Poetry

On silence, @AliyaMughal1

October 2, 2018
Cross-posted from: Aliya Mughal
Originally published: 27.09.18
silence of dawn.jpg

 

Silence is…

A DESPIRITING CONFRONTATION, OR AN INVITATION TO OPEN?
In silence we are challenged

by nonexistence

from which we spend our days running.   …

 

 

Aliya Mughal: I’m a dedicated follower of wordsmithery and wisdom in its many guises. Reader, writer, storyteller – if there’s a thread to follow and people involved, I’m interested. I’ve built my life around words, digging out the stories that matter and need to be told – about science, feminism, art, philosophy, covering everything from human rights abuses in Sri Lanka, to famine and the aid game in Rwanda, to how the intersection of art and science has the power to connect the disparate forces of humanity with the nanoscopic forces of our sacred Earth. Find me @AliyaMughal1

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Not the Decent Hard Working Guy

June 7, 2017
Cross-posted from: Pondering Lif
Originally published: 15.11.16

Sitting in the pub smiling,talking, living.

Aware of the next table, of being glared at,

by those that say they know you, never having met;

but you know someone told them this and crap.

What are they saying; they cant say that!

Don’t you go and correct them, sit down,

don’t go giving them my pain; laying it bare like a carcass bleeding,

let them think what they think,

let them imagine my stink, my crime,

my dishonour, my mystique.

For I’m just The Cunt with a cunt

with poor excuses,

not the decent hard working guy.

Expose the truth, leave it out in the air,

unpolished,

baked bare in the bright moonlight,forever seen unseen; they will still call it lie.

Why? Because I’m just a Cunt with a cunt, not a hard working guy

that’s why.

Today I bent and kissed my Granddaughter

goodbye at the gates of learning

and I whispered, be a good girl; as the sound was leaving my lips

I wanted to grab them and shove them back down my throat, swallowing hard

so that I’ll never say them again.

Digesting all the injustice,

the pain the anger,

the shock the disapointment

the shame, the disgust the hate,

the distrust the paranoia the fear, the anger, the lies, the saddness

the anger the fear the confusion. The confusion.

Better to be a Cunt with a cunt

than the eternal Good Girl, bending so hard

that the spine permenantly cracks

and the pages, sliding fall out;

he wanted me to burn my pages.

Burn all those Daddys little girl t-shirts;

burn tradition,

destroy the Big day, say no to that guy.

Smile and be polite, its in their eyes even if they dont say it. Don’t explain; your

truth isn’t meant for their gossip,

even though they desire it.

be the Cunt with a cunt, they wont like it;

they dont understand it.

They want it;

ownership of your story, to tell it their way,

the guy’s way.

Superglue your tearducts and vasaline that smile.

Fix the spine.

Rearrange the pages, set the title, tell the story,

living, talking,being the Cunt with a cunt

with the angry eye, with the knowing look

smiling.

Smiling the Good Girl smile, they don’t believe it;

the good girl smile, but then you don’t either.

Your the Cunt with a cunt not the decent hardworking guy.

 

PonderingLif: My blog is a mixture of feminist thought on events in my life as well as comments on recent events. It also includes short stories. I’m not sure what specific category you would include me under if you chose to do so. @PonderingLif, also on facebook.

 

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Night Terrors by @sianfergs

May 25, 2017
Cross-posted from: Just a South African Woman
Originally published: 09.03.15

There is no fear in the daylight. The sunshine is a distraction.

But when the moon drains the day of colour, I’ll have to close my eyes,

Withdraw from the warmth of the day,

And retreat into the scariest place I know.

I’ve been told to follow my dreams, so I do,

And they lead me to the backs of my eyelids

A place permeable to the demons of my present

Who use my mind as storage space for their grief.

I fear being frozen.
Read more Night Terrors by @sianfergs

Categories: Featured Blog, Poetry

Neutral Buoyancy at erringness in perfection class

May 4, 2017
Cross-posted from: erringness in perfection class
Originally published: 09.04.17

At fifteen, I started taking courses at the local community college full-time through Running Start—Washington state’s dual enrollment program. Except for my penultimate quarter, when only a 6:30 am Composition II had space, I would usually arrive on campus hours early because I would come straight after swim team practice or else get a ride with my dad who would catch his bus into the city from the park and ride next door. I spent those mornings in the library, building my first website on GeoCities and reading through the back issues of literary journals. I can still smell their cardboard file boxes.
Read more Neutral Buoyancy at erringness in perfection class

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The Abstracted Woman by @CatEleven

April 27, 2017
Cross-posted from: The Occasional Poet
Originally published: 03.03.17

