I was a mountain by Melita White

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One day, when I was six, I became a mountain
It was the day I yelled and screamed with righteousness into thick air, the air my only witness, while I sat on my bed’s soft bedrock
And with my pillow I swiped at that air, at the bed, at the enemy sitting next to me — her name was Injustice
And the rage burst out like lava from a fissure that needed so much to crack open and Injustice was afraid of me and though the lesson did not teach her anything I learnt there was power in truth and in my anger
I was a mountain

To freeze is not to escape but is to survive by staying still
A fawn is a baby deer but it also means to play along so someone doesn’t kill you
To flee is to run away from danger and escape
And to be able to fight and win — what a dream and privilege that would be

The quake I felt once I’d escaped, its aftershocks I felt again
My heart was coming loud with aches
Thrashed heavy like the pillow you used to suffocate
The murmurs that catch upon my breath
Are the beating wings of the bird trapped in my chest
While she’s learning to fly she remembers to sing
And the frozen fawn she flees the scene

My six year old awoke this morning, her rage amplified so hard by life that the walls pulsed, the glass throbbed and the wood thumped in sympathy
I will give you a thumping my father said to my brother
It was a threat to behave better like your hands on my throat were a suggestion of death
The fawn froze
Half-dead half-here half-there
Brain bisected violently, hurtling towards life and death simultaneously
You refuse to give life, to grow branches and shoot out twigs and new leaves
Your roots stay stuck in your concrete pot, demand that others tend without taking
A puppet ruler, a tin-pot dictator — you fail to give even air

And yet we write — our words don’t flee, they stand and fight
Poems infiltrate the water supply like truth serum
Liars are exposed
The ghosts of those you murdered stand outside your house banging loudly on pots and pans
Charivari, the rough music of justice, the just music of shame
Groundwater toxins vibrate in time, buckle epidermis of earth which pops with stochastic rhythm driven nonsensical by algorithms forming sharp little mountains everywhere the music is heard
The anvil of avoidance presses down firmly, suppressing pain and signals that should be voiced
The pressure exerted here will form a mountain over there
The rough music of justice will be heard and it will make tall mountains

I remember the facile pointless lessons repeated to you yet not learnt
Like discussing morality with a naughty child in an alien dialect
Your tongue so close to my own, the timbre alike but the words made no sense
The dissonance so loud that the difference tones buzzed my eardrums and filled my brain with hot fuzz like lava
And the mountains swelled and popped up randomly on the surface of my mind
And I became one — again
I became a mountain

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

Preyed

 

Whispers penetrate flesh walls,
secrets resound like a melody
within the temple of mind.

A church choir of boys
sing Latin,
a tongue they never understood,
yet made beautiful in spite.

An angelic host of innocence,
perched in perfect rows;
perverse men licking dry lips
conduct harmony, as
chorus echoes in rounds
confined by marble stone
laid by hypocritical hands.

In time holy walls stand,
coffers full and overflowing
while souls remain empty.

Yet pride crumbles the benevolent,
corrupt tongues stumble awkwardly
over the dulled ivory teeth of time.

Stained glass fragments let in truth,
rays of light stream through darkness
reflecting a shattered faith sanctuary
built upon broken bones of man.

 

©Sabrina Escorcio
September 2017

Photo Credit, Sam Webber illustration for “the Priest That Preyed” – New York Times

 

How to be a woman? — Megha Sood

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There are rules to be followed

guidelines to be remembered

to be followed to the tee

before I can call my self a woman

a lady like appearance

and that ever-present grin on my face

smiling from ear to ear

just to please you and ease you into the life

as you please

I should bow down in obedience

should never raise my voice

walk with the stoop of  discipline

and  eat with your hand

with the freedom

you have handed me on the plate

Like I was the chosen one, you see

Oh! that skirt is a little shorter than we expected

see it clearly fails to keep those lurking demon inside their skin

Now, you have shown them

too much flesh

now they will come out

and rip you into shreds

will devour your soul from within

“I told you” they will say

keep your voice down

the patriarchy can’t handle you pitch

they are tone-deaf to your songs of freedom

every war cry of yours

is not too more than a screech

Give in to the fear

of those jackals

those protectors lurking in the dark

they are the guardians

of this society

and your voice is ripping them apart

So, the next time the world try to

teach me how to be a women

/an epitome of grace and elegance/

they should come and witness the scars

I bore on my body

and the glow I carry

which can put their

thousand suns to shame

a sight their shameful eyes

can’t bear to see.

