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Feminists' Poems: Discussion on Feminism Between Poems


Femme Fatale 
 
I enjoy being this kind
Of Femme Fatale
 
To "masturbate" over a poem
And not over a man
 
On my way
I do not leave
Any traces
Of my virginal womb
Behind
 
They wonder
If I behave
The way I live
My poetry
Much more
"Maiko"
 
I show them things that
You'd only show to
Enuchs
 
They want
To learn Hebrew
And taste
My poetry
First
 
I decided to impose
Their words upon
My symbols
 
They're always
Gone
When I do so.

Tali Cohen Shabtai, is a poet, she was born in Jerusalem, Israel. She began writing poetry at the age of six, she had been an excellent student of literature. She began her writings by publishing her impressions in the school’s newspaper. Frst of all she published her poetry in a prestigious literary magazine of Israel ‘Moznayim’ when she was fifteen years old.
 
Tali has written three poetry books: Purple Diluted in a Black’s Thick, (bilingual 2007), Protest (bilingual 2012) and Nine Years Away From You (2018).
 
Tali’s poems expresses spiritual and physical exile. She is studying her exile and freedom paradox, her cosmopolitan vision is very obvious in her writings. She lived some years in Oslo Norway and in the U.S.A. She is very prominent as a poet with a special lyric, "she doesn’t give herself easily, but subject to her own rules".
 
Tali studied at the "David Yellin College of Education" for a bachelor's degree. She is a member of the Hebrew Writers Association and the Israeli Writers Association in the state of Israel.
 
In 2014, Cohen Shabtai also participated in a Norwegian documentary about poets' lives called "The Last Bohemian"- "Den Siste Bohemien",and screened in the cinema in Scandinavia. By 2020, her fourth book of poetry will be published which will also be published in Norway. Her literary works have been translated into many languages as well.


Wilted flower

He asks,
What is your aim in life?

I want to compete with birds, daddy
their wings flutter:
motion in a straight line
they soar high:
clouds get a reason to feel pride
they lay eggs
nest enjoys goodwill

My skin alerts at a touch
The box of a bony enamel cracks
These limbs enjoy a circus
Tresses turn wild

But, I know it's customary for you
to rub your legs against my thighs
Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. She can be reached out at https://www.facebook.com/fizzah.abas.9.

The Waitress
 
Sally thought everything was
up to luck and she had zero.
Her chances got swept
away with yesterday's trash.
 
Every day working in this
dumpy dinner slinging hash.
 
There were the regulars
who knew her name and
left good tips.  They had
no place else to go.
 
Her feet swelled up at
the end of lunch rush.
 
Sally wiped tables filling
ketchup bottles, salt shakers,
sugar jars while staring out the
window at pulsing rain.
 
Waiting a half hour for the bus, 
winds tangling her hair.
 
She stopped at the market to
bring a few groceries home. 
Struggling now to open her door,
only cold rooms would greet her.


Teacher
 
She hoped some would leave,
rise above dirty factory gates
past plumes of smoke spewing
from the cement plant.
 
Occasionally when discussing
great American novels, the walls
shook. Ravines were blasted
for more rocks to crush into powder.
 
She wished they would not become
clerks for soul-less chain stores or
cooks in fast food joints where
smells of burning grease lingered. 
 
What was the use of teaching literature
and poetry to these children who would
soon grown listless?  Their spirits grinded
down like stones in the quarry.

Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Spectrum Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title, The Muse In Miniature, is available on Amazon.com and Cyberwit.net.  She has four Best of the Net nominations. 

Joan is on Facebook. She has worked as a waitress, cashier, telephone operator but mostly lots of office work. 


Freed Women
 
They spend their earliest years
Slighted by their mother’s tears
Who gleefully favor their sons with cheers.
 
Transitioning from a girl to an adult
They are slighted by their father’s manly cult
Who feel they must in their sons exult.
 
