Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Aren't enough good guys around these days?


Had an awful feeling of bad vibes.
So, called your office on a hunch.
They said you wont be coming,
you were not feeling well.
Called your home,
the phone was off the hook.

Didn’t like the sound of it.
So decided to drop in and check.
You are shocked as you
see me at your door step
at 10.30 am, Monday morning.

I too am shocked looking at you.
You try to hide your
face as you welcome me inside.

Your place is in shambles.
Things strewn all over.
Stale cigarette smoke
and dank smell of sour
liquor greet me,
as I remove some of the
scattered things from the chair
and sit down.

Clutching your crumpled nightgown,
you ask if I would like coffee.
I say yes.
Give me 10 mins, to freshen
up, you say, here, read the newspaper.

You go freshen up, I say,
I will make coffee for both of us.

You are too tired to even thank me.
You vanish into
the bathroom, as I get into the kitchen.

I know, by the time you come out,
you would have somehow
concealed the black eye, the
imprint of brute fingers
on your swelling cheek.
You will fool me, like you will,
and all the others, as in past.

But tell me, can you pick the
shards of your heart? Can you
mend your fractured spirit ?
Can you balm your
branded by terror, psyche ?

You will never admit that you
are a victim of
violent physical abuse.
You will never ask for help, advice.
And, none, will be offered.

I wonder why, I wonder,
as I get the coffee ready,
why you are clinging on
to this bloody relationship.

After all, you are smart.
Beautiful . A rare Portia. You
could get any guy you want.
If only, if only,
you will let go of this one.

But you wont. You will hang on
to him. Damn you and the thread
that you wear around your neck,
that according to you,
sacredly and eternally binds you to him.
And his sadistic ways.

I wonder, if intelligent women
are really intelligent ? I doubt,
by seeing the kind of guys they land up with.
And also, refuse to part from.

May be, I value the intelligence of women
too much, with respect to their
choice of men. As Truman Capote once
wrote,… “Women are like flies. They
settle on sugar or shit.”

Maybe, sugar is short
in supply, nowadays.

But, I think, TC missed out
on the third category – salt blokes
that some women seem to relish
in rubbing their wounds against.

As I get the coffee into
the living room, you
are magically back, as the
vivacious woman I know.
All the marks are made up expertly.
May be from practice.
You are no longer the battered,
torn and aging woman whom I saw
at the door. The room is straightened out
with no signs of any disarray.
It even smells better, and seems cheerful,
with the freshener you have sprayed.

Playing helplessly
along your sham,
we bury yet another
sordid chapter
of your life.

Once again, you have
managed to conceal all your hurt,
all your pain.
And putting on a brave show of
being the strong woman
I know.

We sip the coffee, making
mundane conversation, oblivious
to the tragedy. Suddenly,
your face becomes a
waterry blur, as I cant conceal
my care for you.

I wonder when you
will save yourself.

Maybe never.

Sept 2003

3 comments:

david raphael israel said...

quite a story Sig --

if you'll tolerate a suggestion, if I were you I'd perhaps title it "Short in supply" (a phrase found in the poem itself); it can be a bit more interesting if the meaning unfolds as one reads, rather than being declared outright in title. imho

cheers,
d.i.

Inkblot said...

yes, its a huge issue-domestic violence and the way women deal or don't deal with it. Glad you wrote it- and so beautifully too.

sigmund fraud said...

David,

I think you have a very valid point here. Thanks for the comment. I'll remember in future.

Inks,

Thanks.