9 months

(c) Frida Kahlo Henry Ford Hospital 1932

9 months
it takes an embryo to develop in the womb

9 months of silence and mourning
of consuming agony and faint flickering hope
like the pains of birth
which bring new life into the world
the pains of loss bury
bury deep and cripple
my womb is empty and sewn
birthing no more, but tears and endurance

9 months to grow a tumor
to grow apart and become strangers again
completely oblivious to each other’s suffering
and joys
what stars did not align and kept you from me?

9 months of labor
screaming and kicking
out of control
a mental menopause
a forced C-section through my soul
with memories pricking like flaming needles

9 months to become wiser
to stitch a cacophonous past
and make amends
reminisce over what brought us together in the first place
the Universe
and Everything
once irrecoverably struck by the clock of love…

9 months to learn to unlove you
with no epilogue in sight
i declare the baby dead
her little’s heart stopped beating



(c) freedom writer

Painting binaries, bipolar, bigender, bivalent, bisexual, bilingual, bilateral, bisect, biliteral, birhythm.

Painted with watercolors.

Inspired by Pink Floyd‘s album cover for The Dark Side of the Moon (Pink Floyd is one of my favorite bands, I find their art transcending).

Unique Blogger Award


I’ve been celebrating this within for the past few days. Now I finally get the chance to honor the nomination that has sparked something inside of me. This whole – should I call it incident? – made me realize how many nice people are out there in the blogosphere. This award means I now have the opportunity to bond even further with fellow bloggers. It gives me a sense of belonging and what a wonderful community to belong to!

Out of all these really nice people, one thought of nominating my blog and I feel most grateful to them. Thank you, Non-Euclidean Sofa! Your enticing humor, sarcasm and creativity are more than adequate to me. Needless to say, this is the first time I’ve ever received any kind of award in the two years since I’ve been around (and now, of course, I’m hungry for more).

Before I answer the 3 magical questions, here are the rules each of us is supposed to follow (I’m not sure what happens if we break them – burn in bloggers’ hell?). So, here we go:


  • Share the link of the blogger who has shown love to you by nominating you.
  • Answer the questions.
  • In the spirit of sharing love and solidarity with our blogging family, nominate 8-13 people for the same award.
  • Ask them 3 questions.

These are the 3 questions I was asked. I hope my answers make me worthy of this magnificent award.

1. What is something you’d show from a rooftop on a Sunday night during a rainstorm? Also, explain why at your leisure.

I wouldn’t show people anything. But I would put on a show, a mask, anything to make them escape the fires of reality. I would most likely be covered in glitter, singing at the top of my lungs the most acute sounds anyone has ever heard. And then, of course, a rainbow would appear. Even if it’s dark outside. It’s a show after all so anything is permitted.

Why? Because “there’s something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.” So a little bit of music and glitter wouldn’t hurt.

2. What is something you could enjoy complaining a lot about?

I’m not sure I enjoy complaining about anything lately. But it’s probably either the unbearable heat (I can’t stand summer), politics (national, international – all of them), or stuff related to gender (and how society thought it was a marvelous idea to pigeonhole and label us – I could actually go on forever on this subject).

3. What is something you think about that keeps you awake?

The sound of my thoughts (they can get pretty loud), or thinking about the sound of the alarm clock in the morning. But most of the times they range from crucial philosophical or psychological questions about consciousness, the Universe or quantum physics to the sudden realization that I forgot to take out from the freezer the schnitzels I was planning to cook in the morning (for lunch at work). And the latter is what I call the quintessence of adulthood.

By the power vested in me by a unique blogger, I now nominate the following 10 bloggers for the title of Unique Blogger (so that we can all be unique in our own ways):

Gospel Isosceles

The wishing well

Malakhai Jonezs

Alphabet City

Shutter & Pen

Luke Atkins



The Chatty Introvert 

And since nowhere in the guidelines does it say we shouldn’t nominate the person who nominated us

Non-Euclidean Sofa

Just take this as my way of thanking you 🙂 You are now doubly-unique.

Here are my 3 questions for you all:

1. What drives you?

2. What moves you?

3. What gives you absolute pleasure? 

So there you have it. I look forward to reading your thoughts! And thanks for accepting the award. See you all around!

With utmost excitement,


On Poetry II

(c) Butterfly Series by Victoria Horkan

There is something peculiar about poetry. Here’s a thought I had today: I can schedule a painting session for the weekend (or all of my weekends for that matter) and I can plan my singing exercises (for warming up my voice) during the week (preferably on Mondays). But I would find it rather difficult to say that on Wednesday evenings I will be writing poetry. As if I can have an appointment at 8:30 pm sharp with a muse who will tell me exactly what to write and how to write it; as if I can plan to feel and exude my emotions as mechanically as I wake up, have breakfast and go to work.