Seeking some true approbation
They fancy fashion will lead to salvation
In their quest to meet a guy with compassion.
 
Only too late they discover
At best, they’re a nice fancy cover
While their man takes on a new lover.
 
Their children are kind for a time
Until they get close to their prime
And the elusive corporate ladder they climb.
 
Rare is the woman indeed
Who hasn’t a need for love to plead
Having been granted enough to be freed.
 
The End. 

Luisa Kay Reyes has had pieces featured in "The Raven Chronicles", "The Windmill", "The Foliate Oak", "The Eastern Iowa Review",  and other literary magazines.  Her essay, "Thank You", is the winner of the April 2017 memoir contest of "The Dead Mule School Of Southern Literature".  And her Christmas poem was a first place winner in the 16th Annual Stark County District Library Poetry Contest. Additionally, her essay "My Border Crossing" received a Pushcart Prize nomination from the Port Yonder Press.  And two of her essays have been nominated for the "Best of the Net" anthology. With one of her essays recently being featured on "The Dirty Spoon" radio hour.  

Drawn

Do you see behind the lipsticked grin
Cracks in the brow of my unease
Behind the silicon botoxed laugh lines
Deeply embedded lines of distrust
Drawn into the hardened pain of who you want me to be
Do you see the plastic smile you put there
With your tainted inward vision
It Is easier for you
Never to scrape below the surface paint
Only to etch out
The parts you want
And use them up
Growing up in Ottawa and new jersey, I am greatly inspired by nature and the city ever changing.

I have written ever since I won a contest for valentines poetry in The Ottawa Journal in 1979.  I found continued success in high school and then in my adult life being published in Clevermag, Turbula , Jones Ave and Ascent Asprirations.

- 
Andrea Vasile

pink

Soft body,
chipped tooth,
split, stained lips.
Paint me on your walls and worship me on your altar.
Sweet girl, I am but honey from your flowerbed-
Not a cause, but an effect.
Generations of bleeding have culminated into that of your own.
Who can shame you for the pain of which they cannot themselves fathom?
My dear, you’ve forgotten your power.
Take your rightful place atop your throne.
Don’t you remember?
You are at the center of all that is pleasure, all that is wonder, all that claims itself to be otherworldly- supernatural.

Untitled 1

She takes long strides when walking, because her business is not to be held back. 
Take her time and she will leave you no peace, the earth left scorched where you last were seen standing. 
Her words are piercing; her tongue twists around like snakes with each syllable, and never misses. 
She is made of gunmetal and ivy.

She stands amongst the flowers, resting in their garden’s edge, sleeping in their leaves.
Each evening, she asks if you’ve ate enough to be satisfied.
Give her your time, and she’ll feed your aching, better your soul.
She’s a tireless source of internal warmth.

How intimidated are you to think about her more than once?
She coddles nothing but soothes your pain, like a salve made better than any other concoction imaginable.
With reckless abandon, she’ll love you more than you were prepared to know.
Careless in the most caring way.
Geselle Dominguez is a novice writer and poet, based in her home town of Upstate New York. Graduating from Ithaca College in 2018 with a bachelor's in Psychology and minors in Counseling and Latino/a Studies, spoken word and written poetry have been part of a passion project for Dominguez, and her work often covers a variety of topics such as heartache, womanhood, pleasure, queerness, culture and self discovery.

My Daughter, Upon Overturning
​
Roe vs. Wade
 
The day choice was lost
we shopped for a red dress;
I could not touch
the hangers.
Outside her window,
the rust in the rain
bucket bled.
 
I held her girl scout sash
and thought of youth falling
slick and certain
through her pubic hair;
I dreamt she emptied
a pail In the woods,
and seeded a tree of
blood red oranges.
 
I didn’t say
I’d drawn two fetuses
from my body,
that I could keep only her--
but she has an instinct
for survival.
 
