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

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.
  

Part 1: You love them without a body.
They is an entity,
They wraps themselves around myself
And I will touch their every curve and crevice,
Plunge myself into their cracks and touch them
Where I’d want to be touched.
Kama comes bodiless and swift
…Much like me in bed.
Yet it is always she that I see,
Me, I am as visible as I believe.
And invisible when I am everything
The world wishes me to be.
Part 1: You love them without a body.

Part 2: You are the object.
She comes and asks me who I am
Asks me to grip harder.
When the moon is unreachable
I push myself into the breachable
Her eyes feel my insides and suddenly
I am nobody.
I am nothing that matters
Nobody insignificant.
my desire is entire.
My love is above
All these contracts of rough
And the ragged is all I am.
Part 2 – you become the object.

Part 3: you love yourself.
They say it for fun
They know it hurts, but say it anyway
“He” likes attention,
“He” is the butterfly stuck to the wall
The flower without nectar
And “he”
“He he he he he”
It’s like they’re laughing at me
“He he he he”
I smile. I correct them. I tell them to call me “they”
Every time I smile, I remember the abuses entertained,
I remember the warmth of that day
That day once, much long ago
When she called me and said she needed me,
And I was hers since then, forevermore.
Each time you call me a man, a boy, a son, a sir,
I lose myself in the depths of the darkest days
And I can’t love anymore, again.
I can’t. Because I must spend that love for myself,
And I am not much, but everything at once,
A speck of stardust trying to wipe away immovable rust…
Part 3 is me, and I am such –
I am they, for I am many,
and my love doesn’t need your touch (but wants it).

I am the zenith of your imagination,
And I had to learn to say “I” again.
They told me it’s selfish of me, and I had to learn to say it…once more.
To love myself, I remember the resentment, the guilt and the fear,
I remember that my penis is not me,
My throat can be musical, as it can be deep.
That within this dysphoria,
I can craft my own Utopia,
And love will forever be, mine.
Part 3 – you love yourself.

Part 4: And this is the hardest when you love. You listen.
She taught me this. I always used to say, I can listen. I can listen.
She told me of when she used to be the master, the “Babu” of her home,
When Kama rushes into my soul,
I can’t hold myself. I relate and converse
She tells me she loves purple,
I say, “Oh! That’s my favorite color!”
Tells me she used to dream up fantasies, and was a dreamy child,
I said, “Hey that sounds like me!”
She says she’s been through abusive relationships, and I say “Me too!”
says there’s nothing as tasty as cold water on a summer afternoon, and I say “How true!”
Every sentence must be relatable, every word must deal with me. Empathy, empathy
That’s everything I should be.
But in order to see, to truly truly see
I needed to listen, to listen to her, and listen to me
Know that abuse isn’t the same for us all
That different pain is felt differently,
That we’re humans, to be queer is to be different
To standout from the crowd is to form a crowd of misfits and strangers who see all that’s invisible
And when she could see me…
She could, she really could
When she could see me when no one else did…
My penis doesn’t matter!
My beard doesn’t matter!
My body doesn’t matter!
All that mattered was to listen.
Listen to the histories that whispered to me, telling me who I am and was, when I seemed to forget.
Listen to her as she tells me her fears
Feel the sweat form on my brow as her horrors become my own…
And listen to her voice when she called me “They”…
Listen to her correct every soul who passes my way
And for once, I can be anything.
Nothing is finally everything
And feeling is believing.
Listen, listen to the unheard voices and finally
Listen to hear
When she tells me she loves me.

How to love someone without a gender, a manual in four parts.

Note: Q read their poem at Orinam’s 40th Quilt poetry and spoken word event (Chennai Pride 2018 edition) at ICSA Chennai on June 17, 2018. Thanks to Archanaa Seker for the video.

Twenty-five year old Hari is leaving home.
On his thigh is a tattoo penned by his friend Tony.

They were two swings tied facing each other.
From two branches they moved farther and closer.

As their lips and fingers soared,
The birds nibbled at the fruits, sitting on their hairy chest.

As their jeans unbutton,
Hammer in the courtroom progresses.
The kernel shines in the bird’s stomach.

They opened the doors and entered the bathroom
And gazed at the swarming of fishes, which escaped
Hidden under the water cascades.

