Posts Tagged ‘women’


Dawn is breaking here. Here where I still feel like an outsider. Hence I am never here. Where am I? Sometimes sitting right beside you watching you waking up next to someone else, loving your dreams in her, loving yourself in her, searching deeper meaning of life in your togetherness…but why is there still shadow of worry in the corner of your blue eyes, I whisper in your ears. You walk to bathroom and look into mirror.

“Everything is fine,” you say to the man in the mirror, trying to avoid his fears and invisible tears. You walk into the little cubicle to have a shower. Water cools you and I touch you softly with my deepest love.

“God, water is the best miracle,” you say as you walk out without seeing me there.

love letter

You feel nervous all of a sudden as you dry your body because you remember that you left your mobile in the bedroom. Do you cheat on her…yes you do…some part of you is still not satisfied…I wonder what can fill that void of yours because I know it is not who…no one can handle that task. You go out and take your phone without disturbing her. You wonder whether she checked your phone and you look at her with a subtle anger…you know it is not her it is you…you are angry with yourself but you never admit that. You dress up, wear your perfume…everything looks perfect on you until you push them all into the shadow of your pride.

She wakes up, you wear your manly smile that is broken with your pride. You don’t want her to know what power she has over you…you don’t want her to know that she has something you desperately need…you keep telling her “I love you darling,” but she knows how much you mean it and how much you don’t. She smiles and gets out of bed. And this invisible distance becomes apparent to her all of a sudden…you cause it to expand…she feels it but she lies to herself as it confuses her. Why do you still do that to women who come to you wholeheartedly…are you scared of being left alone again…don’t be…not everyone is a mad truth seeker like me…not everyone is in existential crisis like I was when I was with you…not everyone is crushed by dishonesty early in life like and developed some trust issue I had…yes I did not tell you about it, did I…because you assumed that I had never had a wound in my entire life…you never asked…you either could not stand to see me bleeding in words or maybe you really did not care…or maybe all you cared about was to have a beautiful and smart woman standing next to you…you were so excited to impregnate me…lock me in your house with your kids thinking that that was what I really wanted…but it was not…I did not come to this world to bear your kids and spend rest of my life bringing them up just to be rarely appreciated…I have learnt how to appreciate myself, thank you very much…no that was not the life I had in my mind but you never asked…your dream was supposed to be mine…and I was gone while still standing there, staring at you.

love letter

 

“Love you, too,” says she shallowly as you walk down on the stairs. She does not walk you to the door. You secretly resent but don’t tell a word…why would you…that would be too weak…you walk out leaving so many tests for her to reveal her real self…you did that for me , too…I mean what the heck was that for…why did you not talk…did you think everyone was a liar like you were…yes that was it, wasn’t it…but every test you left behind was a proof of who you actually were…don’t do that to her…she might walk away, too, one day.

You get in your car and drive…I am sitting next to you…you vaguely see a butterfly on your left side…you look for no apparent reason and see the empty seat in the middle of enjoying infinite freedom roads generate within you like they used to do…you cannot see anything but you hear a vague voice and look again…you feel drawn and you eventually touch the seat…

buuterfly

“Bloody weird,” you say to yourself and turn up the music. I can fuck your morning joy, making you feel even weirder but I don’t because I still love you…and my love does not dictate you to lead your life in my way…it has never done that to any man I liked…I say l liked because you were the only man who I loved and you still are…I send you love and hold on to my dreams not yours…I send you love and I will always do while pursuing my dreams…while you bringing up your kids…sorry I could not make you one because I could not be cruel enough to push a child into this world just to see how it feels to be a mother…I am working to save them all instead…I do not wish to be the mother of one but of all children on earth…I am working to show them the light…

 


It is 5 minutes to midnight now. I was in my bed, trying to sleep only if I could stop hearing screams of the Judge who was angry and awake in my head.

“No, no…that is not porn…it is not pornographic at all…something isn’t quite right!” No, it is not matter of right and wrong but what is it that is burning my gut in the middle of the night?

“So what is porn Uncle Google,” I asked when I sat at my desk, millions of bugs in my mind, the Judge still staring at me in its back yard.