Young women do survive.
Soon they’ll return
to the woods,
and take the seeds
back from the roots;  
they’ll stain their lips
bold eating crimson fruit,
 
they’ll bathe nude
in the rain bucket.
They won’t be quiet
or shamed.
When youth falls, sure
and certain,
it will be into
their hands.
Kristin Roedell is a retired attorney and Northwest poet. She is the author of Girls with Gardenias, (Flutter Press 2012) and Downriver (Aldrich Press 2015). Her work has appeared in Switched on Gutenberg, The Journal of the American Medical Association, VoiceCatcher, and Crab Creek Review, among others.

Ananku

Femininity that goes unaccepted remains unforgiving
vengeance of Kamakhya in month of Ashaad 
Brahmaputra devoid of ichor 
corroding muliebrity till it shrivels into a vestigial flicker

Decades later, when lovers celebrate your womanhood
you fail to find beauty in yourself 
no matter how long you gaze at mirror
reflecting your glistening nakedness
after vigor of copulation

Half hearted attempts to love what you could not accept
does nothing to assuage the annihilation 
you fostered in the pit of your womb 
sown by the discontent of your mother at your birth
reiterated into a receptacle of guilt
that outweighs rings of smoke you blow
by rolling joints of any self esteem accrued
despite waging endless war with hirsutism

We don’t always get to choose our battles
certainly not those that start with 
a blade wedged against our necks 
but end them we must, with shakta striding atop
Femininity that goes unaccepted remains unforgiving

Women who write poetry

Almost commonplace
in silence or verbosity 
except, they prey upon life 
women who write poetry 
read their way in all directions
like a ginger root in spring
every single stolen minute 
in kitchens 
in local trains
in bathroom, sitting on commodes 
with curled toes
They are the hagfish of this world
existing on fringes
women who write poetry 
ingest everything they come across
ecstasy and agony and everything in between
they eat language
they eat experiences
they eat other people’s writings
and leave a trail of poems everywhere they go


Nalini
Priyadarshni is the author of Doppelganger in My House (2016) and co-author of Lines Across Oceans (2015). Her poems have appeared in 
numerous literary journals and international anthologies including Mad Swirl, Camel Saloon, Dukool, In-flight Magazine, Poetry Breakfast, The Riveter Review, The Gambler, The Open Road Review, Calliope Magazine and The Yellow Chair. Her forthcoming publications include Sacred Women in the Anti-violence movement: Anthology and Your One Phone Call.


Look Where She Points
 
A real woman has lived –
showing off
my experience in bed with
my stretchmarks and
I don’t mind
 
celebrating sex with passion
and joy and not afraid to
disrobe to feed my child and
I don’t mind
 
having
rough hands that have
diapered two bottoms and
I don’t mind
 
sharing my
laughter with crows feet and
 I earned
 
every single silver hair and
I don’t care to shave because
it’s winter here nine months a year
 
Look at me, little ones –
with your new technology and
leggings for pants –
a real woman
is me – so see me –
I don’t mind

Vessel
 
I could say the daughter was raised to love, not hate –
raised to treat everyone the same, treat them better than
they treat you, because nobody deserves to be treated poorly.
 
I could say the daughter was so painfully shy, her teacher feared
she could not read. That her first attempt at creative writing stemmed
from being told “The Truth About Santa Claus” making her seriously
consider running away.
 
I could say the daughter is 39 now and still seeking herself. That she
needs to feel heard, which is why she yells – drowning out the nay-sayers
in her head.
 
I could say she is strong on the outside because maybe on the inside her pain
is permanent. That maybe someone will make a decision for her
because sometimes choosing a pair of socks is too complicated today.
 
