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Frailty thy name is women: Pervasiveness of male power and limiting conception of women

AbstractThis paper analyzes the under- representation of women, pervasiveness of male power, the limited roles of women and limiting conceptions of women held by the male characters in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The research paper will explore in Shakespeare’s Hamlet the portrayal of Gertrude and Ophelia being entirely depended on the point of view of male characters since the play fails to provide individual voice to the motives, desires and defense of each. The works and research conducted on Shakespeare’s tragedies in the feminist paradigm raise similar questions about the above mentioned text and therefore can be referred to, to provide some revelatory findings on the subject.  Feminist Criticism of Shakespeare appeared on the scene as an identifiable “movement”, with the publication of Juliet Dusinberre’s Shakespeare and Nature o f Women in 1975, with its primary aim being “rectifying sexist misinterpretation of Shakespeare’s female characters”.(1)Other …
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had I gone by myself

I come running back here whenever unkindness hammers down on me like hailing uninvited rain. Heart resolving that it always was too delicate to withstand cruelty of ever changing face of people I 've shattered my miniscule self for. Yet this heart break only reminds me of my capacity to break a little more, hurt a little more, thus reflecting the depths unknown  of my miniscule self. Teaching me not to undermine its oceanic trench capable of drowning in so much more. It's resurgence leaves me awestruck. And yet I cannot forget. And yet I cannot believe. Would it have been easier 'had I gone by myself'?


I wonder if I was born as a chry'santhemum destined to be crushed mercilessly on the stampeded gravel. Smothered and Sun dried in yellows of madness and unkindness,  hurled and smeared in the most quiet corners of the dark closet. Blooming blandly, wilting in. Forgotten defaced. Surfacing to breathe and blossom unnoticibly with blatant resilience. I must give up to my fate undelibly engraved in the palms of communion. But I must give up today to the harrowing foccult's freedom of madness, submitting to the named scorching sun of my existence. farewell shreds of self. Until we meet.

How much?

“How much did you say it will cost?” inquired a prospective buyer.

I loomed into that calculating lawyer trance. How much? How much?
The words echoed. Much like the mirror ahead trapping my reflection as I lie down enlisting, enumerating, emancipating. Stock count was in order to liquidize my assets.
This house has been lived for more than 78 years, carving the secrets of our ancestor’s warm prints in its canvas. How much for the whispers of love engrained in these walls? For the stifled sobs I secretly shared?

The laughter downstairs when they met every weekend sprawled on the mat, hitting serendipitous shots at a game of Carom and Ludo. The cackle of old stove, your uninhibited giggle, clanking of utensils when looking for your favorite “chamach” (spoon). The number of screams accumulated in the beams of the balcony where you forced me to spy on many of unsuspecting passerby’s scratching, poking their nose, checking their reflections in the mirror, fixing their hair-

My name sieved i…

The Knock

And there is it again. He barged in. And what for did he need consent? What for?

What was there to hide? -a mauled dream, a crumpled paper, a crushed chrysanthemum, empty stained cups of consumed tea? - An unsullied by requirement, by default, by inspection, Insanity?

And he by certification, sanctimonious consensus,

An unquestionable unanimous one! mind you!
How dare you?
Emblem there, there and there, obviously.

Shingle eyed to mere frequent bouts of vagrancy.
Flouted, Sanctified, Justified.
Fragmented, Disassociated, Denied.
No passport required, no knocks, no go-aheads, and no say-sos.

His;a sanctioned bland madness.
And mine- a sinking malady.

The Nest

The dregs of a hammock shook, a precarious pile of rusted utensils fell cascading, unwarranted, into a tumultuous dis chord. The trees shook and the raft boarded at the verge of the thunderous shore- rattled. Just another tremulous murmur. Another tremor. Repulsive of its inhabitant’s deeds.

And then followed a long episode of blackening silence. Like a hollow casket or the labyrinth of one’s ear. Lost in its own magnanimity. Piercing, penetrating silence like a thorn latched in an ebony skin.

It was as if this peninsula had all the hope of music famished like its deserters. Nothing but a nest of lies and broken dreams.

Playing with fire. That, or deep water-

Sharing an Adcock poem I seem to associate with someone I love-This poem reflects a state of a mind we all suffer from, at one point of our lives ricocheting between the two polarities-"playing with fire. That, or deep water."

We all wish to play with fire yet we cant. The poem seems to communicate the same idea of purgatory-how a soul, an existence hangs between the two worlds, two realms-that of fire and water-both possessing the magnanimity to consume him completely-fire being representative of his true fiery nature, identity, madness that the pragmatic world of social order (i.e. of water) is designed to extinguish and drown within.

They can not co-exist. Thus, the pain of this dilemma keeps stinging those who cannot submit to either of them completely. Neither to the "flames" for the sake of reason and social acceptance and nor to the "water" since one cannot deceive one's own self either. Hence, this wait for either side to conquer breaks, shat…