16
English / Known line
« on: June 30, 2015, 10:14:45 PM »
"Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through!"
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17
English / Love by Taslima
« on: June 30, 2015, 10:00:55 PM »
If you are loved
You can live on bread and salt,
Sleep on the sidewalk.
Be happy and gay, and feel that
You have won in a different way,
If you are loved
You can smoke your life away
Between two fingers,
And in your heart as itar can play
Without any string
What do you think? To me, she is in the world of fantasy of love and cannot think about the cemented reality even in her dream.
You can live on bread and salt,
Sleep on the sidewalk.
Be happy and gay, and feel that
You have won in a different way,
If you are loved
You can smoke your life away
Between two fingers,
And in your heart as itar can play
Without any string
What do you think? To me, she is in the world of fantasy of love and cannot think about the cemented reality even in her dream.
18
English / Sisters by Clifton
« on: June 30, 2015, 04:56:50 PM »Sisters - by Clifton
me and you be sisters.
we be the same.
me and you
coming from the same place.
me and you
be greasing our legs
touching up our edges.
me and you
be scared of rats
be stepping on roaches.
me and you
come running high down purdy street one time
and mama laugh and shake her head at
me and you.
me and you
got babies
got thirty-five
got black
let our hair go back
be loving ourselves
be loving ourselves
be sisters.
only where you sing,
I poet.
19
English / Agree or Disagree?
« on: June 30, 2015, 04:48:03 PM »
''Poetry is a matter of life, not just a matter of language.''
20
English / Old saying
« on: June 29, 2015, 02:37:49 PM »
"What shall be, will be" ---------- let's conform to our soul.
21
English / Some outstanding lines from Sexton
« on: June 28, 2015, 02:57:37 PM »
I was forced backward.
I was forced forward.
I was passed hand to hand
Like a bowl of fruit.
"Each night I am nailed into place
and I forget who I am.
Daddy?
That’s another kind of prison.
It’s not the prince at all,
but my father
drunkenly bend over my bed,
circling the abyss like a shark,
my father thick upon me
like some sleeping jellyfish."
A daughter is speaking from her Electra complex.
I was forced forward.
I was passed hand to hand
Like a bowl of fruit.
"Each night I am nailed into place
and I forget who I am.
Daddy?
That’s another kind of prison.
It’s not the prince at all,
but my father
drunkenly bend over my bed,
circling the abyss like a shark,
my father thick upon me
like some sleeping jellyfish."
A daughter is speaking from her Electra complex.
22
English / A Quote from Wright
« on: June 26, 2015, 10:23:23 PM »
"My life was wide and wild,
and who can know my heart? There in that golden jungle
I walk alone".
and who can know my heart? There in that golden jungle
I walk alone".
23
English / Body & Commodity
« on: June 24, 2015, 09:35:01 AM »
Some critics say, there is no difference between body, particularly the body of woman and commodity in a patriarchal society.
Is it so? How?
You're requested to write your valuable opinions.
Is it so? How?
You're requested to write your valuable opinions.
24
English / Questioning
« on: June 24, 2015, 09:29:45 AM »
"Must we say: an other sex = an other writing
an other sex = an other meaning? Why?
Can we simply oppose writing to meaning, or present them as alternatives?" ---------- Irigaray
an other sex = an other meaning? Why?
Can we simply oppose writing to meaning, or present them as alternatives?" ---------- Irigaray
25
English / Let's read poetry
« on: June 23, 2015, 10:17:16 PM »
" ... I hold my daddy
like an old stone tree." by Anne Sexton
like an old stone tree." by Anne Sexton
26
Faculty Forum / Reading Poetry
« on: June 23, 2015, 12:06:13 PM »
An Introduction
I don't know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don't play pretending games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans' tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
I don't know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don't play pretending games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans' tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
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