When Warmth Touched A Woman and Knew What it Is To Be Warm

Under the magnificence
of a chandelier , candles burning out
against the richness of a carmine rug
in the soft spread of murky golden light
she lays and betrays her vanity.
dark silk over the dew of her skin
melting, light is leaving its home.
warmth from each candle
before dying
wants to know what it feels like
to touch a woman
on a thick night like this.
wet lips and bent spine
she lets warmth know
what it feels like to touch
God’s art itself.
under her lingerie ,
between her thighs,
honey light, tender light
touches her
and it doesn’t want to leave
it lingers.”
– When Warmth Touched A Woman and Knew What it Is To Be Warm by Thamanna Razak

Your Woman Who Fell from Heaven

You thought love was sacramental,
would let you cross over to the heavens,
make you worthy enough to meet God,
and this time
you wouldn’t pick the apple that fell
That’s why you said yes after all
marriage looked like a door to you
to be able to sit cross legged with God
to the universe you would understand
to the verses that believe in you
and to the holy that will soften
all your bends and wounds.
But love, isn’t always a door
it’s a goddamn pit
it’s a prayer you chant in the pit
it’s not hell but it’s paradise on fire,
so you slit your wrists
try and save where you came from
with your own blood
But love, has you bend down
on your knees, mad woman
wishing for the apple
and its poison
so that you can
finally
          fall
               out.
– Your Woman Who Fell From Heaven by Thamanna Razak

Childhood Dreams

Two mountains standing tall,
snow clinging
looking over spring
yearning
a sapphire river runs
right through the middle of it,
a valley, wild flowers and me.
sitting over a rock, looking over
the realness of the landscape
I remember
a childhood drawing
over the coffee table,
up on the fridge
in my mother’s hands
azure sky, the radiance of it
the soft yellow of it
faber castell colour no. 146
tiny hands
sparkle in eyes
in the possibility of
one day.
sitting over a rock, looking over
the realness of the memory
I wonder if I could call it
a dream come true
if I never imagined the loneliness
the cigarette between my fingers
the large shadow of grief
call it
a dream come true
if I never dreamt about
wanting to drown
in the river,
right in the middle of
my childhood dream.
– Childhood Dreams by Thamanna Razak

A Poem for Every Girl I Love

“The universe is a bunch of girls loving each other
Venus walks into Saturn’s bedroom and paints her nails red
Baby doll, darling, some orange on your cheek
here, some vanilla pudding for your empty stomach
It’s time to put some glitter on , he’s not coming back
Out on your rings babe
Take a swirl in your light babe
Uranus finds Mercury in a bar drunk
Uranus takes Mercury home,
Uranus warms the milk with honey
love, this is home for now
Neptune and Jupiter lie in bed for weeks
in large t-shirts and pink panties
wrapped in a blanket,
watch T.V shows about love for hours,
and cry on each other’s tummy
sweetheart, I know it aches, but here’s some ice cream 
During a yoga session, Earth whispers to Mars
about the most beautiful girl
she calms my depths,  
makes my waters move, 
she lights up my gloom
stays in my darkness
One summer morning, all of the universe aligns
pretty dresses, flowers in their tresses
watch the moon walk down the aisle
in her white sunlight dress
towards the earth,
warm wet eyes, leaning on each other’s shoulder,
soft petals on each other
holding hands, honeydew and balm
sticky and messy
but kind, always kind
these girls, this love
the universe is a bunch of girls never leaving each other’s side.”
– A Poem for Every Girl I Love by Thamanna Razak