I could say that –



Emily Vieweg, MFA is a poet and playwright originally from St. Louis, Missouri. Her work has been published in Foliate Oak, The Voices Project, Northern Eclecta, Red Weather Literary Magazine, Soundings Review, Art Young's Good Morning, and more. Her one-act play Atomic Lounge was performed in Chicago at the 25th Annual Abbie Hoffman Died for Our Sins Theatre Festival in 2013. Emily's debut Chapbook Look Where She Points is forthcoming from Plan B Press in 2016. She lives in Fargo, North Dakota where she is a mother of two, pet parent, data processor and adjunct English instructor.


Rain Dance
 
Drips of rain from the Aspen leaves -
Like a post storm therapist helping me discuss
From whence came the traumatic stress -
unaware, unwelcome liquid.
 
While drumming showers stream all night -
serenading in my dreams
like lost Latin lovers beneath my window.
I awake, alone and reminiscent -
Mariachi strumming through the rain.
 
At times the thunder scares my children and I say:
“There there, mommy’s here”.
With no rationale for this lie of mine -
And I tell it to them all the time.
 
The gentle soakings - thorough as penance
Swing across the lawn.
Washing green hair in the muddy puddles –
I’ve brought a razor along.
 
The unshaven meadows that lead to the forest;
Run off like I once did, restless:
A Red Riding Hood fleeing
the wolf-like metronome
that chimes all the time in my mind.
 
And a misting, at the end
Lazy moisture left behind
An upside down smile of warmth -
Manicured eyebrows painted in color.
 
With no pot of gold to find;
Much better, a deep hug of hues -
That only fades away
Due to the laws of nature.

A Mother in Nature:

These poems address the pain of postpartum depression and my struggle to overcome it, despite feeling alone and misunderstood by the world around me. I have been in the darkest places, yet still had to get up every morning and care for my young children. I have lost friends, felt alienated by my small community and been difficult beyond words to get along with for my husband and family.

I also connect this pain with nature in her fight to stay whole and sane in the face of constant pain and suffering. “Mother nature” has so many threats from mankind and in my mind mirrors the violence against women every day. Nature offers me a means to express my own pain to the world when I could not find sufficient words in my own personal vocabulary to describe the profundity of it.  The struggle goes on but with medication and therapy, I am seeing the light and will survive. I want to tell all the mothers out there suffering in pain and perhaps alone, that they are good mothers, and that it is possible to get better, if they can hold on, and find the right help.

Bio:

Elisabeth J. Ferrell-Horan resides in rural Vermont with her husband and two young boys. She finds happiness spending time in the barn with her animals and being surrounded by the sounds of nature in its raw beauty and form.  Elisabeth has a BA in American Literature from Southern Oregon State College and an MA in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. She also attended Universidad de las Americas in Puebla, Mexico as an undergrad.

Her secret talents include salsa dancing and singing Selena songs in Spanish. She still is lucky enough to dream in Spanish at times.


Look Both Ways Before . . .

I was playing
Red Light/Green Light.
I was playing 
Red Light/Green Light.
I was playing.

Mother may I?
Yes, you may.
Mother may I?
Yes, you must.

You must go 
with him.
Take his hand 
and go.
1, 2, 3 -- Green light.
1, 2, 3 -- Green light.
Go.

I took his hand and he took me 
in many rooms
where I was held 
by other men
their eyes yellow. 
Caution.
There is nothing 
but danger
in the dark.
and the light won't change.
The traffic never stops.

I was playing. 
Mother said that 
I may 
I must, 
but I am stuck now 
and the cars
they don't swerve 
to miss me.
They drive,
run over me,
through me.
I bleed.
They leave.

I'm still 
Praying.
Repeating.
Red Light/Green Light.
Green Light/

Red light
here
in the traffic.
They move 
in and out
of my lane. 
The pain is 
inescapable.
I am not allowed 
to scream.

When my body 
and breath are still.
after they have
stopped
playing
with me,
I have frozen
inside.
Red Light/Green Light.
Someone might stop
traffic 
and peel off
what remains 
of me
split by a yellow line.