I’m not an abstract
That you can take out of its box
And place in a column
Total up and measure
Against some statistic
Of two a week
Or 134 a term
Or once in a lifetime
Or after the age of 30
I’m not an abstract
That you can tesselate
To make pictures
Of veils
Or makeup
Or underwires
Or bound feet
Of folds of skin
Like dunes from a desert
That you’ll never see in the flesh
I’m not an abstract
Sat in a cell
Or sat in a line
On a border
In a boat
On a floor
At a stove
Squatting and heaving
Doubled over
I am all and none
I am solid and hollowed out
I am breathing, but barely
I am laughing
And devastated
I am desperate
And god
So utterly bored
So fully fatigued
At my kitchen worktop
At my boardroom table
At my mud-dug well
At my birthing chair
At my parent-teacher conference
At the grocery store
On the floor
On the bed
Against the wall
I am abstracted
Distracted
I am

 

One Woman’s Thoughts I am a feminist and this is my blog; a collection of perspectives, poetry and ideas.  Twitter @CatEleven

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Broken Window by @carregonnen

April 25, 2017
Cross-posted from: Carregonnen
Originally published: 23.04.16

High up on the landing

there’s a little window

for no reason at all

It’s too small to let light into the hall

and I rarely notice it

 

But today I did because it was broken

I allowed a few reasons

through my head

But none of them led to a plausible answer

so I gave up

 

I might never know whether

it was a misguided bird

one of the boys who play out there on skateboards

throwing a stone or other missile

or an air pistol aimed at the bird

But it’s broken

 

There are problems

fixing it will be expensive

and I have no money

so it stays broken

letting in sound

letting heat escape

What if it falls out or in and

I lie in bed and worry about storms and high winds

at three o’clock in the morning

the broken window metamorphoses

into the Whole of Life

A small broken window is now

Money problems

Heating and noise problems

Small cracks may become bigger and shatter completely

My life will be broken

An insignificant useless window sums up my life

and I cry at the smallness and futility of it all

 

It is now five in the morning

and I pull myself together

I am in awe of the power of three o’clock in the morning anxiety and

step-by-step apocalyptic imaginings

 

Carregonnen: I do life writing in poetry and prose about child abuse and mental health – politically I am a radical feminist.

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Wound—A poem by Fat Fem Pin Up

February 3, 2017
Cross-posted from: Fat Fem Pin Up
Originally published: 18.01.15

Sometimes I want to be the “wound” Ntozake spoke about

and sometimes I simply want freedom…

oh that wound…

so you never forget

you ache in forgotten places when the weather grows cold and heavy

…tickles like phantom

sometimes I want to be a limb cut off….

slow healing, seeping scar….

i want to be that ugly thing your new lovers trace with solemn finger tips, questing in the dark….

yet my descent has slowed by pity’s hand and time’s quiet call to blush, i cannot sustain my own decay

…to wound you

 

Fat Fem Pin Up: I am a fat activist, child rights advocate, womanist/feminist, poet with an affinity for selfies. I have a bachelor’s degree in social work and I work for a children protection agency. I plan to obtain a masters before I become a mother. I’m single but quite taken by good books, fancy living and chicken wings. @FatFemPinUp

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Mother at The Feminist Poet

October 6, 2016
Cross-posted from: The Feminist Poet
Originally published: 30.03.14

My earliest memory was you
Being wheeled away by green men
A checkered blanket on your knees
Doubled over
Then pushing my tiny thumb up against your brass jean button
The stars making a dent
I would watch you roll your cigarette
In one hand
The other holding a book
Or tea
Your laugh
Faultless and compelling
You’d brush shimmering lilacs
Dusty blues
Dusky pinks
On cheekbones and browbones I desired
Your mouth an Oh
As you traced the line of the lid
In kohl
Pitch black lashes
A Chrissie Hynde fringe
Black vest
And converse boots
I stole your leather Jacket with the fringes
I’m sorry I never told you
When I smell nail polish
You are here
When I smell leather or Patchouli
You are here
My first love
My idol
The one I’ve always hoped I could match
To be for him
What you are for me

 

The Feminist Poet: A Shout from the Dark: I am The Feminist Poet and this is my blog. You will find poems, fables, allegories and fairytales inside. Sometimes the hardest things to hear are easiest heard through poetry. And for me, the hardest things to hear are the stories of the women, my sisters and the daily battles they face. This blog is for them.