When they bathed together
Green colour spurted out of the showers.
The trees between their thighs rose out of the wetness.

As in coition, their seeds broke, the leaves fell and branches ripped.
The circles of love becoming suffocating.

Their law and justice lie between their legs.
The trees that sprang and stood
Are their identities.

Each tree had a swing,
On one, they made a court of their own
Jokers were put in them

On the second swing,
They created their God
With granules of salt.

കാതൽ വളയം

ഇരുപത്തഞ്ചുകാരനായ ഹരി വീട്ടിൽ നിന്നിറങ്ങി പോകുന്നു.
അവന്റെ തുടയിൽ കൂട്ടുകാരൻ ടോണി പച്ച കുത്തിയ ഒരു ചിത്രമുണ്ട്.
നേർക്ക് നേരെ കെട്ടിയ രണ്ട് ഊഞ്ഞാലുകൾ പോലെ അവർ
രണ്ട് കൊമ്പുകളിൽ നിന്ന് അകലുകയും അടുക്കുകയും ചെയ്യുന്നു.

അവരുടെ ചുണ്ടുകളും വിരലുകളും ആയത്തിൽ കുതിക്കുമ്പോൾ
നെഞ്ചിലെ രോമങ്ങളിലിരുന്ന് കിളികൾ പഴം നുണയുന്നു.
ജീൻസിന്റെ ഹുക്കഴിക്കുമ്പോൾ കോടതിയിലെ ചുറ്റിക ഒന്നനങ്ങുന്നു
കിളിയുടെ വയറ്റിലെ പഴക്കുരു തിളങ്ങിക്കൊണ്ടിരിക്കുന്നു

അവർ കുളിമുറിയുടെ വാതിൽ തുറന്ന് അകത്തു കയറുന്നു
വെള്ളച്ചാട്ടങ്ങൾ ഒളിപ്പിച്ചു കടത്തിയ മീനുകളുടെ ഉത്സവം കാണുന്നു.
ഒരുമിച്ചു കുളിക്കുമ്പോൾ ഷവറിനുള്ളിൽ നിന്ന് പച്ചനിറമുള്ള ചായം കുതിക്കുന്നു.
തുടകൾക്കിടയിൽ നനഞ്ഞ രണ്ടു മരങ്ങൾ ഉയരുന്നു.
ഇണ ചേരുമ്പോൾ വിത്ത് പൊട്ടി ഇലവീഴുകയും തടി വിണ്ടു കീറുകയും
കാതലിന്റെ വളയങ്ങൾ ശ്വാസം മുട്ടിക്കുകയും ചെയ്യുന്നു.

അവരുടെ നീതിന്യായം അവരുടെ കാലിന്നിടയിലാണ്.
ഉദ്ധരിച്ചു നില്ക്കുന്ന രണ്ടു മരങ്ങളാണ് അവരുടെ അടയാളങ്ങൾ .
ഓരോ മരത്തിലും ഓരോ ഊഞ്ഞാലുകൾ
ഒന്നാമത്തെ ഊഞ്ഞാലിൽ ജോക്കർ മാത്രമുള്ള ഒരു കുത്ത് ശീട്ടുകൾ കൊണ്ട്
അവരൊരു കോടതി പണിഞ്ഞു വെയ്ക്കുന്നു.
രണ്ടാമത്തെ ഊഞ്ഞാലില് ഉപ്പുതരികൾ കൊണ്ട്
അവരൊരു ദൈവത്തെ ഉണ്ടാക്കി വെയ്ക്കുന്നു.

Credits: Orinam thanks the author, translator and artist for their permission to republish from Queerala.

About the poet: M R Vishnuprasad is a young poet and performance art researcher currently based in New Delhi, India. He is a recent (2017) recipient of a fellowship from Ministry of Culture, Govt. of India in the field of Folk/Traditional and Indigenous Arts. The identity that truly defines Vishnuprasad’s being is that of a poet; because poetry gives expression to his existence as an artist and a researcher. Vishnu is currently pursuing his Ph.D. in theatre and performance studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Vishnuprasad’s intervention in art is a tripartite synthesis of poetry, ecology and performance art.

About the translator: Leeny Elango is a research scholar at Stella Maris College, Chennai. Her area of research is transgender life stories. The study is to find out if their narratives have centered them or are they still placed beyond the margins by the mainstream society. She pens occasionally on Facebook.