“Pornography is the portrayal of  sexual subject matter for the purpose of sexual arousal,” answered Wikipedia.

“What does the girl in this image do to cause sexual arousal?” asked the Judge with no gender.

bacak aramda

“Nothing, she seems to have been undressed forcefully…which is why she is looking down with shame,” I replied.

“Exactly! What kind of soul can get sexual arousal from such image?” asked the Judge.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed. The Genderless Judge looked happy…no not because s(he) made me feel sick but s(he) managed to teach.

“Have another close look,” said the genderless judge. And I looked at the image below which was the book cover of my first poetry book.

“Yeah…I mean she is not human is she…she is a robot…and made by a man,” I whispered to myself and looked back at The Genderless Judge.

The Genderless Judge smiled and disappeared.

Now I am asking you, was The Genderless Judge right?

Should I create another cover or should I insist on using this one?

I am going to bed now.

By the way, the content of the book is nowhere near pornography…it is all about gender war…

I am going to talk to the stars in the balcony for a few minutes just to miss my warm bed…otherwise I won’t be able to sleep…unless they say something to oppose The Genderless Judge…Oh God!


He left and it rained but not because he left. It just rained. I thought I was upset because he had left, but I was not…not because of that. He said he was my friend and I agreed with that….at least for a few moments a day…or something like that. I then got a severe headache…no not because he had left but because how I felt after he had left. And it rained. Something felt fake when I waved at him from the balcony… something was still fake. Was it something in me or in him, I did not know that yet.

I hated his beard for the first time. He, too, admitted that men with little manhood tended to grow big beard in this land where minarets were more potent than most of them. Was it his beard? No, not completely that. He smelled like a hell and he did not seem to know that. No, no…don’t get me wrong before I even began. I did not even touch him, he was my friend. Just because he wanted to…but he was too primitive…too manishly man…too shallow…too proud to have a little extension between his legs…no he thought he was but he was never my friend…and I never cared. Wasn’t I dreaming like everyone else? And it rained…I love the way soil smelled…a big white bird opened her wings and flew towards me…she seemed to have known how I felt.

red and blue pill

What pill would kill the pain a fake friend left in my head? I opened the cabinet and took the blue pill. I poured water into a thin tall glass, put the blue pill in the middle of my tongue and pushed it down with water. The pain seemed to have disappeared as I walked towards the mirror. My face seemed different to me. There was disgust and regret even when I stared like a newly made statute or dead. I felt more sublime when I was a statute, insignificant and sad when I pretended to be dead. Then I got scared , no I did not want to be dead…but I did not want to be fake either…I began hating the mirror after my friend…no he was not mine…he was just a friend …

He told me how he stabbed a man…he was proud of that because that was very brave…that was the only reason why he had become  a friend in my conscious sphere…I knew how sorry he and all the other men felt sorry for me for not being a man…I felt sorry for him for not having anything else apart from the little or big extension between his legs.

“Have you ever thought that you are smarter than me?” asked he. He knew the truth, I knew the truth. I still had to pretend that I did not know the truth…because I was not a man…and I could not stab a man…but I think I am going to have to, I said to myself…I am going to have to pretend to be mad…because I know that is going to be less painful and more real…I am going to be a mad woman, shooting the minarets…cutting the throats and cocks of men who made me fake…who forced me to pretend, I promised myself. No, Buddha would not do that…because he was a man…he, too, would not understand…nor would Mohammed…he would laugh at that…

“Sit down! Stay down woman!” he would exclaim, stroking his big beard.

It rained…it rained regret all day… and I took one more blue pill…it rained revenge all night… and I took another blue pill…

 

 


Critiques of Dick

He was tall,big and known to be bold. His name was Dick. He used to write gossips about girls and boys for a magazine in the past. Back then, his journalist friends called him Dick Hardy.What they really meant was that he was impotent, weak, little guy inside. How some knew about his impotency and weaknesses did not bother anyone. After all he was officially gossiping about everyone.

