The Curse Of Female Spirit (Poem Dedicated To Women’s Day)

Poem By J T Jayasingh

They called their land ‘Mother’
And even ‘Mother’ they called their seas
‘The Ganga’, ‘The Saraswati’
They made the rivers female
And washed their sins in them.

My female parts have been worshipped
As sacred in their holy temples
But abused by nasty words
In public latrines and remote caves.

When I covered myself full
They stripped me in the middle of their streets;
When I exposed my beauty
They clipped my chudidar’s ends.

When I was a maid in their homes
They pulled me to their beds;
I was wedded to share their beds
And they made me wash their clothes.

I asked them to leave me, they sold me,
I pleaded them to receive me, they bought me;
When I was to share, they used me
And when it was my turn they neglected.

They played their tune and I danced
And when I found my tune, they crushed it.
They killed me at the stove, between the legs
And inside the womb.

Enough is enough!
I am no more to be born in their kingdom,
Let them quench their lust among themselves,
Let them eat, drink, fight,
If needed clone more males,
Let there be all males
Who burn in their lust and
Shed blood in the fuming hell.

Comments about The Curse Of Female Spirit (Poem Dedicated To Women’s Day)

Great poem! a cry of despair because of woman's place in modern society! Let there be all males -yes! for them to learn themselves! but we need peace and quietness. Oh God! help us please!

5,0 out of 5
1 total ratings

Other poems of JAYASINGH

They Are Extinct

My son, look at the azure sky
And the yellowish red cloud
Cover the sun below.
Like this so many

Her Marble Legs

Every move of her marble legs
Made millions to fly in dreams:
More than the winking of her eyes
The eyes of cameras flashed,

The Lonely Tea Picker

The same red sun
Spreads his light
Through the tall pine trees,
The same silver clouds

Waves Won’t Die

When he was a child,
He put a tiny stone
Into a silent pond,
That made ripples,


Her trembling hind legs
Gently pressed against
The rumbling dry leaves.
Careful, so careful, she moved

A Poet Can Only Capture

A Poet can Only Capture

I know not what to write!
Grim faces show and fade,