 19.01 pm

    Artwork by @/manal_mirza_

    #pod @mirakee @writersnetwork

    #gtnapowrimo21 #gtwn

    Thanks to @poeticgirl WN heard you ❣️

    @my_cup_of_poetry- my all time inspiration. The evergreen poetess

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  • galvanizedthoughts 34w

    TW: Death, rape

    Dead girls carry keys in fists and aphrodisiac in their sleeves

    The first woman who was a feminist
    died single and failed to carry on her
    genes forward
    according to the theory of evolution
    by Yuval Noah Harari
    conclusion, women who were submissive
    lived on to carry the blind inheritance

    Ma says women who are as headstrong as me
    Will have a hard time finding a suitor
    Aunty K, who lives next door
    would casually say
    Beta, your skin is as dark as
    the pre-monsoon storms
    That cause the ripen mangoes to fall of the trees
    And I'm reminded of Shah Jahan
    And his words
    "Why must a gardener not enjoy the fruits of the plant he has planted"
    after he raped his own daughter
    as she continues
    History textbooks upheld him as a man
    A man of love
    She remarks your features are sharp
    as the divinely dark Lord Krishna
    however you would find so many suitors
    if you were as light as Radha
    ignoring that Radhakrishn are one
    I wonder of men who carry
    their patriotism in briefcases
    migrate across nations
    also them who expand their
    chests wide
    filled with nationalism
    Would choose someone
    the colour of the soil
    they kissed as their own
    And abruptly on the news channel
    that was a silent spectator till now
    Comes a headline
    Dead girls carry keys in the fists
    and aphrodisiac in their sleeves
    A girl was walking outside
    at night wearing ripped jeans
    now found dead under the bridge
    carrying keys in her fists
    As the pre-roll add ends
    Another awareness add on
    how to buy local fruits from xyz bazaar
    to credit farmers for the fruits they planted
    A court calls a rape victim
    promiscuous for sleeping
    after surviving the assault
    Another add on a safety app
    by government that alerts the police
    after a girl takes permission
    to walk out late at night
    Then an add on how a sofa
    similar to which aunty K sat on
    would cause no backaches
    bonus, the guests won't complain
    about the quality of the chai
    which is directly proportional
    to the hospitality received
    As we switch off the TV
    Aunty K advices me to carry
    pepper spray and keys on my fist
    And my aphro- no no of course not that
    She suggests me to wear sleeveless
    and top it with a jacket and shawl
    to cover every inch cause
    dead girls are dead for so long
    As long as the history and the gods
    have been ogling at the misplaced skirts
    and stalking little girls
    Until they no longer remain just girls
    Until they are dead
    So I carry my keys on my fist
    Pepper spray and a pocket knife
    I come back early as a self imposed curfew
    And one day when I finally gather enough courage
    To type evolution of a woman
    I come across a video of a
    milkmaid going to a god-like man
    As the man stares at her voluptuous volumes
    History becomes that man
    That man becomes history
    And I, a dead girl
    © Ayushi Saha 10th April 2021 1.29 am

    P.S- this poem took me a lot to write. It forced me out of my comfort zone. I would be glad to get some honest reviews on it. It's napowrimo and I really wanted to experiment and get out of my comfort zone. So here it is #gtnapowrimo21


    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

    Artwork by @/artwithmanasi

    I thank every single brave and courageous soul who apologized for the debacle. You are brave, bold and beautiful. I admire you for the strength you have shown

    Please, Mirakee for once in such a long time started feeling homely again and I don't wanna lose this.

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