The stigma of the widowhood
When you strip a woman
Of her costumes and cosmetics
And clamp on her widowhood,
She might well turn to be
A mother, sister or daughter.
Doing it on an open yard
As a part of funeral
Is an injury inflicted
On a mother, sister or daughter.
Let her be free to do when
And let it be a private affair
What sanctity has it got
In the changed scenario,
Where widows are getting
Married as freely now?
Must she be bound with thali
And metti by the bridegroom
To be usurped in his death?
The stigma attached
To being a widow be torn.
Be she as free as a man
Before and after her marriage.
It is grace that man grants
Before woman demands.
15.05.2008
[the hindu custome]
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Related quotes
The Women
This world is, because of the woman
this universe is, because of the woman
nothing exists without the woman
our existence is, because of the woman.
Why being a woman then
should be humiliation?
Why a woman then
should face indignation?
always the woman becomes the prey...?
always the woman has no say.....?
The woman is a mother, also a mother–in-law
the woman is a sister, also a sister-in-law
the woman has many roles to play
a daughter-in-law perfects that night & day.
Why then a woman does
torture another woman?
Why does a ma-in-law
torches a daughter in-law?
Why does a woman destroy another’s world?
Why does jealousy overcomes a sister-in-law?
In the woman, power is manifest,
yet she is unaware and that is a jest.
she becomes Durga when in rage
telling everyone, she is no sage
the woman is where, awakening is there
her absence creates crematoriums everywhere.
Why do then a woman abhor the birth of a female?
Wants a child, whose gender is male?
the male is indebted to her for the courage and life
yet no rewards for the woman, her entire life.
This is the story of the woman, full of anguish
Plight of a woman is because of another’s wish
Exploitation of the woman could not have taken place
Had a woman given the other a little more space.
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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The Old Woman And Her Loyal Maid
the old woman is very rich
she has two children, a lovely daughter and a very naughty son
the lovely daughter dislikes her
and the naughty son wants to kill her
she slaps her often and the more the daughter wants to go away from her
the son is disturbed and furious because he did not know his father enough
the daughter married a gentle man
and the son went away with no know address no known destination
he never came back
while she lives her own life away from the rich woman
the old woman has a loyal maid
who has no memory of humiliating words that the old woman more often
inflicts in her person
the old woman is dying
but the son and daughter have no respect anymore for such word
as mother.
meanwhile the loyal maid keeps swallowing the pesters of the old woman
expecting a part of the wealth
as her pay and legacy
well, this story cannot have an ending yet
the old woman is still alive and the son and daughter are still making up
their minds
what to do next.
Life is a comma. The ending always waits
for something that will be a happy one.
But who knows, except this one, something tragic may happen
at the end. Who knows?
I will for sure.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Men would wander
Stigma attached to widowhood removed,
No woman would care to nurse her husband.
Disgrace clung to divorce taken away,
No woman would tolerate her husband.
Shame of infidelity wiped out,
No woman would mind ditching her husband.
Glory of virginity fast dying,
No woman would stay pure for her marriage
Shackles attached to her broken away,
Men, insecure by nature, would wander.
16.04.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Inscription under the Picture of an Aged Negro-woman
Art thou a woman? -- so am I; and all
That woman can be, I have been, or am;
A daughter, sister, consort, mother, widow.
Whiche'er of these thou art, O be the friend
Of one who is what thou canst never be!
Look on thyself, thy kindred, home, and country,
Then fall upon thy knees, and cry "Thank GOD,
An English woman cannot be a SLAVE!"
Art thou a man? -- Oh! I have known, have loved,
And lost, all that to woman man can be;
A father, brother, husband, son, who shared
My bliss in freedom, and my woe in bondage.
-- A childless widow now, a friendless slave,
What shall I ask of thee, since I have nought
To lose but life's sad burden; nought to gain
But heaven's repose? -- these are beyond thy power;
Me thou canst neither wrong nor help; -- what then?
Go to the bosom of thy family,
Gather thy little children round thy knees,
Gaze on their innocence; their clear, full eyes,
All fix'd on thine; and in their mother, mark
The loveliest look that woman's face can wear,
Her look of love, beholding them and thee:
Then, at the altar of your household joys,
Vow one by one, vow altogether, vow
With heart and voice, eternal enmity
Against oppression by your brethern's hands:
Till man nor woman under Britain's laws,
Nor son nor daughter born within her empire,
Shall buy, or sell, or hold, or be, a slave.
poem by James Montgomery
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The Woman I Call Sister
The woman I call sister
Is someone who is there
The woman I call sister
Is someone who always cares.
