A woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing. She goes where she will without pretence and arrives at her destination prepared to be herself and only herself.” – Maya Angelo
I fear living.
No, that’s not it.
I love living… …but I fear engagement… …drowning in engagement
Except, I love engagement… … but only when I dip my toe in the waters and feel the thrill… and can still maintain control.
I fear losing control. I fear no longer being able to call the shots, life demanding more of me than I’m willing (or able) to give.
I’m willing to give… … to a certain point… …can no longer afford to be sapped dry, wrung out and discarded… so much hurt so much betrayal… such lack of appreciation
I have given. I have loved and sacrificed and cherished and given… …up… …self
It’s self I’m afraid of losing and why not? I am only just able to touch her
She and I, still hesitant building a certainty a mutual admiration respect…
And should I be called upon to give…too much…well…
I hear my mother’s voice questioning my intentions certain I’m not doing it right this wifely thing
I’ll be abandoned, surely – it all rests on a string for her – if dinner isn’t on the table at 4:38 or the beds are not made right away or the laundry basket, unfolded, remains in sight – then who blames the man for leaving.
Six generations now I’ve witnessed women fighting for equality, for recognition and still the old guard holds on
And now politicians – men with loose jowled egos and paunchy stances – and so-called religious leaders call for a retraction – women’s lives at stake
Who will lobby for women’s rights when the female voice is silenced needs carefully tucked away so as not to raise ire in her mate?
Watching the man wander between home and industry, the apron of his trade firmly fixed, a sparkle of grit in his coiffed beard
The children, too, find joy in his space, running between house and workshop, dog bounding at their feet proudly on guard.
An outsider and sink bound she moves by rote tea towel slung over shoulder maintains a distance – the dream is not hers.
She waits weights pretends denies
Is losing her edges and the parameters he sets keep shifting, and she is falling short
and the children, now hungry tug on her apron for acknowledgment – their father having taught them well — she lives to meet their needs.
What’s for supper? they whine, already preparing to grouse: I don’t like that! You liked it last week, she’ll reply Weary, she feels herself fading
A meal on the table and the man drags his feet – would not award her respect to appear on time
She’ll abide the disarray while counting to herself the minutes till this is over and the children are in bed and the man has returned to work and nothingness is hers…
The pot simmering on the stove really should be boiling, but baby needs changing, and He-who-is-charged- with-watching-the-children is asleep in his chair…
Where to lay the infant – her soiled and sodden diaper threatening its own release – when her siblings have dragged all the bedding – fort-intended, now abandoned under foot?
Turkey is in the oven legs trussed, flesh buttered and salted… Baby’s skin is red her squirming legs noncompliant
Dog offers his presence curious nose intervening… I leave the wriggling bundle to dispose of offending nappy – images of dog mouthing contents beyond current capacity
Children’s giggles signal misadventure, as bath water spills into the room, husband stirring, “Smells good!” says he pushing buttons on the TV remote
Ankle deep in water contents of pot now burning, awareness dawns – the forgotten baby is now missing… madness achieved.
(Another dream inspired nonsensical poem. Image my own)
Please let me preface with a confession – I am not familiar with your work. It is not oversight on my part, rather a deliberate avoidance – you see, I too have faced the brand of madness that drove you to your death, have feared that any intimacy we might share would stir my own apprehensions.
Indeed, I understand all too well the presence of walls, have believed in the power of the sky, the promise of green, found faith in angels – nature my solace – realized too young that the sun’s brilliance, that my brilliance cannot be sustained by the innocence of white – bleeds at the fate of indifferent stars.
I understand how gray seeps in, tears away at the illusions, entraps us – how the past stalks, spirals, threatens to suck us in, and how, having lost my own connection to birds and trees, wonderment sours.
It is the fate of women born into patriarchal times, that the blood of our menses should colour our fists – our fury as potent as a paper bag – how can we not feel terror when we worship a God whose religion disparages our gender?
I have faced the inevitability of black – what once brought solace having lost its definition, unidentifiable – have faced mortality, the cold blank stares of death still haunting – I am the one who passed you by – afraid to linger too long in your words, have woefully overlooked the merit of a sympathetic read.
(This poem was first written in April of 2018. The prompt was to write a response to a poem by Sylvia Plath. It’s an interesting exercise. Image my own. )
Apprehensions by Sylvia Plath
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself- Infinite, green, utterly untouchable. Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also. They are my medium. The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.
A grey wall now, clawed and bloody. Is there no way out of the mind? Steps at my back spiral into a well. There are no trees or birds in this world, There is only sourness.
This red wall winces continually: A red fist, opening and closing, Two grey, papery bags- This is what i am made of, this, and a terror Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pietas.
On a black wall, unidentifiable birds Swivel their heads and cry. There is no talk of immorality among these! Cold blanks approach us: They move in a hurry.
Adolescence doesn’t wear a smile in our old photo album – stares fixated on unseen lint – distracted, we three sisters, all reeling from the cold, unwell, immobilized…
What is absent is the photographer whose pointed directions critique each decision – a derisive repetition that eats at our souls, each girl wrestling with self-nurture vs self-annihilation, landing somewhere in between – mannequin targets for male abuse…
Oh, I tried to take up arms, rail against the dominance, the oppression, but only succeeded in settling for disconnection, while one sister turned tricks for attention, the other retreated into full dependency, her madness, out of date, nevertheless relevant – despite our tormenter’s death, the images are permanently recorded in that old photo album.
Autonomy: to feel that her decisions/wants/needs are not overshadowed by the dictates of another, or by a past that is forever looming.
Empowerment: to know, once and for all, that the victim is laid to rest, so that she can embrace her authentic self.
Inner peace: to live without guilt or the need for permission. To be able to forgive and self and other in order to be free. To trust, innately, her own inner resources, releasing fear’s hold.
Sacredness: to stand firmly upon the Earth, breathe freely, and engage with life. To make a difference.
Celebration: to live with anticipation, surprise, and ultimately joy.
Connection: to recognize in each living moment that none of the above is obtained in a bubble. I quest for true connection. The bravest quest of all.
(Reading through old posts I came across one from November, 2014 which inspired this write. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 