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A collaboration over too much coffee.
coffee and pen

11 December, 2004

I have no name

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

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8 Comments:

Blogger Dilfiza Khalfey said...

One Honest question ......
What made you write this?

:-)

11 December, 2004 18:23  
Blogger Anil said...

Yeah I'm wondering the same...but in any case a very nice poem.

12 December, 2004 02:10  
Blogger Sreekesh Menon said...

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.

12 December, 2004 06:20  
Blogger clovis said...

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

12 December, 2004 07:31  
Blogger raindanseuse said...

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.

12 December, 2004 23:35  
Blogger manisha lakhe said...

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!

13 December, 2004 01:13  
Blogger zigzackly said...

M-san,

The advertising bit - exactly what i thought!

Sunil,

Great stuff.

13 December, 2004 01:53  
Blogger Gurdee said...

Do you have a body?
Do you own a soul?
You have a shed to live?
Or you’ve lost it all.

A murder on the hands
Who’ll save this land?

A life spent in slum
For some, a journey just begun.

Who listens to your silence?
No matter this violence….
Strangers’ hands locked in theirs
Who cares for bodily despairs?

As long as it fetches some bread
But for whom… the already dead?

14 December, 2004 19:12  

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