The woman I call sister
Can make me smile when times are blue
The woman I call sister
Is someone very true.
The woman I call sister
By choice, is my best of friend
The woman I call sister
Will be there till the end
The woman I call sister
Is the blessing from God above
The woman I call sister
Is the sister that I'll always love.
poem by Marissa Gertmenian
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A little extra, from an extra ordinary woman
She goes out of her way and travels that extra mile
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She consoles you, smiles with you, cries with you and for you
A little extra than anyone else
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She spends on you a little extra than she does on her own self
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She uses her extra strength and wisdom to pick you up when you fall
She blinds her sight to your imperfections
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She loves you a little extra just to stand out different
From all those who love you
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She starves herself so that you may eat a little extra
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She forgives you all the time
Even when you guilty mind knows you don’t deserve such kindness
Because she is an extra ordinary woman
She may not be the most perfect woman but
She is indeed an extra ordinary woman
She is your mother, your wife, your fiancee, your girlfriend
Your sister, your grandmother and your daughter
You best appreciate her
poem by Grace Mdemu
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I'm a woman, a mother, a daughter, a sister. I'm a real person operating in the world. For me to discuss the most private thing feels wrong. It feels like I'm betraying myself and my children.
quote by Nicole Kidman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Grenadain Woman
Yes me woman, from my womb life was borne
Yes me woman, the young ones prune by my hands
Yes me woman, with the coves that sways with the redeem of the heart beat, tup-tup, tup-tup, tup-tup, tup-tup
Yes me woman, with beauty unimaginable, soft to the touch
yes me woman, with the voice of a heavenly being, soft, gentle, comforting, encouraging
Yes me woman, determine to succeed with the strength from above
Yes me woman, the days have gone, long gone for her to depend on the strength of another man
Yes me woman, her time has come for the world to see her for who she really is
Yes me woman, creative, innovative, confident, intelligent, loving, kindhearted
Yes me woman, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, lover
Yes me woman, The Grenadian woman.
poem by Curliann Mark
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I Am Not A Woman...
I am not a woman that loves with a heart
I am not a woman that's silly and smart
I am not a woman with open wounds
I am not a woman that's more attuned
I am not a woman that you hold dear
I am not a woman that has no fear
I am not a woman that's loved or lost
I am not a woman that doesn't know the cost
I am not a woman that's hurting inside
I am not a woman that has no foolish pride
I am not a woman that can't look you in the eye
I am not a woman alone that cries
I am not a woman that's imprisoned with chains
I am not a woman that holds her will in vain
I am not a woman, or mother, or friend
or wife, or daughter, or one to depend
I am not a woman of all and more
Because I gave it away to the one I adore
what's left is all you see
Just a woman that truly believes
Love n hatred
When you say you Love
Father n Mother
Brother n Sister
Son n Daughter
Him and Her
I see you lie.
Whom you actually Love
is always ' I '
When you say you Hate
Father n Mother
Brother n Sister
Son n Daughter
Him and Her
I see you lie.
Whom you actually Hate
is always ' I '
.
.
posted on 12-06-2008
Copyright ©®2008, Palas Kumar Ray. All rights reserved.
poem by Palas kumar Ray
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The Woman I call Sister (Martha)
The woman I call sister
will always be there
The woman I call sister
is a person that will always care
The woman I call sister
is a person I will always love
The woman I call sister
is a blessing from God above
The woman I call sister
will stay true till the end
The woman I call sister
will be my best friend
So the woman I call sister
will be the blood related one
And the woman I call sister
will be the ONLY one :)
poem by Isabel Robles
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I'm My Own Grandpa
It was many many years ago when I was twenty-three,
I was married to a widow, she's as pretty as can be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in lover with her, and soon these two were wed.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life:
My daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife.
And then to complicate the matter, though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.
This bouncing baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
and so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
for if he was my uncle then he also was the brother
of the widow's grown-up daughter, who, of course, was my step-mother.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother, too.
Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
Husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Shadow-Child
Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.
Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother,
While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?
Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.
Why do the birds sing in the sun,
Mother, mother,
If all day long I run and run,
Run with the wheels forever?
The birds may sing till day is done,
Daughter, little daughter,
But with the- wheels your feet must run—
Run with the wheels forever.
Why do I feel so tired each night,
Mother, mother?
The wheels are always buzzing bright;
Do they grow sleepy never?
Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,
Daughter, little daughter,
The big wheels grind us in their might,
And they will grind forever.
