"When She Spoke", a Spoken Word Poem by Asfiya Khanam

"When She Spoke"  was first performed by Asfiya, at the Slam Poetry Evening by the US Consulate, Hyderabad, August 24, 2018

She was fire, she was light

Her writings were her might 

No,no,no she was not blessed with mythical eyes

But an ordinary girl, plump with metaphors and smiles

She had her heart flowing from a deep blue cup

She also fell but always stood up

She desired to express but was scared of being judged

She wrote and wrote, it was smudged

But remember she was bent not broken,

Her fingers crafted little boats and like Noah's arch

They sailed the deluge,

Of sorrow, pain and more pain

In a brief brightening moment, she stood tall

On the shoulders of women, who balanced on hips

And hands of many, many other women...

What smoldering acrobats of thoughts!

Darting across time, cultures, latitudes

Frida, Slyvia, Virginia, Talisma, Malala

She was one among them, her words wetting soils

Harvested hearts and embalmed ruptured eyes

Picked stars from the skies to illumine the night of despair

Our dear girl,

Rose beyond the rain-fragrant pines

Soared through unknown galaxies

But it was too much, oh so much 

For smaller souls to bear

Could she dare, really dare to disturb the universe?

They broke her again!

"She was no hero!" they said

Just another of many privileged voices

"Oh she talks about love! "

"Where's the war? Where's the politics?"

So they dragged her out of hopeful bubble

And flashed at her threats, threw words at her 

Like pots and pans; made sure she bled, wept and vanished!

But little did they know 

She was a soldier, a warrior, a poet

Who many times like her sisters, salvaged humanity

No bullet could wipe her imprints in the sands of time

She inked her legacy onto every life she touched

Like a thunderstorm in a desert,

She will stun parched fields 

For the next time she speaks

It will not be 'me' and 'I', but 'we' and 'them'

And she has dreamed of being wrapped in the night sky

Of a country beyond the borders of scarves and veils

Of a land with no curfews, where women like her

Brown and black and yellow and white

Rich, poor, Hindu, Muslim, christian, Jew and Buddhist 

Would hold a pen and brandish it in the air 

And drown in their passionate ink

All fears, censors and perils of the world

I tell you again, in a simple oracle,

That she had no cape or mysterious cloak

But she left behind a trail of fire and smoke,

When she spoke 

 every time she spoke

                                                                        - Asfia Khanam