I have no name
I take on the colours of your clothes,
Call me by any word,
but pay me my two thousand pieces.
You can have my body
for those hours.
But my mind will be my own.
I have no name,
I have no name,
No not even the one
which you give me in the throes of passion.
And no I will not tell you,
what my mother whispered
into my ear as I was born.
For she too was one
who took on the name
of the man,
while he shed her skin.
The clothes of of her innocent years.
I have no name.
To call my own.
11/12/2004
Labels: poetry
6 Comments:
Yeah I'm wondering the same...but in any case a very nice poem.
I can picture a young girl in tears breathing out a poem like this, and if this is written by a man, i applaud him for the great insight to this deep silent feeling.
i wonder why you dote so much on the other? and on what they think. i think this a fine piece,esp the comment about the mothers whispered words(beautiful). But why stick to the conventional petrarchan lovepoem....branch
Such a gem! Two thousand pieces holds some kind of deja lu for me but I can't place it. Somehow this poems seems to be the eerie song of a ghost floating around a brothel. "while he shed her skin" made my imagination run wild.
ask anyone in advertising, and they will tell you they have felt exactly like her at some point in their career...
you manage so beautifully to get under her skin, am all shades of green all at once! empathy is your fault, sunil, i hope you falter again and again!
M-san,
The advertising bit - exactly what i thought!
Sunil,
Great stuff.
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