And is the white thread never spun,
Mother, mother?
And is the white cloth never done,
For you and me done never?
Oh yes, our thread will all be spun,
Daughter, little daughter,
When we lie down out in the sun,
And work no more forever.
And when will come that happy day,
Mother, mother?
Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play
Out in the sun forever?
Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Where green grass grows and roses gay,
There in the sun forever.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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Transformation
To my noble parents sterling,
, I was their Daughter darling;
;
To my affable siblings, three,
I was their elder Sister, in glee.
To my beloved husband, in life,
I'm his devoted, fond Wife.
To my endearing children, four,
I'm their doting Mother spore;
To my nephews and nieces, reasoning,
I'm their dear Auntie, loving.
Alas! The label of daughter, nice,
Vanished with my parents' demise! .
My children, one by one, in course of time,
Were married, in their youth prime.
I begot sons-in-law and a daughter-in-law,
And am their affectionate Mother-in-law.
Ah! My siblings three, passed away—
The call of Sister, with them went away!
Now, when my sweet grand-children seven,
With love and care, me, they smother,
Calling me ‘Paatti'(Granny) 'Paatti'(Granny)
,
I the proud Grandmother
Am in rapture, transported to Heaven.!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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The Sleep-Walkers
In the town where I was born lived a woman and her daughter, who
walked in their sleep.
One night, while silence enfolded the world, the woman and her
daughter, walking, yet asleep, met in their mist-veiled garden.
And the mother spoke, and she said: 'At last, at last, my enemy!
You by whom my youth was destroyed--who have built up your life
upon the ruins of mine! Would I could kill you!'
And the daughter spoke, and she said: 'O hateful woman, selfish
and old! Who stand between my freer self and me! Who would have
my life an echo of your own faded life! Would you were dead!'
At that moment a cock crew, and both women awoke. The mother said
gently, 'Is that you, darling?' And the daughter answered gently,
'Yes, dear.'
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Fictional Creature
Source of Love
Artistic picture
Of the feeling that organizes
What we have called life.
She has been my mother
Since the beginning of history
She is my sister
And my sophisticated lover.
Woman, my living prayer;
Woman, my show window;
Woman, my particular civilization;
Woman, my didactic approach.
Source of Love
Mother, sister
Or dynamic Lover
She is like a Fictional Creature.
poem by St Antoine de la Vuadi
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The Stages Of Marriage
marriage is indeed
relational
at the first part of it
she gives you a lover
later the lover becomes
your sister and
later the sister turns
out to be a mother
it is only when you are
dead that she becomes a wife
again
she cries for a while
she takes all that you have
and if she is still too young and desirable
another man
steps into your room and weaves love stories
in the conjugal bed that
you once bought
that woman is now
a total stranger.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Mother Does Not
A mother does not raise her child for to fight and die in war
Or to kill another Human Being in a Country from home far
That her son or her daughter should at someone else shoot to kill
A person they have never known or who have never bore them ill.
Picasso's 'Screaming Woman' is for all woman kind
The mother weeps for her dead child with grief 'out of her mind'
Mothers do not raise their children for to be remembered on War Memorial Day
For to fight in war for war mongering non combatants and throw their lives away
A mother raises her son or daughter so her seed of life will live on
That her genes will still be around when she herself has gone
From the World of the living to be numbered amongst the dead
I wish for my children to outlive me that's what the mother said.
A mother does not raise her child for to meet with an early death
Not for her War Memorial Day or the words 'Lest we forget'
She wants her son and daughter for to grow old and gray
And she does not wish to hear of War and War Memorial Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Women’s luxury
Women are sounder than lass in appeal.
A middle aged woman is no longer
Kitchen bound and children bound.
She stays put not when the marriage works not.
Lithe, toned, technologically savvy,
An Indian woman is much intriguing.
Be she married, divorced, a single parent
Or an active mother, it makes no difference.
She knows the cosmetic market
And set right lines around her eyes.
She knows financial market
With the grace of gray around her temples.
Past conventions and traditions,
She has grown up rising herself.
She has raised the bar for men too,
Who are kept at bay gazing.
14.11.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sex has no age
A man can fall for a woman,
Young enough to be
His daughter or grand daughter.
A woman can fall for a man,
Young enough to be
Her son or grandson.
A girl can respond to a man,
Older enough to be
Her father or grandfather.
A boy can respond to a woman,
Older enough to be
His mother or grandmother.
Spectrum of sex is so catholic.
09.08.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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