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Feminism: Sex and gender discussions

A rose is a rose is a rose

106 replies

ArabellaScott · 29/04/2021 20:47

... by any other name, would smell as sweet.

How about a thread for poetry by/for women?

OP posts:
ArabellaScott · 30/04/2021 09:38

Someone posted this on here, recently. It's amazing.

Girls Are Coming Out of the Woods

By Tishani Doshi

              for Monika

Girls are coming out of the woods,
wrapped in cloaks and hoods,
carrying iron bars and candles
and a multitude of scars, collected
on acres of premature grass and city
buses, in temples and bars. Girls
are coming out of the woods
with panties tied around their lips,
making such a noise, it's impossible
to hear. Is the world speaking too?
Is it really asking, What does it mean
to give someone a proper resting? Girls are
coming out of the woods, lifting
their broken legs high, leaking secrets
from unfastened thighs, all the lies
whispered by strangers and swimming
coaches, and uncles, especially uncles,
who said spreading would be light
and easy, who put bullets in their chests
and fed their pretty faces to fire,
who sucked the mud clean
off their ribs, and decorated
their coffins with briar. Girls are coming
out of the woods, clearing the ground
to scatter their stories. Even those girls
found naked in ditches and wells,
those forgotten in neglected attics,
and buried in river beds like sediments
from a different century. They've crawled
their way out from behind curtains
of childhood, the silver-pink weight
of their bodies pushing against water,
against the sad, feathered tarnish
of remembrance. Girls are coming out
of the woods the way birds arrive
at morning windows—pecking
and humming, until all you can hear
is the smash of their miniscule hearts
against glass, the bright desperation
of sound—bashing, disappearing.
Girls are coming out of the woods.
They're coming. They're coming.

OP posts:
RightOnTheEdge · 30/04/2021 09:42

EmpressWitchDoesntBurn
Wow! That is a stunning piece of writing.

RadicalFern · 30/04/2021 11:09

Poem by Li Qingzhao (1084-1155)

To The Tune Of Intoxicated Under The Shadow Of Flowers

Light mists and heavy clouds,
melancholy the long dreay day,
In the golden censer the burning incense is dying away.
It is again time for the lovely Double-Ninth Festival;
The coolness of midnight penetrates my screen of sheer silk
and chills my pillow of jade.
After drinking wine at twilight under the chrysanthemum hedge,
My sleeves are perfumed by the faint fragrance of the plants.
Oh, I cannot say it is not enchanting,
Only, when the west wind stirs the curtain,
I see that I am more graceful
than the yellow flowers.

HecatesCatsInFancyHats · 30/04/2021 11:23

That's wonderful Arabella

MarieIVanArkleStinks · 30/04/2021 11:29

I love 'Girls are coming out of the woods' - never read that before. Always liked the purple one, though.

As to the title quote, Stein is a writer who intrigues and frustrates me in equal measure. She's a linguistic contortionist. From 'Sacred Emily' ...

Egg in places.
Egg in few insists.
In set a place.
I am not missing.
Who is a permit.
I love honor and obey I do love honor and obey I do.
Melancholy do lip sing.
How old is he. [....]

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
Loveliness extreme.
Extra gaiters.
Loveliness extreme.
Sweetest ice-cream.
Page ages page ages page ages.
Wiped Wiped wire wire.
Sweeter than peaches and pears and cream.
Wiped wire wiped wire.
Extra extreme.

There's a little-seen film about her life with Alice B. Toklas, called Waiting for the Moon, which focused on her Paris salon and connections with Picasso et al. She's a fascinating, if something of a 'kooky' writer!

Shizuku · 30/04/2021 12:04

'I learned very young that to be woman in this world meant that you have to have incredibly thick skin, especially if you want to do it in front of people starting at 16.You’ve got to be willing to accept that your existence is a paradox, and that people are always gonna have something to say about the way that you are. A strong woman is characterized by her capacity to still see her divinity after enduring all sorts of emotional and physical abuse from a world that refuses to see her power. A strong woman deserves to be characterized by her willingness to continue to survive through all adversity, her ability to move passed every obstacle thrown her way; every no, every smirk, every dismissal, every questioning, everybody asking her for hers. She should be honored for the grace she exhibits in the face of chaos, when everything falls on her shoulders and she has to explain once again why she’s qualified and equipped to handle it. She should praised for her perseverance, for the centuries she stood at the forefront of innovation and revolution with no chapter in a history book to commemorate. She should be allowed to express and present herself in any way she pleases, without judgement. She should be allowed a podium at the top of the Statue of Liberty to announce what her heart and soul feel, because I know she could change hearts and minds if they just let her speak, if they would just listen for a moment.

We’re brought into this world with an empathy bestowed upon us. Young girls blossoming into our mature bodies before we are even taught to understand it. We’re expected to respect it by what they deem respectable.

