JOURNEY WOMAN 1
Seema Gill
I nailed the blanket rain of the Monsoon
to the mast of a sailing ship
only to see there was no land in sight
...
I plucked the tree from wild Danish forest
and stitched myself a cloak
only to discover, I was in a time lapse frame

I tore an arrow from conflicting Yorkshire Dales
to build a compass for guidance
only to realise the direction to peace was lost

I pulled the thorn from a war torn child
to wash the bleeding scar into the Red Sea
only to witness that abuse was universal

I unfurled the flag draped coffin of Democracy
to wrap a shawl around a crying mother
only to behold there were others who’d lost their beloved

I stole a sparkle from Niagara falls
to lay a diamond on a soldier’s shoulder
only to find the Niagara Fallen were in the graveyard

I took the pearls from Oyster Bay
and thread it into a loop around a neck
only to find it was a hangman's noose

I borrowed the sun from mother sky
to cover up the mind’s blind spot
only to discover the un-enlightened

I gathered the incense from a English rose petal
to caress a broken heart
only to feel the pain was all mine!

JOURNEY WOMAN 2

JOURNEY WOMAN
Seema Gill

So she came to the wide, wide land of glories
To win her life
The chains had not been broken
The chains of the past that bind us all
Their roots, sucking deep into our souls
Posturing and prodding, nurturing
Even now, in this city of cultural extremes
Steep roads, on a hill overlooking the famous cemetery.
A wonderful place of rest, resplendent in reflected glory,
where obelisks point high to a hopeful God
and the bones of merchants lay in tombs fit for Caesar.
Where undergrowth spreads gothically in the unexplored parts.
Vast expanses of bramble bushes arched over like cathedrals
providing the perfect hiding places for insects,
spiders, small animals and dope dealers,
Like the underworld spreading through this city
of intolerance and separation,
of fear and suspicion,
of words that should not be spoken, of issues that cannot be raised
for fear of that midnight knock,
of segmented ghost towns which lie cheek by jowl
with the net curtain clipped accents,
of gypsies and thieves, of long gone Germans and Irish men
who rolled up their sleeves and dug those canals,
those flat, straight works of art,
Of Asian nightshift workers who toiled on dangerous machines,
Of penniless Ugandans who dragged themselves up by their bootstraps,
Of fading trolley lines and fumed up bottlenecks,
Of sixties white elephants and exotic back alleys.
This city has it all.
It’s where they burnt the book against the words of the Prophet
Where cappuccino drinkers admire Hockney,
Where Charlotte and Emily penned their rugged books
on moors that look down from their parallel world.
This city where she continues her search.
Why here? For what reason?
For one, she came here to clear the forest of grief
To let the eagles of violence fly away

NO SUPER MARKET JUNK
Seema Gill

I don’t want super market’s plastic junk
I wanna write poetry
My fingers are dipped in the blood
of memories and are twinkling stars

My language is an oar with which I sail into the
forbidden territories, absurd meanings and dig gold
of knowledge to share with others
When the light trickles down on my soul window
My inspiration turns into a fireball
Words role down the Grand Union Canal like ducklings
the fields of Punjab like showers
in a desert hope garden like flowers
This humble Sikh poetess lives in a lion’s den
Roaring gestures, razor blade intrigues and
survival of the fittest becomes her daily struggle

I don’t want to choke in the rat race for wealth
I wanna dance with my slithering desires
Hold hand with my soul mate
I wanna wear the bracelet of his shine on my arm
and together we’ll distribute wealth
to those who own nothing
Give light to those who are blind with selfishness
I wanna clothe myself with love and passion
and not diamonds and rubies
and make a bonfire of all the old values
I wanna rub the ointment of honesty
and not Elisabeth Arden on my face
I wanna gaze into the kaleidoscope of this universe
and watch the seasons as they roll into one another
I wanna sow enough food in my garden for all the hungry people
and reap the harvest of peace
I wanna collect seeds of change from the flowers
and grow verses and not despair
I wanna sharpen my mind with the tool of learning
I wanna empty my wardrobe
and dress up the down trodden
And when the time comes to revolt
I’ll join hands with the right cause

WHAT DO I CALL IT?

It is like a whimpering puppy. Seeking attending to, needing care. Hungry for more, so much so that it keeps me awake. It churns my stomach upside down at times. I have to stroke it with my hand, not with the affectionate palm of an expectant mother but the one who doesn’t want this rosemary's devil baby. In order for it to shut up, I do have to strangulate it with my thumbs. Not only does it keep me awake, it forces me to sit up to face it. Not only it forces me to sit up and face it, it demands me to walk up and down the corridor. But it never likes a walk in the park, or on the pavement when I can look at trees and the sky or birds flying overhead. No, damn it, it has made me a prisoner, to stay inside of this narrow basement apartment! It doesn’t want to be exposed to the outside world. It can be so embarrassed that it makes me bite my lip to hide its existence. But right it feels like as if I’m walking barefoot on the burning coals or walking on nails sticking out of a half damaged door in a Jeepers Creepers cellar. It is not only physical but it grips my mind like a leech to your skin, biting, sucking my blood. I try not to get it in my half asleep consciousness but when it comes,it doesn’t calm down unless...yes unless I snatch and tear one of the dull plastic packet from the cabinet to take one....
(Seema Gill: from my novel in progress)