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Passing Moments by @carregonnen

September 20, 2016
Cross-posted from: Carregonnen
Originally published: 18.02.16

Just a passing moment

A breath of air on my face

reminds me of something I can’t quite recall

and the moment has passed

Looking out of the window a cup of tea in my hand

a quick flurry of snow and then gone

Catching someone’s eyes as I pass them in the street

a connection a recognition a nearly smile

A wren in the garden I thought was a brown leaf

left over from winter blowing across the path

On a dark grey clouded day

a break shows me enough blue sky

The cold smoky familiar smell of a November night

crowds my head with memories

then gone for now

The sweet moist smell of cut grass

Leaves in autumn

Raindrop Racing down the window on a wet afternoon

An old song pulls me back

Glancing in the mirror above the sink I see my mother’s face

My daughter looks at one of her children and I see her father

A passing moment of a memory allows despair to wrap me up

and I try to let it pass

How much of life is made of passing moments

All the emotions in a brief encounter or thought

The lives of my children

My life

The earth is millions of years old

I am a passing moment

 

Carregonnen – I do life writing in poetry and prose about child abuse and mental health – politically I am a radical feminist.

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Waves of Darkness at The Not Me

September 1, 2016
Cross-posted from: The Not Me
Originally published: 25.05.15

A wave of depression drenched me and left me to melt. Not quickly or entirely like the Wicked Witch of the West. I envy her. With her 30-second transformation, she gave everyone happy relief and permanent freedom.

I can’t tell if I’m melting really slowly, or if I will continue shrinking indefinitely, never quite reaching zero, like Zeno’s paradox. I want to believe the people who say things like “It’s only temporary,” or “Surely, it can’t last,” but I’ve been holding on for years now. When my clothes begin pooling around my teeny, tiny feet, will people still tell me to wait patiently?

I don’t feel soaked through every minute of every day. Sometimes, when I walk along the path near my house, I can feel the sun warming my cheeks, and I can see the light shining on the new growth of spring green fields. But when I try to grab hold of the brightness, to carry it with me beyond that moment, it almost always vanishes. Within seconds of looking at that fluorescent glow of spring, I begin to think of the pasty green face of that wicked witch and of all the similarities between us. I don’t believe I am malicious like she was, but I do feel like an obvious outsider coated in abnormal, sallow skin, unable to blend in and function the way good people can. With my cold heart, I too am unsatisfied with the powers that I possess, unable to truly appreciate any of the wonders over or under the rainbow, and, worst of all, always bringing others down. 
Read more Waves of Darkness at The Not Me

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I was born by @cateleven

June 13, 2016
Cross-posted from: The Feminist Poet
Originally published: 30.05.16

I was born this knot of nerves
Of great heat and flux
I swelled and ebbed
An abundant churning sea
And I soaked up all the hard truths
And I carried the layers
Of frowns and smiles
On my skin
All those words spat
Sat just below the surface
All those hands that touched me
Slept deeper
Behind my ribs
Waiting for a pause
For the tide to be out
When I was grown
When I was greyer
And my edges softer
And the skin a little laxed
When those hands would be remembered
With a ferocity
That would tear the skin from my bones
I would turn and turn
Over and over
Looking for a different space
Another place in the bed
Where it could not be felt
Where those words could not be heard
And the only place
The only free spot
The only calomine for my ever-burn
Was the constant motion
Of a sea swim-a rising tide
Or a long hill and valley run
Never sitting still
Never finishing

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Little Heart by @CatEleven

April 18, 2016
Cross-posted from: The Feminist Poet
Originally published: 12.04.16

Be gentle with me
She said
Hold me like a baby bird
Just out of its eggshell
Hold my little heart
In your palms
Watch my pulse
Watch me beat for you
Be gentle
Listen and breathe
Lightly over my surface
Be careful
I shatter when the air cools
When the acid spits
When the dark dog calls
But I soar
At a joyful touch
Revelling in my beauty
And spark
Watch my wings
Watch me fly
See me fly back down to you
My love
My lifeline in the chaos

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Passing Moments by @Carregonnen

March 31, 2016
Cross-posted from: carregonnen's Blog
Originally published: 18.02.16

Just a passing moment

A breath of air on my face

reminds me of something I can’t quite recall

and the moment has passed

Looking out of the window a cup of tea in my hand

a quick flurry of snow and then gone

Catching someone’s eyes as I pass them in the street

a connection a recognition a nearly smile

A wren in the garden I thought was a brown leaf

left over from winter blowing across the path

On a dark grey clouded day

a break shows me enough blue sky

The cold smoky familiar smell of a November night

crowds my head with memories

then gone for now

The sweet moist smell of cut grass

Leaves in autumn

Raindrop Racing down the window on a wet afternoon

An old song pulls me back

Glancing in the mirror above the sink I see my mother’s face

My daughter looks at one of her children and I see her father

A passing moment of a memory allows despair to wrap me up

and I try to let it pass

How much of life is made of passing moments

All the emotions in a brief encounter or thought

The lives of my children

My life

The earth is millions of years old

I am a passing moment

 

Carregonnen : I do life writing in poetry and prose about child abuse and mental health – politically I am a radical feminist.

