I blink -
my wooden lids
are heavier by nature;
my wooden eyes opaque.
The strings —
no, the opacity has
nothing to do with it.
A bruise —
feel as thick as
dreams doomed wooden.
I sweat —
move no more than
your monotonous plans.
The end —
hang on, the wooden box
is not a bad home at all.
© Sana Rose 2020
“Writing is like carrying a fetus.” — Edna O’Brien
I carried this fetus for four years and finished writing it in Summer 2019. The editing went on for another year, eleven rounds. Finally, there is no more for me to put into this book except to tell you it’s out there!
I have been off Medium for a month now, after I got the publishing deal for this book. Busy with it promotions, I have barely thought of anything since July, let alone write on various topic here.
Anyway, I present to you my upcoming book, of which the Kindle…
Let’s admit it — sex education is awkward and difficult. Or so we think. Where I come from (India), it is literally non-existent in a family. It’s a matter of modesty and pertinence, to keep the curiosity buried, to swallow the questions and to not expect answers.
Back when I was in school, nobody — absolutely nobody — talked to me about sex. The only topic covered would be about menstruation, as it was inevitable and did not wait until adulthood to happen. And there were religious do’s and don’ts associated with it. Even then, it was taboo.
Our brain, with all due respects to its complexities and evolutionary progresses, is an organ of convenience. And, as it is meant to be, programmed to process things in a way that will facilitate survival and thereby, propagate the species. This immeasurable, yet often surprising, quality of the human brain is very much responsible for moving on and living, if I may say so, an ordinary life.
That is, considering anything extraordinary would occur to those who are easily affected by whatsoever matters or doesn't matter.
But what happens when life puts a power brake and drives back in reverse…
When home is not home,
when eyes bleed and souls still,
my verses turn into ice needles
soaked in their suffering.
How faux of us to worry,
and think that any luxury
of being able to feel
is going to help Aleppo!
How hypocritical of you
to ask me why I have no poems
to describe bloodshed in decor,
so that people see it?
How naive of you to assume
that people are not seeing it,
how dumb of you to presume
that not seeing is the problem?
How faux is your concern,
like my plagiarized leather bag! …
One of the most common phobias in this era is FOMO — Fear Of Missing Out. I came across this term years ago when I did not completely understand it. But soon I did because, well, by then I was using social media on a daily basis, too. The number of platforms is just increasing and the more you engage with them, the more you fear missing out.
Not long after, or maybe it was longer than I liked, I found that I missed the days without a proper internet connection and when social networking was just a fresh concept…
I rearranged the furniture
hoping to clean some mess,
replace a few out-of-place stuff,
moved the bed
perpendicular to it’s memory,
pushed the table all the way
to the other end,
threw open the closed set of windows,
welcoming an extra serving
of the occasional wind.
I rearranged a few pieces of myself
The hands of my biological clock,
the piece of my mind I gave out
lest it became a burden to itself.
I rearranged the chambers of my heart, swapped the one for pure blood with the impure, or vice versa — I don't…