And one day he resigned; he resigned from his job unexpectedly. He moved to another city and detached himself from everyone.He decided to be a new man.He began writing reviews for a national newspaper.He wanted to feel a little more important and potent, but he knew he wasn’t.

the big little man 33

He reviewed plays, novels, movies for a well- known newspaper. Six months after he began his new job, his editor realized that he was he was harsh on female novelists, playwrights and directors but understanding and soft to the male ones.

“Dick, I decided to study your all the reviews you have written for us so far after receiving unpleasant letters from readers,” said his editor in his late 40s when they sat in his office.

“Unpleasant letters?” asked Dick.

“Yes, many of them,” replied the editor decisively. Dick could not believe him.

“No, that has got to be a joke, it cannot be real,it must be a smear” he said to his editor without a word.

“I studied tone of your reviews and your critiques… I discovered something amazing,” said the newspaper editor.

“What is it?” asked he, unsure what to expect anymore. “Before answering your question, answer me, do you have some issue with women?” asked the editor.

“No…no…I mean…why would I…did you find any sexist expression in my reviews?” asked Dick, holding the arm rest of his chair firmly.

“No,no it is not what you say actually it is what you don’t say in your reviews suggests that you might be misogynist.” replied the editor frankly.

“I strongly disagree with you on that!” replied Dick, feeling tense.

“I understand your defense perfectly well but this is not my opinion only,” replied the editor wisely.

Dick looked at his right side and the left; he did not see what appeared in his sight.

“What do you suggest?” he eventually asked,feeling frustrated.

“I suggest you should analyse your own thoughts and feelings towards women, even your own critiques…and I will let you be off for two weeks for that,” said the editor.

“Paid or unpaid?” asked Dick immediately.

“Unpaid,” replied the editor.

“Okay, but I am not misogynist, if you want to blame anyone, you should look at the society! Don’t you think we live in a misogynistic society anyway?” he asked angrily.

“Don’t you think we are here to reform the society?” asked the editor.

 

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She got out of the tube station and turned right. That’s right, she was always told to stand on the right, do right, say right and be right and yes she loved turning rights without knowing why. Who was she anyway, she was told to think. She was in her bloodiest conflict when she accepted it, she was attacked and frightened when she didn’t. Yes she was belittled like every other feminine soul with a hole, she was no one, she was small, she was insignificant, she was nothing. Hence she always wore the highest hills to feel a little significant.

hilly heels 3

She passed by some shops, some appeared and disappeared around her. People seemed to be forbidden to look at each other when they walked on this street and on every other street in London; the city that was in love with itself, the city that sold pride to those who lacked it at the cost of their smiles.

There appeared two men; they saw where she was and what was happening inside her hilly heel;no they could not smile either. Her feet were pulsing in her head now. She looked at them, could not see them but fear them. She began walking faster on her hilly heels.

“Beauty has a high price,” a woman whom she admired exclaimed in her mind. She walked on to the known, feeling pulled by her unknowns.

“No you should not go!” said her mother.

He was there, standing in front of a book shop. She saw him and walked back to the tube station.

“Yes, you should go and have fun,” said the woman whom she admired. Her heart breathed for a few seconds.

She walked back to him.

“You are nothing more than a little hole, no matter what you in this world!” shouted her father.

She hated him, she wanted to go and punch the young man in the face.He was waiting for her in the cold and dry weather. She felt ashamed of what she felt; ashamed of what she wore, ashamed of being there. Her feet pulsed in her head, she was not here and she walked back to the tube station again.

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I felt hungry, the refrigerator was empty. I put my blue jeans on and left home. I passed by  a beauty saloon where lost souls sought something they did not know, not known and yet painful to know. Some thought that they had found.It vanish after a small smile.They were hungry.They were sleepy…

40 years old lady shouted at me, 18 yo wanted to learn it from me secretly. A married woman saw her husband looking at me and pulled my hair for not sharing my beauty.Well I did, as soon as I appeared on the street, I was such a free commodity in a common stupidity.My name was woman, her name was woman.She was unhappy and she was the most hungry.My heart told me to forgive, so I did…

Secret of an architect...

