Feminists' Poems: Discussion on Feminism Between Poems
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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.
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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.
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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. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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! |
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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/ |
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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. |