That’s because if painting and singing could be treated as work, for which I need to show up, poetry is that which sneaks up on me from the darkest or tenderest rooms where I left the back door ajar. Sometimes it’s recognizable, other times well-camouflaged; nonetheless, it’s an itch that begs to be alleviated, a fervor to be expressed, manifested and sent out into the vibrating world. It cannot dwell in you for long because you would congest and eventually decompose. If you’re gleeful or grieving, poetry can help you express both.

There’s a reason why maybe the greatest poetry will not be scribbled as you sit at your writing table, but sufficiently close to it – standing near the window to smell the lilacs in the spring or saying farewell to someone you irremediably lost. These are the moments of nascent poems, when something within and without compels you to give birth to it.

On that (poetic) note, here are other revealing quotes on poetry that will hopefully awaken the dormant poet in you. You may read the first part here. Enjoy!

  1. The genesis of a poem for me is usually a cluster of words. The only good metaphor I can think of is a scientific one: dipping a thread into a supersaturated solution to induce crystal formation. Margaret Atwood

  2. Yet, it is true, poetry is delicious; the best prose is that which is most full of poetry. Virginia Woolf

  3. It is poetry that will save the world, not commerce. Art Professor Luther from the Glory Daze movie

  4. Poetry is the only life got, the only work done, the only pure product and free labor of man, performed only when he has put all the world under his feet, and conquered the last of his foes. Henry David Thoreau

  5. Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do. Stephen Spender

  6. Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them. Dennis Gabor

  7. Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary. Kahlil Gibran

  8. Poetry can be dangerous, especially beautiful poetry, because it gives the illusion of having had the experience without actually going through it. Rumi

  9. Poetry is an act of peace. Pablo Neruda

  10. Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You’ve got to go so far so fast in such a small space; you’ve got to burn away all the peripherals. Sylvia Plath

    george mckim poetry
    (c) George McKim Poetry – Poem Painting
  11. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet. Plato

  12. Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words. Paul Engle

  13. There is poetry as soon as we realize we possess nothing. John Cage

  14. If you want to annoy a poet, explain his poetry. Nassim Nicholas Taleb

  15. Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity. William Wordsworth

  16. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. T. S. Eliot

  17. Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people. Adrian Mitchell

  18. Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. Dylan Thomas

  19. Poetry is frosted fire. J. Patrick Lewis

  20. I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering. Robert Frost

  21. Poems come out of wonder, not out of knowing. Lucille Clifton

  22. I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls. Anaïs Nin

  23. I know you are reading this poem/in a room where too much has happened for you to bear. Adrienne Rich from An Atlas of the Difficult World

  24. There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know. William Cowper

  25. Well, write poetry for God’s sake, it’s the only thing that matters. e. e. cummings

  26. Poetry is, at bottom, a criticism of life. Matthew Arnold

  27. A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep. Salman Rushdie

  28. The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it. Sylvia Plath

There is no stopping it…

Ode to All Lost Things

(c) The Lost Thing – Illustration by Shaun Tan (from the picture book with the same title written by Shaun Tan)

Where do all lost things go?
Is there a special Universe for them?

An elegant corner
A lost and found box
Hidden from our sight
The keys you misplaced this morning
While in a hurry on your way to work
That notebook with all your best sketches
All the breadcrumbs you never ate
The nights you were out and drinking
Befriending the dawn
The breakfast you skipped so you could
Sleep for ten more minutes
A loss of appetite after a fight
The millions of cells that die in us every other minute
The hair loss we have to deal with on a daily basis
The missing bus that reminds you how poor you are
That train you were about to take from platform 5
Never coming back…

To that earring you loved so much
Now lying in solitude on the floor somewhere
To the broken jar
The smashed vase
To the pieces that cannot be reassembled
To the teacup that shattered
Turned to bits
All forgotten and devoured
In the kitchen of lost things
An entire cupboard of loss
Accompanied by spilt salt and milk
Losing your train of thought in the middle of a speech
To lost empires and fortunes
Lost a prize, the gold medal
Losing a bet with your friend
To all those times you lost your temper
And never apologized for it

To lose your chance at saying goodbye to your dying cat – that is cruel and undeserved
To all the lost grandmas and grandpas
And all the love letters
Sent and misplaced
Forgotten, suspended in time
To all the choices we’ve never made
To all the lost babies
Who have grown up and are no longer babies
To all the miscarriages
To the loss that forever aches
Night and day, day and night
A loss so grave no one can deny

There’s no loss like human loss

Losing your best friend to the world
In your darkest hour
Losing all your senses
Losing your virginity
To the one you love
Losing portions of you
Standing unrecognizable in the mirror
The flesh is still yours, but everything else isn’t
The loss of what you cherish the most
Where does it all go?
The hug that brought together multiverses
The gaze of love
The loss of a chance at forgiveness
Losing all meaning
Losing faith
Losing your childhood dream
Your dearest memory
Losing sight of that which matters
Losing the now in the tumult of life
Losing your life over a death sentence

Where do all lost things go?
Is there a special Universe for them?

We search and search
Because no speck of hope is ever lost.