Sudden visions of engagement rings chained together in the shape of a noose. Leaving lives behind. Ten thousand years of externally controlled thoughts and decisions, hiding my revolutionary nature, expressing creativity within confines of marriage, motherhood. Forced subtlety, sublimation of passion into calm, accommodating delivery. Slavery of the body, soul negotiated then promised to another. Bengali woman, show yourself. Lower back pops as I type this; releasing sexual histories engraved with my name, old healing projects and emotional ties, the familiar desire to spend my years building against the crumbling structure of a broken man. When I finally choose a whole lover, I will have learned to revere life as well as death.

I slide back into old patterns, wanting control, wanting to own the one I will love, the ones I have loved. Paralyzed in the place between the programmed self and freedom. I still long to have changed, transformed into the robot that would have made it possible to continue with disturbed lovers. Indian woman. Indian woman. Indian woman. Why is self-destruction so easy? Lingering fear of being thieved, cheated, interfered with. Not just colonial disruptions of our narrative, but the original narrative — bones and joints turned arthritic, brittle and cracking in response to foreign influence. The body still believes in arranged marriage — love as mechanism following naturally from the promise and intent. Stabilizing with time, effort, force. My history lied to me: the one who loves me will never fear my absence, will never attach to me in order to avoid loss, will never press me into a wall demanding forever.

Indian woman. Indian woman. Brown daughter of genocide. Who are you beneath your fear? Your control? Your black and white, your learned habits? Can you love without chains, without promises? Does slavery always beget slavery?

Should I decide to die an ever unmarried woman? I am not yet 32; my body still belongs more to those around me than to myself. Some never fully claim their flesh as their own. If I had made my choice when I thought I knew what I wanted, if I chose now, I would change my mind soon enough; will divorce, certainly, if I marry before 33. My hunger for stability wanes, waxes alongside my evolving manner of living. Painful myth to release, that we are the same tomorrow, will without a doubt love the same lover next year. Even if I never free myself completely from my own falsehoods, I cannot imprison myself as before. Not without consenting to abandon my worship of an unchained existence.

© 2011 Tahminah Zaman

Arms and forces
held close
shield and rule
with chaos

outer shell
shed to receive
reveals blood’s wetness
fragile heartbeat
tireless ego

bone and tender
flesh, sweet tissue
behind skin walls
iron bars
brick
boulder
shoulders separate
to let enter, to be
defenseless unto love

© 2011 tahminah zaman

my travels have taken me to so many worlds, through eras i have forgotten. the temporary nature of everything, the permanence of pain, have scarred my soul beneath the surface of my skin. when you were taken from me i could no longer speak your name. robbed of my reflection, i carried the memory of losing you in my pocket. hundreds of years have passed and the terror of abandonment remains.

this time, a cellar wrapped in gray light becomes my private chamber. i sit alone remembering all the remnants of you; the gentleness of your gaze, percussion of your laughter, fullness of grinning lips, sweat the texture of silk soaking skin and cotton sheets, the grip of your arms around my body in sleep. the darkness within permeates the room, emptying itself from me. were you taken so that the next time we met, i would value you even more? god is a careful teacher, her lessons exploding illusions. life is not forever; only a few years or decades in which to express my love, my ecstasy, my gratitude at your return.

this time, stay. this time, grow old beside me over a whole lifetime: making love and eating together, laughing and grieving as one, moving with fingers entwined. this time, let me love you longer, i am a young woman, i have much to give. my devotion is as old as the earth, i have saved this sweetness for centuries, silent and incomplete. choose me.

