This poem unfolded and it was totally unexpected

•December 23, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Elements of the Dreamscape

I gaze up at the sky as I lay on my back,

Azure peeping through my tree’s intricate green dress,

Breezes bringing calming essences and warmth, melting away stress,

A trail of ants march up and down a tiny beaten track,

Their tireless toil somehow syncs in harmony,

With the peaceful flow of a brook nearby,

The keskidee fighting for food seem sufficiently happy,

The wind and the leaves rustle a lullaby,

Everything illuminates in the vibrant energy of the sun,

It’s golden life-force pouring out,

Like a potent potion overflowing from a glowering cauldron,

Commanding respect, all are erect, at attention.

The gentle rain left crystalline drops on the leaves and grass,

Who are seduced by the radiant star from afar.

So they morph, and sail, transparent, obediently, to him.

The rich, wet, earth, black and nubile,

From which spring bright and bold blossoms,

That open wide to bask in uninhibited love,

Moist with raindrops and nectar.

Desire stirs with thoughts of juicy fruits hanging above.

I dream of sinking my teeth in delectable flesh,

Flavour bursting on my tongue,

Drenches my lips and runs down my front.

My imagination runs wild.

Still, I leave it to fate,

To find me my rightful, life-long playmate.


22nd. December, 2015






A different mold for every woman: Poem

•December 22, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Warrior woman


You’re too strong

Too tall

Your breasts are too small.

Why couldn’t she be pretty?

That’s no way to be a lady.

Your steps should be more delicate…

Unwomanly habits to eradicate

Before she has a chance to vindicate.

Her movements are too agile.

Too quick.

Her motion isn’t restricted by fabric.

Covered in steel instead of elevated at the heel,

What is she really looking for?

To be broken at the wheel?


She buys her own meal,

Awaiting the repeal,

Of sanctions against her

That clearly reveal

That besides not being fair of face

This ghastly harpy must not know her place.

Social grace?

No sire

No escort

No chevalier

No chaperon

No husband

Note even a lover or paramour

She complicates our system.

And what for?

The same space as an innocent?

The purity of a sweet virgin?

The sacred place of mother?

The throne of the crone?

At the shrine of the divine.

When will you understand?

You do not fit.

Into any of the roles for your kind that we have writ.

Submit to your destiny.

To one, or to many.

To be quick-witted and act upon the intuited,

Your clamouring is meaningless,

Like the winds in the trees

And the hum of the bees.

You are of a different species.

It is beyond us to understand you.

So you have two choices:

You conform, or we forget you.


Reds and browns,

Yellows and ochres

Blend together as I paint a portrait of my face

Etched with my thoughts and feelings

My ups and downs,

The Great Spirit, my anchor.

I won’t forget my face, as I make my own place,

The peculiarities of my race,

Our memories like delicately woven lace.

My body marks me: Distinct and Apart

But my immortal soul flows in a river

Of like souls and boundless spirit,


Rushing forth with a power that I fought to recover.

To be is a divine art

And so I learned that freedom is by no means free.

And determined, verily, by little old me.

21st. December, 2015

First poem for 2015

•November 3, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Do not forget…
None live in your mind, other than you
You have your own version of what is true
The most potent and poisonous deception you can succumb to
Comes from the darkest depths of your very own self.

Do not forget…
Heart and mind work together
Ever heard logic provide a complete solution?
Never heard the heart devise sound strategy?
The harmony of each divine don
On the hair- thin line of equilibrium
Will liberally grant your needs
Boon by boon.

Do not forget…
You may be for yourself, but you are never by yourself.
Close your eyes and listen to the silence
Approach the light of life shining in you
With reverence
Your soul is at peace
Because the beam pouring out of the sky
Rests lovingly in your third eye.
Your choice to sit still or to roam
Do not change the love and light
That never leave you alone.
Do not forget…
Each day we rise
Not all of us can envision a prize
But we must keep hope alive
So our spirit will continue to long and strive
Every day, a purpose
In the right moments

Do not forget…
The withering rose
No longer undulating, the caterpillar
In repose
The rising sun chiming
Lest the earth froze.
Green, yellow, red, brown leaves
Worn to transparent, fragile, laces
Nourishing the young saplings
In which we find strength
And shade for our faces.

Do not forget…
The beginning and end
The end and the beginning
It’s almost the same thing
A cycle, bigger than all of us.
So great and daunting,
Easy, and hard to trust.

Do not forget…
This vast universe is part of you
And you part of it.
You are unimportant.
But every breath, every bite, every word, every mite
Makes great waves.
One less butterfly and the world shifts uneasily
In a natural kind of mourning,
But don’t fret.
Here comes morning.

Louella Mahabir
2nd November, 2015

Daddy by Sylvia Plath

•June 10, 2015 • Leave a Comment


By Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time——

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Sylvia Plath, “Daddy” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)

are you beautiful? I asked 100 men what ‘physical beauty’ is and the results shocked me

•April 7, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Tina Fey is championing feminine uniqueness and what it means to be beautiful

Rozanne Leigh

Tina Fey said it best in her book, ‘Bossy Pants’:

 “But I think the first real change in women’s body image came when JLo turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty.
Girls wanted butts now.
Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them.
And then, what felt like moments later, boom—Beyoncé brought the leg meat. A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired.
And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful.
Ah ha ha. No. I’m totally messing with you.
All Beyonce and JLo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful.

Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose…

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“The phone rang. It was my college rapist.”

•March 17, 2015 • 1 Comment


As told to Jen Sorensen by Anonymous

In November 2014, not long after the Bill Cosby rape allegations blew up in the news, a friend of mine reached out to tell me her own story of sexual assault and asked if I would draw a comic about her experience.

The friend, whom I’ll call Alison, was assaulted after unknowingly ingesting some sort of tranquilizing agent during her senior year at college in the early 1970s; she was 21 years old. Alison says that her goal in telling her story is not to incriminate her assailant but to raise awareness about what she calls “an insidious problem of powerful men who think they can get away with abuse.” Although some details have been changed to protect identities, I have tried to tell Alison’s story in her own words as much as possible.—JS


Jen Sorensen is the editor of Fusion’s Graphic Culture…

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8 books to lift you out of darkness

•March 13, 2015 • Leave a Comment

When Shaka Senghor (Watch: Shaka Senghor: Why your worst deeds don’t define you) was nineteen, he shot and killed a man — and was sentenced to spend the second nineteen years of his life in jail. At first, Senghor sat in his cold cell and rationalized his worst deeds. “In the hood where I come from,” he says, “it’s better to be the shooter than the person getting shot.” Then, Senghor found solace in literature — and his perspective was transformed in prison.

As part of his work with BMe, a community devoted to recognizing the positive achievements of black men and boys, Senghor recently posted a message on YouTube to his “young brothers.” In his somber letter Senghor tells young black men: Despite the fact that the cards seem stacked against you, peace and solace are both possible. He describes his literary journey, starting with the fiction…

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