We are told to have a strength that is digestible, and ambition that is gentle, a warm smile that is delectable, but I don’t want to be devoured anymore. I’m grateful for a way to make sense of the world around me and why it’s so cruel and unwilling to listen, why we still have to debate and gather to defend our autonomy and worth with anyone at this point, but much less with each other. It’s painful. To the women who have come before us, who have kicked down doors, only to be greeted by another crowd of angry men shouting that it isn’t time yet, we thank you. To be told that it is not convenient enough to be considered equal, to be afforded the same payment for the same job, to be granted the freedom to do and express as we please, with no rule regulation, restriction, or boundary to its acceptability, we thank you for pushing forward anyway. We thank you for uplifting us to the point where we can stand together here today and collectively shout that time is up. To the leaders in all walks of life who have come together around the world to create tangible change; to the interns and the nonprofits who worked tirelessly from the bottom of their hearts; to the speakers, the spectators, awareness spreaders, organizers, healers, mothers, caretakers, teachers, artists, changemakers, and mentors that have taken on more than they can take, we thank you. The way we lead is a special kind of fierce. We know when we need to break silence in difficult moments, and our courage now resonates in the halls of Congress and around the world. It resonates in all the women: Women of color, queer women, women of minorities, indigenous women, trans women, and women from all around the world that have found themselves on the same wavelength of freedom, coming together to nominate each other and uplift one another to positions of power and authority. The amount of change that we have witnessed and are about to continue to see is because of all of us seeing one another, uplifting one another and continuing to move forward."

HecatesCatsInFancyHats · 30/04/2021 12:04

Anne Sexton is an extraordinary and controversial mid 20th century writer. She wrote visceral poems about the reality of womanhood, relationships, and her mental health (which she struggled with throughout). She took her own life - I often think of the powerful opening line from her poem Live - "Live or die, but don't poison everything". This is an example of the sort of themes she tackles...

#TriggerWarningAbortion

The Abortion - Anne Sexton

Somebody who should have been born
is gone.

Just as the earth puckered its mouth,
each bud puffing out from its knot,
I changed my shoes, and then drove south.

Up past the Blue Mountains, where
Pennsylvania humps on endlessly,
wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair,

its roads sunken in like a gray washboard;
where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly,
a dark socket from which the coal has poured,

Somebody who should have been born
is gone.

the grass as bristly and stout as chives,
and me wondering when the ground would break,
and me wondering how anything fragile survives;

up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man,
not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all…
he took the fullness that love began.

Returning north, even the sky grew thin
like a high window looking nowhere.
The road was as flat as a sheet of tin.

Somebody who should have been born
is gone.

Yes, woman, such logic will lead
to loss without death. Or say what you meant,
you coward…this baby that I bleed.

Imnobody4 · 30/04/2021 12:05

Emily Dickinson

She rose to His Requirement—dropt
The Playthings of Her Life
To take the honorable Work
Of Woman, and of Wife—

If ought She missed in Her new Day,
Of Amplitude, or Awe—
Or first Prospective—Or the Gold

In using, wear away,

It lay unmentioned—as the Sea
Develop Pearl, and Weed,
But only to Himself—be known
The Fathoms they abide—

Ereshkigalangcleg · 30/04/2021 12:36

Girls Are Coming Out of the Woods

That's fantastic.

RufustheBadgeringReindeer · 30/04/2021 12:41

One of my favourites...it was the reading at one of my childrens naming ceremony

BEATTIE IS THREE
At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless

RoyalCorgi · 30/04/2021 12:43

Girls Are Coming Out of the Woods - brilliant. Hadn't come across it before, though I did read her novel Fountainville, which is about the surrogacy industry.

Am pretty sure she's gender-critical too.

HecatesCatsInFancyHats · 30/04/2021 12:46

That's beautiful Rufus

RufustheBadgeringReindeer · 30/04/2021 12:50

It is isnt it hecates

CorvusPurpureus · 30/04/2021 12:55

Oooft, never come across Girls Are Coming Out Of The Woods before - that's amazing. Stealing for my IB lit class.

Waitwhat23 · 30/04/2021 13:05

Morning Song
BY SYLVIA PLATH

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Nonmaquillee · 30/04/2021 13:07

This poem is entitled Her First Week and it's by Sharon Olds. It really touched my heart when my first child was a tiny baby, and I still find it really poignant:

She was so small I would scan the crib a half-second
to find her, face-down in a corner, limp
as something gently flung down, or fallen
from some sky an inch above the mattress. I would
tuck her arm along her side
and slowly turn her over. She would tumble
over part by part, like a load
of damp laundry, in the dryer, Id slip
a hand in, under her neck,
slide the other under her back,
and evenly lift her up. Her little bottom
sat in my palm, her chest contained
the puckered, moire sacs, and her neck -
I was afraid of her neck, once I almost
thought I heard it quietly snap,
I looked at her and she swivelled her slate
eyes and looked at me. It was in
my care, the creature of her spine, like the first
chordate, as if the history
of the vertebrate had been placed in my hands.
Every time I checked, she was still
with us - someday, there would be a human
race. I could not see it in her eyes,
but when I fed her, gathered her
like a loose bouquet to my side and offered
the breast, greyish-white, and struck with
minuscule scars like creeks in sunlight, I
felt she was serious, I believed she was willing to stay.

