1. Trans dyke blues

They gave her a canvas.
And asked her to paint.
Down in her head,
In her sacred profanities,
she saw someone.
She painted them.
          Them, in each others hands.
In their small home.
Home.

She grew flowering vines around the painting.
She grew, flowing into that girl she drew
She grew, wilted, regrew, rewilted

Joyful, playful, holy, insane
A little bit of un-sacredness
yet sacred the same.

2. Ode to a night of aching arms

That one night in peak Delhi summer
We talked all night on the phone
You were restless about your bass tone
My hands ached from holding the phone, till
6 AM  in the morning.

I didn’t mind.

Delhi is approaching winter, my love.

My pen aches to write for your bass.
My hand aches to ache,
holding the phone till
6AM in the morning
Again.

3. Sabr… dear heart…sabr

This Eid
There is no waking up to shower at 4, cold.
There is no riding with 5 people on a
motorcycle.
There is no table with banana leaves on,
covered in beef biryani.
There is no rush to the eidgaah.

Here I sit,
in my tattered cargos and corduroy jackets,
Couple of tears on my cheeks
Reminiscing the eids gone

Can the transsexual Eid?

For Us

I was lost
under what they said about me.
I wore all their words,
weighing more than my bones,
carrying them everywhere I went.

I couldn’t find myself
beneath those dirty fingerprints.
It was not me I saw
in the mirror, but I found
myself for you, for me, for us.
I pierced through the sun
to burn it all and to
come to you as I am.

We’ll meet under the moon
while the night clouds
float through my hair.
I’ll hold your hand
and nothing will weigh me down
while I fly in your love.

Author Notes:  My poetry book is a compilation of heartfelt verses that I’ve penned over the past few years, originally meant solely for my personal solace. However, after concealing my thoughts and emotions for an extended period, the yearning to step into the light became undeniable. I aspired to reveal my true self authentically. This petite yet significant book represents a vital aspect of my being, and unveiling it to the world fulfils the desire to be acknowledged for who I truly am. Moreover, my passion for sharing art further motivates me to extend this creative endeavour beyond the confines of my own contemplation. I invite you to explore my art, as I embrace the courage to be seen.

Boy from The Poems was published in December 2023 on Notion Press.

My name is a spell
It can’t be held
In the mouths of oppressors
Reminiscent of territories
Of bodies, invaded
The database collects my name
But cannot understand it
Yet the database decides
Where I will go in this life

Life, is a series of borders
Built and policed by those
Without access to themselves
But if we can be sorted, ordered, owned
By walls, by data
Then so can they
Eventually, borders creep
But our inner worlds
Cannot be stolen, like land

Land is a source
Of our innate, ancestral power
The soil and water
That nourished my infant body
Lives on in me
Even here at the borderlands
Where my Tamil is broken
And our people
Indefinitely imprisoned

To be imprisoned for seeking safety
For fleeing a genocide
For escaping the erasure of language, culture
For leaving a broken country
For resisting the regime that broke this country
For being born in a country broken by Empire
For being ripped from our homelands
For sacrificing ever being home again, whole again
Is to be imprisoned for existing

Existing is not possible
Without building worlds
Made up of music
Sound and stillness
In frequencies their ears can’t hear
Our ‘selves’ are fluid
Complex, interwoven with ‘other’
And at the same time non existent
Not to be contained in 1’s and 0’s
The seeds of liberatory systems

Systems we live in
Could bend and break under
The pressure of presence
Of a stillness so deep
It feels close to death
Perhaps even colonisers could access
Their own stillness, could speak our names
If only they stayed quiet
Long enough to hear it

Notes:

• Dhakshayini read this poem at the 64th meeting of Orinam’s Quilt in Chennai on Jan 2, 2023.
• Image from Wikimedia Commons, courtesy Blogtrepreneur

Swipe right swipe left
Swipe right swipe left
A monotonous motion
Almost like marching
Left right left right
Only with much less motive
And some misplaced purpose
We may have even forgotten about

Occasionally there is a “Boom”
You matched it says..
if it’s on Tinder
You get a room
If it’s on Bumble
You always fumble
Ok Cupid
Could get morbid
The apps never ending
It’s just a business machine
Making us hope there is someone out there
Looking for you

What have we become in this digital age
Staring at screens lying on our couches
Shopping for people like for things
Is this the future of the human touch
Not really wanting beyond this much..?

Orange may be the new black
In the digital date world
You better be ready for that ghosting attack!

Image credit: Santeri Viinamäki, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Every weekend it is someone new.

Some of them tall, some short, some dark and some fair.

Sometimes it’s pizza, sometimes a cup of tea.

Sometimes a bright and breezy evening by the beach, sometimes a dimly-lit fancy restaurant.

Every time, there’s a less familiar face in front of me and a menu that eventually does become familiar.

I’ve done this for a while. Even the waiters and the tea vendors are starting to notice now.

Sometimes the pasta is bland, other times, the coffee perfectly brewed.

Sometimes I find the memories of the conversations worthy of being cherished forever.

Sometimes I regret having done it at all.

Some make it to more than one meet. Some remain one-hit wonders. Some make me dream of one day making a family with them. Some make me feel insecure and insignificant.

It does get tiring sometimes. The same routine, only swapped by the people and the place and the food.

But I am still hungry. For food, for conversations and for companionship.

And I will continue to keep having, these weekends, in hopes of finding, the perfect combo that I am craving.

The zine was full of sensitive and careful representation of the community both in art and literature. I would let you explore it for yourself from here and enjoy it. For we are only too aware, what a difference some representation in mainstream would have made growing up for most of us.

Congratulation to the Lotus Zine team for bringing out this much needed volume and very good luck for your future volumes. Also many thanks to all the artists who provided their consent for us to host their work.

All art work are copyright of the Zine and the individual artists. Orinam is hosting the content with appropriate permissions.

But I don’t see any other way out.

I can’t deal with this stress any longer, this self doubt.

What if I was wrong, what if I WAS the bad guy?

What if you were right, what if you were right about me never being able to find someone if I left you?

What if you WERE the one and I couldn’t realize it?

What if I pushed you away by expecting you to spend time with me?

What if I offended you by wanting to know where you were, what you were planning to do for the day?

All these questions. All this stress. I can’t take it any longer. I need relief from this pain. I have to do this. Maybe then, you would no longer be in my memories. I have to do this.

My thoughts are interrupted by the cab driver’s voice. “We’re here.” he says.

I get out, pay him, turn around and start walking. It’s a cold night after the rains. I walk towards the entrance of the building. The glass door feels cold on my palms as I push it open. There’s light music being played and as I look around, I see him. I go over to him and ask, “Ranjith, right?”

To which he responds “Yes, have a seat… You look nice… So, shall we order something?”

“Yes, I would love some coffee” I say to him.

And say to myself “I had to do this”.

Notes:

• This piece was shared by Mujeebur Rahman at Orinam’s 49th Quilt session on Nov 24, 2019, in Chennai.
• Image credits: Broken Heart symbol by Nevit Dilmen. Wikimedia Commons. 2009. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Notes:

• This poem was read by Shivapriya at the Pride 2019 edition of Orinam’s Quilt, held on June 16, 2019, at ICSA Chennai.
• Image above adapted from ‘Coastal Erosion at Mount Lavinia Hotel’ by Pol van den Scheetek, WIkimedia Commons licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license here.