Secret of an architect…

An old man passed by me. His wrinkles, his hunchback, his slow steps told me that life was not supposed to be a duty. He did not read Schopenhauer surely, well that was lucky. Then how did he get this philosophy? He asked me to tell him the secret before he ended his journey. He was hungry…

I had not yet arrived at the shop,I jumped up by a call! An unknown imam began to infuse all his suppressed passion into his loud call and screamed “Allah-u Ekber!” Yes, God was big and then what? The imam was asking people to pray right at that moment. Who was he? Why was he dictating everyone so loudly? He did not know the secret and surprisingly he was not hungry.

Soon men began to gather around the mosque. Women? How dare they? Well, I could only if I believed in what Imams tried to say.I was already undressed in fifteen fast steps. I felt naked, God would not allow that! God whispered me to forgive them , so I did and walked away. They began asking the water to clean themselves.Once again hunger and thirst filled up the mosque, not what imam had told…

I looked back as I heard some whispers and noise!I looked up, at the minaret, it shouted out the secret.All the women on the street were naked, so they appeared on the minaret…So who had drawn that on a white minaret, if not the architect?

Finally I was at the shop to get some vegetable, cheese and some bread. Oh, water! How could I forget that? I did not remember my hunger after discovering the secret of the architect…


“A bomb blasted in the middle of the village and  invisible hand left my teacher  in blood, he died just there in front of the black board, a piece of chalk in his right hand. The men with guns came in to the class and ordered us to go home while his blood was getting dark just like every thought of our little worlds. We all went home and they burnt the school later, so we heard. We were left with no school or a teacher, but with the deepest and the darkest ignorance.”

This is what my mother told me when she held my hand and took me to school for the first time. She was more excited than me when we opened the school gate .She looked at the big building ,looked at me and she smiled just like a little child. I saw her school, of which ashes didn’t even exist then, in her eyes and her school days that had to end but left endless fire in her heart.  

I felt her deepest longing for knowledge and I knew at that moment that I wasn’t going to go to school only for myself but for both of us. I knew everything I was going to learn was going to knock another brick of her forced ignorance down and heal her painful dark memories .From that moment on her burdens were going to  be one of my biggest motivation to learn endlessly maybe even  compulsively. Because I knew I wasn’t only going to be learning I was also going to be healing my mother’s wounds, I was going to be wiping the blood of her teacher who was killed ferociously by  terrorists in front of little kids.

However was it only her teacher who had got killed?Unfortunately not. The news told us  about killings of many other teachers, soldiers and innocent passengers not only in my mother’s village but in the whole east part of the country. We were going to find out that it was the same imperialist powers, that destroyed the peace in every country they aimed to divide and colonise throughout the history , destroyed my mother’s childhood. Neither terrorism nor those who thought they could play the same  game on us  were going to manage to divide the country. And my mother just like my country was going to be stubborn enough not to be beaten by her past.

The strength of my mother.

“She is not my child, she is your child when she is at school. Teach her the best.”, she said to my teacher on my first school day with  pride and  hope in her  compassionate eyes. However it was hard to miss the first fake smile of my teacher that she gave my mother. My mother wasn’t  even literate and had an accent as her native language was different. It was easy for an immature teacher to look down on her but it was definitely not easy even to listen to what she had to go thorough in life.

It was the life which dragged her into a marriage at the age of 14 soon after she had escaped from her village and moved to the city where I went to school. However she was the most beautiful fighter I had ever seen. She never complained or lost her determination in everything she tried in life as if she was also trying to prove that she was stronger than life.

She bought me many colourful pens that her hands were supposed to hold when she was only six years old. She never learnt how to draw but she drew the picture of happiness for us. She was a fighter outside but a slave in our house. Slave of her love. I still don’t understand how she managed to love us that much while life was tiring her so much. I still don’t understand how she didn’t let a hatret enter her heart .How did she manage to be a good mother when she didn’t even have a mother of her own?

Now, every time I think about being a mother, I fear that I might fail to be as good as my mother. But I will never fail to love my mother and I know I will never fail to be a good fighter like my mother. And my mother is the most beautiful fighter just like a flower which survives in every kind of weather.