I blog at Megha’s World

Photo by Eloise Ambursley on Unsplash

 

 

 

And how the body heals-Megha Sood

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And how the body teaches itself to heal

to get up 

shed off the scars

the sullen time has left behind

rub off all the cobwebs 

of the stale vapid moments

nesting in you for time forever 

taking shelter in your mind

feasting on your memories

like maggots

and sucking off the light 

that was once so divine

 

And the how the body teaches itself to recover

by crying profusely 

pouring out the tears

chaos of the lonely soul 

that deep lamentation 

that once gone sour

and how it springs that fountain of elixir

stemming from the depths of your heart

to cleanse you

once again

and to baptize your sins

marking you as a nubile

a soul apart

 

And how the body fight and shuts itself down

cocooned within itself 

sitting cross-legged in the dark 

hunched by the pain of the 

deep remorse

and sitting in complete silence 

mute and numb to the core

those screech and 

the screams are falling on the 

deaf and dead ears 

when the cacophony 

gets too loud to hear

and your mind plays soliloquy 

with its core

 

And how the body preaches itself 

that’s it OK to love and heal once again

let the old scars heal 

for the new ones to 

be born again.

The body never forgets to heal

even though we 

forget to remind it.

–Megha

A cry for life-Megha Sood

This poem is part of the series on the Global Exploitation of Women.

The deliberate killing of a newborn female child is called female infanticide.

  • Asian Centre for Human Rights (ACHR) stated that female infanticide for son preference due to a variety of reasons is a worldwide phenomenon with 1.5 million female fetuses being aborted every year.
  • These measures of the governments have not been fully successful because of the easy access to ultrasonography and weak law enforcement
  • The patriarchal nature of our society has caused this evil to continue for centuries.According to a report published in India Today, nearly 2500 cases of female foeticide or female infanticide take place in the state of Rajasthan every day.

 


I was conceived as a hope
tethered to the
strings of life
gave my mother,
two heartbeats
a moment so precious
so divine.

An unbridled joy
roaming around as a stardust
handpicked you from million
was excited to the core
about the new home
I was getting in.

A mixture of anxiety and happiness
crept in
the moment you
saw me
a speck of life
You fed me and took care of me
while my body
took form and felt alive

I waited those nine months
to be in the arms of
my creator, my father
carried in the womb
and floating in the love
of my mother

As the days grew near
the time flew by
the day finally came
the moment
so serene
so sublime

My arms stretched and ached
to be held by you
in your deep embrace
your face turned yellow
and full of disgust
when you saw my face

You were ashamed
of my existence
my few minutes of feeble breath
brought you disgrace

The softness on
your soul
felt bereft
of peace and warmth
Clouded by the patriarchy
rules of the society
you just wanted me gone

I was snatched from the womb
the cord of life snipped
born as a gender
not chosen as a boon
My cries and screams
were stifled
I was numbed to the core
too early, too soon

Those fingers I longed to clutch
by my little bony self
those fleshy fingers
were busy scraping
the earth in the backyard
getting ready
for my burial.

Photo by Omar Lopez on Unsplash

Feminism is my Realism- Kindra M. Austin & Christine Ray

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I am Organism

Female

Defense Mechanism

Natural

Feminism is my Realism

 

Because #MeToo, Motherfuckers

I’ve been abused

Been paid less cash

Called a Radical Cunt a

Bleeding Heart Liberal and

Put in my place—

Not my place, but theirs

 

I’ve been judged by the size of my body and clothes I wear

Been held back by (un)intelligent men and even stupider women

Who mock my Heart and Common Sense—

Slammed by Pseudo-Brain influenced by Meme Culture

 

I am Organism polluting the Cesspool

Feminism is my Realism

(Kindra M. Austin)

I am Organism

Female

Defense Mechanism

Instinctive

Feminism is my Realism

 

Because if I had been paid my 80 cents on the dollar

For every time I have been called

Bitch

Dyke

Ball breaker

Since I was 12 years old

I’d be in the damn 1%

 

Told my whole life

That I am

Too angry

Too emotional

Too loud

Too direct

Ask too many questions

Why-can’t-you-just- sit-quietly-like-a-lady-and-smile-more?

 

Gagged with guilt to keep the peace

Gaslighted

so others can maintain the precious status quo

 

I am Virus circulating in the Bloodstream

Feminism is my Realism

(Christine Ray)