© 2010 tahminah zaman

desire, her promises and traps. expectations move to frustration, not satisfaction. why does chaos arise from need, from longing? there is some being here, some persistent soul that tells me this chaos must be, rushing a natural state of being. probably an unborn child, forcing its will upon me, crowding out my existing plans. to enjoy this year, to savor every moment of the developing future, days packed with laughter and growth, slowing down to notice that all i want is here.

the craze stalls as these words are written. there will be long walks, and trees, clouds, rocks. there is much to learn about love, her endless forms, innumerable. much to observe, artworks of cooking and poetry to embark upon. debts of love forgiven, discovering the unchanging–again. s l o w n e s s — a forgotten art. food, lovemaking, marriage. all that tastes better unrushed. the tarot, secrets of the stars, ancient ways were lost to me before i exhumed them. slowness, too, i will know well. i will become.

“at times, going slow is how to move fast”

© 2010 tahminah zaman

of course, a lack of readiness. the last time around i was coerced into silence, into behaving within the chalk outlines of unforgiving rules. obedient. then, i returned toward the sign of sagittarius, overturning all i obeyed before. turning principles on their heads, watching the reversals of gravity and matter, documenting the movement from tradition to freedom. it is natural, to some extent, to fear that which we do not understand; easier to dismiss the unknown than to admit fear; simpler to explode in frustration than submit to humanness.

so many cycles of birth and death, rebirth, i’ve forgotten the knowledge i carry from before. the remembering is jarring, i find holes torn in my being from another time, another body i don’t recall. was my skin the same wheat brown, did my eagle’s eyes stare red into sun then? did my nails grow square into claws i was not allowed to use for self-defense, as i do now? hundreds of years spent learning a single lesson: the journey of self-discovery blooms from within. a thousand opened doors but he doesn’t enter. temple of desire, close your gates now.

within the stillness, between lessons, i sit alone. lost and gained, the principles and rules change. moving into the future, there is always a mark on that which is left behind. hurdles transcended, fading with each forward step. what kind of lover does a priestess, a sorceress, a magician take? the next destination, here. an instant suspended midair. no longer waiting but knowing.

© 2010 tahminah zaman

poems written and covered in leather
leaves bound in gold thread
high on laddered shelves

syllables cocoon around bodies
into a language of refuge

each new-soldered word
fighting the others for audience

whose history do these letters recall?
On whose grave does the tongue
of a speaker step?

What do beautiful words do?
Shelter us from outside view.

The key to any locked tower
is a word;
enclosed spaces promise privacy

if I learn your dialect
will you include me?

© 2010 tahminah zaman

what about the nonverbal? how we spoke before words and sounds were formed, bengali syllables resounding of my roots, their many origins and places beneath chocolate soil. so much is unspoken; even the body silences itself, a pig plugged up with cool mud, unexpressed.

how far back into sound, into color, into flavor, will this tongue take me? how deeply are these roots enjoined in earth’s crust? there is a ball of blue light stuck in my throat; sound is absorbed there, disallowed exodus. i feel it spinning, tossing, bouncing against my vocal chords, rolling over all i was told not to say. like yarn, the unraveling is slow, unpredictable.

i take one end of the yarn, the one loose end i can find, pull it from my mouth and see its electric blue between my fingers. tie it to the base of an orange tree, walk away from the grove in which i was born, leaving a thread of cotton memory behind me.

© 2009 tahminah zaman

your walls and thresholds

are many

hand-carved, etched

with text

the color of bone.

i lay my offerings along the line

of your vision;

this love an extraordinary routine,

blessing the inches of

breathing space

within me.

i am possessed of the gaze

of the highest.

pulled to center

by the recitation

of your names.

mornings i sweep

earthen floors

to your praises.

altar of memory,

forget all my hardships

and internments,

return my displeas

ure and rage:

i am free

© 2009 tahminah zaman

a sculpture in sand
that lasts until
swept away by tide
or wind

in an instant
re written

© 2009 t zaman

ration

is

the togetherness

i crossed an ocean of hate to love you

waded thru dark clays & god’s mud

to get to you

shed a hundred layers

of terror

to receive you

breath the flame of desire

kept

behind a cupped palm

the places you left me

to find myself

isolated & free it came back to me:

the winter glow

of being

LOVED

© 2007 tahminah zaman