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Warrior Woman by @CatEleven

January 26, 2016
Cross-posted from: The Feminist Poet
Originally published: 15.08.15

She’ll be up at the dawn
And she’ll lift her kids up
And she’ll lift her friends up
And her mother too
And she’ll lift him up high
Though he throws her down low
Holds her down low
Keeps her down low

She’ll wipe at the surface
And she’ll dig in the dirt
And she’ll wade through the shit
And she’ll pocket the pence
And she’ll make it stretch far
To food and to cloth
To a gamble for him
To smokey bars and empty jars

And she’ll wait and pretend
And she’ll love them and hold
To the slight little frames
And their fragile bones
And she’ll tuck in and kiss
And she’ll humour his woes
And listen to bile
And his blame on the world

She’ll lie there and take it
The beatings inside
Of a body re-used
And a mind he ignored
She’ll turn to the wall
And she’ll set her alarm
She’ll be up with the crows
And be up at the dawn

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Sunday Small Stones

January 10, 2016
Cross-posted from: erringness in perfection class
Originally published: 11.11.15

lightning curls in itself
current—like lagoon like sky—
my eye

can’t send the colors
turned the clouds
fast enough to name

until it all goes dark beyond the gray

I love writing small stones.

 

water cleaves to cat hair dark
-er than the stars can hide
—thicker than would freeze this half
snow night

I love writing small stones.

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The End by @Carregonnen

January 7, 2016
Cross-posted from: Carregonnen's Blog
Originally published: 11.08.15

It was not a waste of time

our love

It lasted such a little time

then died

But I remember every time

we loved

and the pain of every time

I cried.

I cannot forget the times

we shared

Nor will I regret the time

we lost

And for all the lonely times

I am prepared

I’m glad our paths in time

were crossed.

That was our time and that love was true

I would not change that time or love

Would you?

 

Carregonnen : I do life writing in poetry and prose about child abuse and mental health – politically I am a radical feminist.

Categories: Featured Blog, Poetry

INSOMNIA

October 29, 2015
Cross-posted from: Littlee and Bean
Originally published: 12.08.15

For years the night yelled out
that I had to rearrange all of me.
I doubted every breath and
all the words I never spoke
seeped darkness into day.

It takes years to unlearn
how to contort every damn cell
to discover exhaling and waking
without limbs seized
for fight and flight.

But it’s 3am and I’m back.
Leaden muscles and clenched jaws
and my words ripped up.
I’m allowed cryptic stanzas,
saccharine and god. No more.

I listen to my babies leave.
Too tired to say goodbye.

 

Littlee and Bean: I’m a mummy and a blogger. Sometimes I’m all about the saccharine, other times I’m all about the rage. Motherhood doesn’t define me but right now it’s the biggest part of me. I record moments with my boys, from the sacred to the profane. I discuss how I’m trying to find that elusive work/life balance. And I reflect on how breaking free from fundamentalist religion and sexism has shifted my horizons and my psychology.

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The Faultline by @CatEleven

October 8, 2015
Cross-posted from: One Woman's Thoughts
Originally published: 14.01.14

I stood on the faultline

And was damned

From the minute I set foot I could tell

But I was a suitable voice

So my echoes were heard as I fellWhen she stood on the faultline

No-one spoke

The sidelines were eerily quiet

The girl from the wrong sort of world

An unacceptable voice willing riotThe ground opened up

And it pulled her

She was taken and held beneath earth

And the climb that it took to be free again

Left her clean out of will and of worthEvery time that a crack starts to open

And the steadiness falters below

I listen for the shouts

For the armies

Who come for some, and too slowWhen will we start taking action

When will we step up and shout

When will we stand for the falling

And let not one more fall and burn out

 

One Woman’s Thoughts: I am a feminist and this is my blog; a collection of perspectives, poetry and ideas. [@CatEleven]

 

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The Not So Blaze-A Poem by @FatFemPinUp

October 8, 2015
Cross-posted from: Fat Fem Pin Up
Originally published: 14.02.14

We’ve been reduced to regurgitating memories and feeding on phantoms

To hoping old fires could spark from melancholy fuel

I kept it alone

You lay beside the flame with empty hands
Driving need, some desperation

You took the heat
Read more The Not So Blaze-A Poem by @FatFemPinUp

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