Historias de Postcolonialism

Edward Said's Orientalism - the seminal, canonical work in postcolonial theories.

"I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world." Poetry, anyone? It won't cost a penny, I assure you. I bring poetry from distilled tap water f r o m the drooling fangs of { a stray DOG. // Up here, amidst the vast range of mountains covered with snow and ashes, the air is breathtakingly calm. In the silent reflection of dazzling sunshine, lambkins dance on the greens. The valley is magical, it lit up in moody pastel colors. Dear Eve, we have come to the edge. Here, another step, stand by me, in the face of the unknown, on the slippery body of naunet. Release your burden, one after another, and try to forget; try to let go, for the bygone days have touched your sunburnt skin, and you have shed your mask to live another blurring hour; become buoyant, EASY. [Jump cut to blue. Patterned clouds. An eagle moves round and round and round] and R OU Nd [Freeze shot] Poetry. Spiritualism. 0123 Wisdom. . . . . Death ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| @ArkaMukhopadhyay2016 All rights reserved. The cover art is 'Inhale, Exhale. Introspect' by Annelie Solis. She's a truly inspiring artist. Show some love and admiration. Visit her page. www.anneliesolis.com #119 in poetry as of 18-02-2017 Thank you, guys!

For the first time in her life, Mrs Christus is unable to dismiss a maid. She finds herself locked in a mute struggle with the girl, who has not only begun to lay claim to her house but now her husband. Every morning she wakes to the same sensation, a movement in the soft parts of her stomach and the presence of thin fingers working their way into some hidden place. In the evenings, on the veranda, she tries to tell her husband that she is afraid, but she has forgotten the words to communicate her feelings. Words have been used as a means of separation, a way of communicating the boredom of routine....

Characteristics of postcolonial writing

As the sun sank beneath the skyline, the port city of Chattogram was showered in a brilliant hue. The scent of salt and spice blends into the talk of the city, mixed with the mutter of ships and the thunder of the evening swarm. Within the middle of this chaos, Arif stood at the edge of the wharf, overlooking the Bay of Bengal. The waves whispered many insights to him, but the words were bizarre and unsettling. ... Arif murmured, "Conceivably. Composing in English feels like walking a tightrope. One wrong step, and you lose your balance." ... The pieces fell into place. His verse started to reflect the duality of his life - the amalgamation of his legacy and his yearnings. ...