About the artist: Jijo Kuriakose is an artist, photographer, scientist, and community organizer with the group Queerala in Kochi.

my mind loses itself
in the streaks of hair
on your chest

the taste of your lips
surpasses the flavour
of wild honey
water trickling from a spring

the taste of your saliva
makes the akshaya paatram
the proverbial pot of limitless bounty
appear limited

the twin black rainbows
of your pupils
enchant with countless magic tricks
all within a fraction of a second

like a beetle intoxicated by nectar
so too
i am intoxicated by your sweat.

your embrace
dispels all semblance
of self-control and austerity in me

the touch of your fingers
sends me into paroxyms of pleasure

the intimate conversations of your gaze
send the butterflies in my imagination
into throes of ecstasy

my hands, mouth and body
long to play with your delectable navel

the musical notes of your feet
cause lust to erupt within me

lips locked in kisses
bodies writhing in embrace,
tight hugs
making hearts beat loudly

asleep in the day,
waking up at nights
forgetting dates, times and tasks
unable to speak, sing, feel,
forgetting to breathe

lying on the bed,
i tend a sacrificial fire
and invent a new hymn:
this.

Photo credits: Arun Geetha Viswanathan (8.5pixels)
Translation: L Ramakrishnan
For Tamil version, click here.

Hear my story,
Turn a deaf ear, shy away
Walk past, plugging me out,
Cry or console my loss,
Chide me, ask me to shut up.
Ignore me.
I still shriek of injustice
I am but a woman.

Call me the goddess, your alter ego,
The prostitute or the slut,
the feminazi,
The woman you can only
dream of bedding, or
The whore you fucked
last night,
Or your mother
I am multiple orgasms
I am but a woman.

Shred my ego to pieces,
revel in chivalry
Or slap me down
grovelling in the gravel
Mould me to your choice
I will be the lady
and the bitch
I am everything.
I am but a woman

Ban my blood and
own my womb
Taboo my body
for three whole days
Seed it with lust the next
I choose to be childless, to bleed freely
I am but a woman.

Don’t love my love handles,
put me down with my weight
My full grown body
an eyesore.
Try me into body issues
I will not fit in
I am but a woman

Say I am too modern,
Outrageous, or too traditional
to suit your tastes
Judge me with the size of my bindhi
Or the way I drape my
Sari just below
my navel, or the swiftness
with which I cover my head
when seen,
Or my six inch heel.
I am the permanent outcast
I am but a woman.

Thrust upon me
masks of masculinity
Penis-obsessed,
your hard rock ego boosts with
each sloppy kiss-
That testosterone high
Fails to stir me enough
I prefer women
I am but a woman.

Shivapriya first read this poem at the Queer and Ally Arts Festival on May 8, 2016, in Chennai. It was subsequently published in FeminismInIndia.

Purification.

Or so they believed.

We exchange our love bravely and sometimes, quietly
Under the light of the stars and by the shadows of day
Love watches us, giggling at our indulgent mischief
Stripped of legal protection and indefensibly thirsty

Desperation.

For an erstwhile brief interlude.

Why do we promise to never leave each other?
Two atoms in a stormy cosmos of cross-stitched familiarities
Until the floodgates are breached, washing away past, present
And future: Will we stay or will we flee?

Flight–

Not to be mistaken
                      for
                            an emancipation

Did she cut off her thaali?
Cutting off her thread of secrets,
Did she slip off the metti?
Slipping away her regrets,
She did not have to,
“I want the freedom and the girl!”
With girlfriend in hand,
She never agreed to a marriage proposal.

Did she get disowned?
Father would rather have a son,
Mother would rather have a married daughter,
Did she end up without a home?
Homeless, however not a soulless being,
She carries her home with her wherever she goes,
With that her many closets.

She gained new friends,
A makeshift family,
Yet she misses her relatives,
Her dearest Amma and Appa,
She never could shut them out of her heart,
No matter how hard she tried,

Even if they coldly shamed her,
Amma and Appa are not callous,
A weighted silence,
A small reunion,
“Eppothum iruppaai nam kanmaniyaaga”*

Photo credit: Subhalakshmi

Thaali – the wedding necklace
Metti- toe rings
Amma- Mother
Appa- Father
*“You shall always be our loved one (literally, precious like an eye)”