Poetry: Bitika Paul

Bitika Paul
My Inamorata

My inamorata is not like the blooming iris,
Her eyes don’t sparkle like the stars,
Corals are softer than her dermis,
Darkness inherited in her is beyond bars. 

My inamorata can hardly hear,
Deafness doesn’t let her words to float,
Her dysfunctional gait knows no fear,
The words get struck forever in her throat.

And yet my inamorata is spontaneous,
Her eyes perceive my words while her ears are impotent,
Her manner of trending is unpretentious,
Her silence can be heard through her endearment.

My inamorata doesn’t have glossy cheeks,
But I found comfort in her brown lips. 
***

Mathematical Inequation? 

“Find the number of boys. If the total number of students in the school is 1050 and the ratio of boys and girls is 9 : 5…

Why?

Don’t the girls love to go to school?
Or all the boys are forced to go?
Aren’t the girls good at studies?
Or the boys are the best?
What if she is not sharp is it compulsory to enroll bright student?
Don’t the mediocre have any chimera?
Or the impuissant sans yearnings?
What if the mediocre scores 5 out of 10?
Isn’t “something” better than “nothing”?
Isn’t this a serious issue for every mediocre?
Is it sounds a scanty feminist controversy?
What if it’s just sexist?
Neither special privileges, nor higher status,
Nor reservations, nor distinct prerogatives,
Nor even the feminine word for patriarchy,
Can’t a girl deserves a society which say you must do?
***


Mid-dling

With trembling legs I take the first step, after a long gap of 365 days, then begins my journey to school
Days full of ecstasy and gloom
The geometrical figures
Seems to be a queue of supermodels
Waiting for their turns 
To measure their size in numbers…
Triangle, square, rectangle,
Rhombus, oval and circle
Like any other teens
I also prefer the hourglasses
***


CUT! CUT! CUT!!

Oops, I step into a wrong podium
Into a wrong costume
With the wrong dialogues
In a wrong theatre… Where I shouldn’t…
Supermodels can’t juxtapose
The mathematical models.
A progeny of an illustrious pedigree
Doesn’t fit in such scurvy glory.
So what calibres are occupied by the exceptionals?
The moderate jobs with average finesse,
Medium assignments with passable inventiveness
Garnished with rigid morals, firm traditions,
Unbending dictum and suspended evolutions
Are there for those scions.
And then amid that mediocre entity
There grows another viability…
The descendant of the scion,
Whose dreams are again will be neutralized
By those automatons already computerized.
***

Bio: Bitika Paul is a second-year student of literature at the University of Calcutta. She is pursuing part-time course of Comparative Mythology from University of Mumbai. She is a published writer whose poems as well as research articles have published in international and other journals. She is interested in gender and sexuality studies, popular culture studies, cultural studies, and postcolonialism.

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