I Stooped Writing Beautiful Things

“I’m sitting on the floor of balcony of madness
looking over your world ,
I’m sitting cross legged, rolling love,
getting high on abandon.
I look over and see you in an apartment across the street,
or maybe I wanted to.
tell a stranger that all my love poems are about you,
have always been
and that makes me sick.
On a night like every other night ,
I write you angry poetry.
tell you the icy taste of my mint cigarette and
the story of the stain on my lips.
I lied about it, I lied that I have been good,
 have been taking care of myself.
I’ve been told the only way to lie well is to do it often,
so this is me telling you
there will be other men,
there will be other men,
there will be other men.
And it will break your heart won’t it?
I want to tear your heart apart like
a Greek goddess gone mad
only you don’t believe I could sin.
You’re right, I can’t,
only I am the sin
sin, God wanted to keep your from,
sent prophets down to the earth for,
your mother begged you to let go of.
I’m here and I’m not leaving until you say you can’t,
until you’re on your knees begging me to leave
but holding onto my hand,
your head splitting at what you’re doing to your heart,
like a father killing his child,
like humans wrecking the earth that gave them life,
it doesn’t make sense.
And I still won’t be gone.
I’d stay and I’d say fuck you
over and over
until it’s gentle
until you don’t hear it
until it reminds you of your mother’s anger.
So quiet , almost as a whisper,
almost I don’t care if you are confused.
I won’t leave but you would wish I did won’t you.
You’d wish I stopped painting our walls with the unloving.
My fist in your heart, I’m almost fearless
I’m not done being shameless.”
 
– I Stopped Writing Beautiful Things; A Poem For You by Thamanna Razak

I Never Shut the Door Behind

“I keep making mistakes.
I keep finding men like my father to love
and then to unlove
and then tiptoe my way out
of homes I built out of their bodies
of framed pictures of them sleeping
of an afternoon when they would
point and tell me
“there, that bathroom floor,
 there, the space behind the door,
 there, this entire room with broken glass
 stay, look at all the space I made for you,
 all the love I have for you”
And I would stand there measuring the distance
between my feet and the door
But I don’t get it right, I never get it right
I was five when he said ‘to the moon and back ,love’,
since then it doesn’t add up
how does then love feel so small
inside my heart, every heart beat echoes
the buzzing that comes with emptiness
my soul confuses it with butterflies
I lose my math, my concept of light years
I would stand there measuring the distance
between my feet and the door
measuring the distance between
what’s real, and what’s not
and I don’t understand
who the fuck are we
to measure love in distance
who the fuck are we
never teaching our children
to walk over to the door
to leave
to shut the door behind.”
– I Never Shut The Door Behind & My Father is Upset by Thamanna Razak

 

the girls we aren’t

Today during one of my lectures, a guy said girls are wicked. And my heart
jumped like it’s been called an old childhood name. Wicked, they always
said. Girls, candy floss and their twisted heads. I will swear I’m not one of
them. I will swear I have changed, please I will swear. Oh honey,
I swear too much for a girl. Fuck that. Let me tell you about nasty girls
and their dirty tales.
I see them in the corridors of somebody else’s life, red eyes and warming
their cheeks with salt water. I see them running with bruised knees and
hickeys on their necks, running with hands in their hair pulling out the
poison at the end of their roots. I see them in the mirror of a best friend’s
bedroom, hissing at you who won’t forgive them for leaving, for shedding
the strawberry skin you gave her. That girl, I swear she’s one of them .
At restaurants, pulling out her red lipstick, brushing the velvet of her
honey skin against married men. Later in the alley, bare shoulders and alone,
watching him reverse his car out of there, his love out of her,  picking out the
seeds of a forbidden fruit from her teeth, wicked girl. I see them at dance floors,
and quiet corners of a blurred party, their heads hanging low, tired and unwanted,
short dresses and cigarettes, mumbling words like home and mama, words that
never leave their mouths when they’re sober. I take the same bus with them, borrow
their scarves that feels more like a rope, wicked girls, soaked in sadness, hanging
themselves to dry and toes reaching out to the ground. I meet them at parks, flowers
and vines on their summer dresses, their picnic baskets carefully packed
with regret and solitude, lost love and missing husbands. Wicked women, cheeks
pressed against the glass house with too many souls stuffed inside. wicked women
breaking homes for oxygen. I watch them waiting, dripping blood from their wrists
 in bars, in homes, in parks and in hospitals.
Darling, wicked girls, you see them everywhere, doing dirty crimes, screaming nasty
things, mostly to themselves. Wicked girls, bleaching their own throat,
scratching at their skin, pouring gasoline on themselves and holding out the matchstick
to the world. I sit in class with these girls , jump at the word wicked, look at
each other in horror and realise the world has found us and has lit us to flames.