Red Light/Green Light.
Traffic crimes.
Another little girl's
epitaph written in 
white chalk.
The outline 
of a paper doll,
without her 
paper clothes.
No more playing.



Amanda Gayle Oliver (Hendricks) is a Southern Belle by birth and a New Englander by heart. Most recently published in Calliope Literary Magazine and the San Diego Poetry Annual, her work has appeared in various other literary journals. Oliver has been honored to see three of her plays performed, including a staged reading of Out of Order at the Ten Minute Playground in Nashville, TN. She constantly craves Mexican food, always has change for the jukebox, and never misses a chance to twinkle her toes in the nearest body of water. Oliver is happiest reading X-Files fan-fiction or dancing under Jefferson Street Bridge on a Tuesday night. She currently snuggles with her husband in Birmingham, AL. Her love for the outcast and story of healing from self-harm can be found on her blog at www.anythingbutsilent.wordpress.com.

Double Tanka

propped up on pillows
this way? no, that.
my old body
makes love
to my first, now old, lover.

eclipse of the moon,
my waters break
soak my blue dress--
blood caked to my thighs
my daughter's first cry.


Miriam Sagan is the author of 30 published books, including the novel Black Rainbow (Sherman Asher, 2015) and Geographic: A Memoir of Time and Space (Casa de Snapdragon, 2016). She founded and heads the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College. Her blog Miriam’s Well (http://miriamswell.wordpress.com) has a thousand daily readers. She has been a writer in residence in two national parks, at Yaddo, MacDowell, Colorado Art Ranch, Andrew’s Experimental Forest, Center for Land Use Interpretation, Iceland’s Gullkistan Residency for creative people, and another dozen or so remote and unique places. Her awards include the Santa Fe Mayor’s award for Excellence in the Arts, the Poetry Gratitude Award from New Mexico Literary Arts, and A Lannan Foundation residency in Marfa.

A 25 Year Old Girl Meets a Cat-Calling Man
 
Smile, baby! (he whistles).
Look at those legs!
Hey, hottie, I’ll buy you diamonds!
 
She looks down to the cracks
in the colorless sidewalk,
struts faster away.
 
Every day on her lunch break,
the man, the cigarette, crooked teeth,
dark jacket, acid washed jeans,
a nose too big for his face,
 
every day, he’s there
calling her BABY, CHICK,
talking about her TITS,
her PUSSY. In this way,
 
he owns a piece of her,
her ether, her jumbled
non-reaction. He doesn’t
speak of beauty,
he can’t see her face.
 
Maybe it’s a game she needs
to play, ask him about
his DICK, how it feels
in his pants when it rises
 
to attention, about his MOUTH,
how his mother never taught him,
to keep it shut, odor and sound.



Sarah Lilius is the author of The Heart Factory (Black Cat Moon, 2016) and What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications, 2014). Her work has been published in places such as Tinderbox, The Fem, Thank You For Swallowing, Drunk Monkeys, and Flapperhouse. She is lives in Arlington, VA with her husband and two sons. Her website is sarahlilius.com.


diva cups

oh it's just one of those things when the diva cup just isn't comfy feeling leaks just get it out girl just go with the flow we drip for the earth baby flowers constant creation she in bloody underwear, me hanging on clotheslines, sacred underwear waving and shining in the sunshine running to the bathroom for protection from blood clots in slacks and skirts stained from bad timing those rivers of bloody shapes on pants and accidents from forgetting that time of the moon tides and phases of moods for food and definitely chocolate that time of the month of ovaries squeezing out signs to keep going girl....
new pussy now

this pussy box of mine is thinking outside the skin deep going beyond the ins and outs pisses and shits we're going beyond the pyramids of past periods patriarchy discarded recycled composted responsibly we are a new pussy now relieved asses relaxed back just breathe deep just give birth slowly when your ready go with the flow those moon cycles bleed in thy sacred underwear pour it on the soils feed  mom earth good juices, yes we can!



