Woman (+audio🎤)

Poetry, spoken word poetry

Happy International Women’s Day everyone! Sometimes it annoys me that women are treated like amazing goddesses on this day, and praised for being super strong superwomen all the time without people ever actually vouching for change? So, I wrote this poem. Let me know what you think in the comments below! (PS – this may or may not have been inspired by Avatar)


You, woman, are
Sun
rising each day to
set each night
even though you know the pain of doing both.
 
You, woman, are
Sea
spreading yourself across continents simultaenously,
and sometimes even into those dark caves,
where no one else will go.
And yes, sometimes you are tsunami, sometimes you are
whirlpool
– good!
Some people deserve to be washed away,
I hope you make them drown.
 
You, woman, are
Soil
built from the mud lain before you,
growing things anew.
It’s a slow process, OK?
You’re still sprouting,
so don’t let anyone walk over you.
 
And you, woman, are
Woman
not a natural wonder or an unnatural disaster,
not divine nor domestic,
not anything you don’t want to be
 
Just,
woman.

Faces | Writing Prompt Passage

Poetry

WRITING PROMPT #74


“Why are we not permitted to show our faces in the picture , Mama?,” Charlotte asked, staring down at the photograph in her hands. The whole prospect of one picture alone to represent three young ladies in the newspaper seemed so obscure to the girl, that she had initially refused to be part of it at all; but her Mama had insisted, and so she did.

“Men shall often find one’s body more agreeable than one’s face,” Mama answered sharply, “can you not see that is why I have dressed you in the finest silk dresses you own?”.

With her nose held high in the air, so as to maintain decorum, Mama sauntered over to her grand mirror, her favourite part of her bedroom. It had been bought for her as a gift by her husband, as had the house her and her daughters now lived in. Many hours had passed in front of its golden frame, preparing herself for her husband or local balls. Time had withered her patience and she prepared as such for no one but herself anymore, and her three daughters. Now, in her corset and petticoat, she placed the photo on the bed beside her and began adorning her face with powder.

Her youngest daughter, grabbed it and exclaimed, “No rouge, no curls! No man shall ever send us prospects of marriage.”

She turned to her mother.
“Mama! What were you thinking?”

“Hush now, Anne! Your father payed a large amount of money to get that photograph taken, and we shall be rewarded for our efforts, I guarantee.”

A book snapped shut to Mama’s left.

“Then perhaps a woman shall send us a marriage proposal,” Emily began, “and I shall be so very pleased if that were to happen instead.”

 


This poem was written during National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 3]