I first came across it in the poetry compilation "All the Poems you need to Say Hello" edited by Kate Clanchy. It's a wonderful gift for a new mum, and covers the various stages of becoming a mother - conception / pregnancy / loss / childbirth / first days / early years. I was given it 18 years ago and the bookmark inside is the scrap of paper we used to write down the times of my contractions. It's precious.

Nonmaquillee · 30/04/2021 13:12

@RufustheBadgeringReindeer

One of my favourites...it was the reading at one of my childrens naming ceremony

BEATTIE IS THREE
At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless

I love this too. The last line really resonates. I think this is by one of the Liverpool Poets - Adrian Henry?
Waitwhat23 · 30/04/2021 13:17

@Nonmaquillee thank you for the book recommendation - it sounds wonderful. I'm going to keep an eye out for it

RufustheBadgeringReindeer · 30/04/2021 13:51

non

Adrian Mitchell

One of the readings at ds1 naming ceremony was by joyce grenfell

Ordinary Morning, by Joyce Grenfell

It felt like an ordinary morning,
It began an ordinary way,
And then, without warning
Ordinary morning became extraordinary day.

Hadn’t the slightest sort of inkling,
No-one said love was on its way,
And then within a twinkling,
Without the smallest inkling,
It became an extraordinary day.

For there you were,
And the whole world stood still.
There you were,
I loved you then, and I always will.

At first, an ordinary morning,
Began in an ordinary way,
And then my heart was beating
At this ordinary meeting
And we both knew
This was not an ordinary day.

It was when she first met her husband i think but worked equally well (i think) for the morning you wake up as a woman (albeit pregnant) and go to sleep as a mother

RufustheBadgeringReindeer · 30/04/2021 13:52

I did have an inkling 😀 but he came 15 days early

Fernlake · 30/04/2021 13:59

@Nonmaquillee

This poem is entitled Her First Week and it's by Sharon Olds. It really touched my heart when my first child was a tiny baby, and I still find it really poignant:

She was so small I would scan the crib a half-second
to find her, face-down in a corner, limp
as something gently flung down, or fallen
from some sky an inch above the mattress. I would
tuck her arm along her side
and slowly turn her over. She would tumble
over part by part, like a load
of damp laundry, in the dryer, Id slip
a hand in, under her neck,
slide the other under her back,
and evenly lift her up. Her little bottom
sat in my palm, her chest contained
the puckered, moire sacs, and her neck -
I was afraid of her neck, once I almost
thought I heard it quietly snap,
I looked at her and she swivelled her slate
eyes and looked at me. It was in
my care, the creature of her spine, like the first
chordate, as if the history
of the vertebrate had been placed in my hands.
Every time I checked, she was still
with us - someday, there would be a human
race. I could not see it in her eyes,
but when I fed her, gathered her
like a loose bouquet to my side and offered
the breast, greyish-white, and struck with
minuscule scars like creeks in sunlight, I
felt she was serious, I believed she was willing to stay.

I first came across it in the poetry compilation "All the Poems you need to Say Hello" edited by Kate Clanchy. It's a wonderful gift for a new mum, and covers the various stages of becoming a mother - conception / pregnancy / loss / childbirth / first days / early years. I was given it 18 years ago and the bookmark inside is the scrap of paper we used to write down the times of my contractions. It's precious.

Ooh, that is lovely. You can feel her baby in your own hands.
Fernlake · 30/04/2021 14:03

@RufustheBadgeringReindeer

One of my favourites...it was the reading at one of my childrens naming ceremony

BEATTIE IS THREE
At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless

I did have a lot of those moments when my children were growing up, that this minute, this second, this scene is precious. And, in a strange way, you have an inner realisation they are all the more poignant, because a lot of the time you're knackered and want them to go to bed!
Waitwhat23 · 30/04/2021 14:04

Difference of opinion - Wendy Cope

HE TELLS HER
He tells her that the earth is flat —
He knows the facts, and that is that.
In altercations fierce and long
She tries her best to prove him wrong.
But he has learned to argue well.
He calls her arguments unsound
And often asks her not to yell.
She cannot win. He stands his ground.
The planet goes on being round.

Waitwhat23 · 30/04/2021 14:07

@Fernlake sometimes when I'm cuddling my baby, I'm hit with a wave of what suppose I would call 'pre-nostalgia', in that I know the moment will slip away soon when she's that weight, that height, that smell and it'll just be a memory. Both poems above 'Her First Week' and 'Beattie is Three' made me feel like that.

Fernlake · 30/04/2021 14:15

[quote Waitwhat23]@Fernlake sometimes when I'm cuddling my baby, I'm hit with a wave of what suppose I would call 'pre-nostalgia', in that I know the moment will slip away soon when she's that weight, that height, that smell and it'll just be a memory. Both poems above 'Her First Week' and 'Beattie is Three' made me feel like that.[/quote]
Yes, that's exactly it!

Pre-nostalgia, what a great term.