When you are a woman in the country by Melita White

When you are a woman in the country
You should be careful to not look like a woman
You should not wear pink
That colour of women
When you go to collect your mail
From the letterbox on the main road
As the trucks whizz by at 100km per hour
And the men leer
Out of open windows
Sometimes waving, sometimes just looking
You’d better hope your titties don’t poke out
From beneath your top either
And give the game away
It’s best to wear drab baggy clothes
A hat
Dark glasses
And keep your head down
Hoist your shoulders up round your neck
And swagger a bit
You might fool them that way
And when you duck down that country lane
On foot, crying when it’s raining
Because you had a fight with your boyfriend
Whatever you do
Don’t shake the hand of the man in the pick-up truck
Oh sure, smile sweetly and answer his questions
When he stops to ask what you’re doing walking out here
In the middle of nowhere
But do not take his hand when he offers it
It is dirty with grease and dark like his soul and you know it
And when he drives away finally
After scaring you and deciding you are too much trouble (phew!)
You should quickly climb the fence and walk, no, run across the field
The muddy muddy field
Because you’re so much safer there
Even if your new shoes will be ruined
And soaked and caked with mud
Country men do not pretend as much as city men do
They let their lust show on their faces, unfiltered
And in their bodies
They readily stare as if they never got the memo
That memo the city men got years ago
Or, at least some of them did,
That it’s rude, and maybe even threatening
To stare at a woman
So at night when you’re getting undressed
Make sure the curtains are closed
So that the man with the binoculars across the fields
Can’t play Peeping Tom with you
And make sure the lights are out
So that your shapely silhouette doesn’t broadcast itself
On the thin yellow curtains
It might just be considered an invitation

Melita White is founder and writer of the blog Feminist Confessional, a space that features feminist poetry, essays and personal pieces in a confessional style, with a focus on the MeToo movement. She is a composer and musician and loves making all kinds of things. https://feministconfessional.wordpress.com

tiny touch. Introducing Anthony Gorman

gor

brushed shy finger
with hers

lightly,

slightly-

tiny, wee
touch,

testing timid
limits-

trust, just
enough.

© Anthony Gorman 2018

gor2

Anthony Gorman is a writer, visual artist, and human rights activist with extensive lived trauma.  He’s worked in the field of Mental Health and addictions in crisis management.  Much of his writing helps with processing the absorbed horrors and sorrows experienced vicariously through the recounts of resilient and amazing clients. Additionally, he lives with the daily splendors and burdens of his own bipolar disorder.  With a fervor for micropoetry, poetry his writing strives to back big emotions into small clusters of words. Grumpy is privileged to share with you. You can read more of his writing at Hands in the Garden

A Call for Survivors

Any survivors out there willing to be interviewed?

Whisper and the Roar

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Blood into Ink and Whisper and the Roar are looking for survivors to share their stories, hope and light in an interview.

At Blood into Ink and Whisper and the Roar, our curators, collective members and contributors have all opened their hearts and souls to share their stories of survival. Now, we would like to hear from you, our readers, and what makes you a survivor.

I cannot be the only one who watches people walk past and wonder what shaped them, wonder why they get out of bed in the morning and what I could learn from them. When I first joined Blood into Ink and Whisper and the Roar I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to call myself a survivor. In comparison to other members, I had hardly been to hell and back. Yet, I have been shown that ‘survivor’ isn’t a trophy you fight for in…

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Impotence

I used to think sex was about what they wanted

because that’s what my ex boyfriend and howard stern said

and sometimes, on the weekend, they paid for it

or when i was short on rent

 

I got so completely turned off by it

I stopped being able to have sex

i thought it was sort of empowering

until one of them busted open my head

and then, just like that,

it wasn’t

 

I tried everything

I shelled out for therapy sessions

lotions, vibrators

practiced elaborate dances

with my hands, played

just the right sort of music

but all with the wrong sort of man

Pobre Diabla-david rosado

Pobre Diabla 3

Miss hidden agenda
Compulsive selfishness
The way you fake the talk
Fell for the illusion of love again
The shades of blue I’ve never seen
Won’t step where the grass is green
Intoxicated talk
Can’t figure out what’s real or not

Miss denying addiction
Spending too much time
On what’s already said and done
I can’t bring you back
But there could be a coping way
Oblivious in this dangerous world
These people deceit you
With their some kind of ways

Miss homesick
Please let go of the past
It’s your trauma harness
We’ve all been through some shit
But every once in a while
You should put yourself in other shoes
And be humble
Or you’ll always be oblivious

Miss self-destruction
I won’t ask if you won’t tell
Maybe it doesn’t matter
But your selfish ways
Left me to dry
While you aimlessly walk
Take any opportunity given
To remember to forget to remember to..

Miss enabler
Waking up in the wrong place
way too many fucking times
I can’t blame the poor devil
For losing my grasp
On my needs and wants
Cognitive dissonance
The fork in the road

Miss already dead
Have I been chasing a ghost?
Not a care in the world
Blocking out the urge to dwell
Sometimes it’s a gift
But you will never learn
I know I should stay away
But why do you want to die alone?


Hello, my name is David Rosado and I have been writing poetry very low key for a long time now and a friend encouraged me to put some of it out there. Here is a poem I wrote called “Those eyes shine” which is a very personal and emotional piece for me, Here it is.

I Die in the Water – Jasper Kerkau

Spectacular writing by jasper

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

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I died again. In the waters as usual. It is always the water. Somehow it all makes sense. It is always the minor things. The minutia that pulls me under. The little, wet idiosyncrasies, stuffed words, distant miscommunication. I die over and over again. Each time, I emerge from the waters, gasping for air. Shedding my wet skin, warming myself by imaginary fires. There is always a new life, new thoughts springing forth from moist soil. But, the disappointment is daunting. The little, sad failures leave me paralyzed in bed, stomaching churning, limbs seized. I stand in the grocery store, gazing at nothing, avoiding mediocre conversations with a neighbor about apple trees. There is a scream boiling up inside me. A smile creeps across my face and I nod, backing away slowly. There is nothing I understand about their world. My days are secret disasters giving birth to revelations, new…

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Revolution-Introducing Kristen Wood


[Poem and picture by Kristen Wood]

You say you want a revolution.
Resolution.
Change the world,
but look good doing it.
Nobody likes an ugly rebel.
Protest, but peacefully.
Provoke, but prettily.
Warring with the world
and that last ten pounds.
Troublemaking radicals,
extreme in their tactics,
but not in their lipstick shades.
That would be too unconventional.
Liberals must look conservative
to be subversive.
Resolving to riot and reform,
but reasonably and respectfully.
Repentant revolutionaries.

[Kristen Wood is a mother of five, a writer, a reader, a student, and an aspiring librarian. She has had her work published on Mothers Always Write, and is an ongoing contributor to the online magazine, Still Standing. She is also a proud pop culture geek and a champion napper. She loves to make people laugh and make people think, and if she can do both at the same time, even better.]