Category: women’s issues

Who Speaks For The Silent?

Your voice, he said, it sounds…different…

Project your voice
I learned in theatre,
speak to the back
keep it strong
don’t falter

I had to replay your message several times….

Hold that note
dig deep –
from the diaphragm
sing from your belly

Must be something wrong with the machine…

Demonstrate conviction
let your tone convey passion
stand tall, be confident
motivate your audience
Dad, the orator, told me

I couldn’t make out your words….

Performance demands voice
activism relies on voice
change requires voice

You sound so…weak…
not yourself at all

I am losing my voice
but not my words;
I have much to say
who will say it for me?

(Who Will Speak for the Silent first appeared here in October, 2015. My voice was the first thing to go at the onset of ME. It would be years before I could speak and sustain a conversation again. In revisiting this poem, it occurs that it is still relevant for all those who do not have a voice, who cannot speak for themselves, so I resubmit here on behalf of Woman’s History Month and am linking up with my weekly challenge, dig. Image my own)

Basement

Concrete is cold, imposing
does nothing for aesthetics

At least we’re protected,
I tell the littles, ignoring

Snot dripping, slime
oozing from unsealed
windowsills, cobwebs
and bits of shedding pink

It’s the best I can do:
four walls and a roof.

Except the ceiling
is bulging, mold and rot
certain to rain down on us

While upstairs, the man
ignores the leaks, luxuriates
in his abundance…Momma

Said marry a rich man,
you’ll be set for life,
but it’s dawning on me
there’s more to it than that.

(For Eugi’s Weekly prompt: dawning. Image mine)

This Is How It Happens

Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me

Of course, he does
I am schooled in compassion
seldom flinch at raw pain

I attend to the wounds
listen; reassure
but I am weary

My own sorrow unattended
loss and betrayal an inner bleed
know I have only so much to give

But he is not alone,
there is another
a mere child…

Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me

Of course he does
and I will sign on to stay…
schooled in the art of compassion.

(The stories that come to us in the dreamtime, often celebrate anniversaries. Years ago, I was in a cycle of abusive relationships, culminating with the one represented in the poem. We met on New Year’s Eve. My son, then early teens, remarked to me that I always chose relationships that asked a lot of me but seldom gave in return. While I laughed it off in the moment, his words remained with me, especially as this man also betrayed me with another. It was the turning point I needed to do some real soul-searching.)

Image my own.

Untamed

Too young to understand
ethos of beauty regimes
she rejects girlish rituals
sees beauty in nature
in glitter of make-believe

This abnegation of grooming
not rebellion, but appreciation
a nuance that escapes
Mother’s frustrated efforts.

(My granddaughters balk at having their hair done, something that drove me crazy as a parent, but now reminds me of myself as a child. One generation removed, I view the issue from a new perspective. Image from personal collection.)


That’s What I Fear

“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 could lose her again.

This is what I fear.

(Two separate blog posts hit me this week. The first offering the Angelo quotation (sorry, I can’t remember the blog’s name) and the second from my friend Dr Andrea Dinardo, who offers the question: What’s Under the Fear? Dr D offers a five step process for self-discovery. This is my response. Image my own. The poem also fits with my weekly challenge theme: except)