Ava Bird is a pranic poet practicing presence and poetry from the places of heart and soul and beyond.  Also, an author, a mixologist, a mythbreaker, a sharer, and a chef of many proportions.  
She has organized various kinds of events including the great art movement "100 Thousand Poets for Change," a universal gathering of worldwide poets and artists promoting equality, peace, justice, sustainability for the planets, global love and positive changes for all & more.     
 
May all beings be happy and free!


How Do You Qualify For Love?

It’s simple, really.
 
Smile but not too intensely, more like a half-ripened fruit, whose tempered sweetness trickles from the core, never splattering, never overflowing, never raging; whose rind is solid and crisp, a pleasant challenge, but pliable enough to gnaw through, never tenacious, never unyielding, never resolute.
 
Speak but only as a murmur, never shout; the gusts that run through your soul must never gather or squall; be the serene landscape, the calm and storm-spent sphere, never the thunder or roar of opinion. Or desire. Or protest.
 
Think, but not with brilliance; let your light shine softly like a fading star, the glow of a million lost years flickering briefly, diffuse and quivering, a reflection of something or someone greater, more real; never a beacon or a flare ascending in full sun at noon, never a consuming conflagration or a threatening blaze unwilling to be doused, always veiled and muted – like the dull slate floor your spirit is crushed on.
 
So if you smile and speak and think, but not too much – never too much – you will certainly qualify for love.



Susan Speranza is in her last year of the MFA Writing program at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has been published in various literary journals, including Poetry Quarterly, The Literary Yard, the Voices Project and the Magnolia Review.  In 2012, she was a Quarter Finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. The same novel (My Life in Dogs) was on the short list of finalists in the 2012 William Faulkner-William Wisdom Competition. It was subsequently published as The Tale of Lucia Grandi, the Early Years by Brook House Press. It has since garnered favorable reviews and has been compared to the American classic, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. She currently lives in Vermont where in addition to her writing, she breeds and shows Pekingese. Her writing extends to this hobby as well: she has written many articles on the breed and breeding and exhibiting for various print and online dog blogs and breed magazines.

 https://www.facebook.com/susansperanzaauthor/


Secret Agent

She dashes through crowded subway station,
Dodging people and barriers in her quest
Not to let go of the baby she carries,
Given to her as a secret mission, an ultimate test-
Comprised of all things precious to her,
Though time closes in,
She does not forsake her purpose,
Protecting its growth until the end.
Her destiny requires self-sacrifice and clear sight,
Her priority given to things most dear.
Her covert operation is her sacred duty –
To recover thoughts once easily come,
Depth in the clutches of time forsaken.
Sharpened claws of moments await,
Yet she emerges from the subway
To see the overcast shadow of a foreign land,
Gray trees with bare branches, nodding in the wind -
Russia probes from ocean’s shore,
Like quickly skipping images of a silent movie,
To the grainy woman who moves her jaw upward and to the side,
Showing she’s gathering courage
To confront who she has come to be.



Justine Johnston Hemmestad's Story: The back story for this poem arose from fighting for my own sense of purpose, and the baby symbolizes my purpose - writing. I was in a car accident 25 years ago and since then I've been writing, and many times I felt I had to go "underground" in a sense to do it because no one took me seriously (which I have only recently realized may have been also been sexism because I'm finding that sometimes males still treat me that way). My novella Truth be Told follows along the same lines because my female protagonist realizes that she alone can carry out her purpose, so purpose has been a consistent theme in my writing. 

My novella, Truth be Told, has recently been published and can be found here:
https://www.amazon.com/Truth-Told-Justine-Johnston-Hemmestad/dp/0692627685?ie=UTF8&ref_=asap_bc.
My writing blog is found here: http://justinejohnstonhemmestad.blogspot.com/. I'm currently enrolled in the Master's Degree Program in Literature through Northern Arizona University.

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