Tag Archives: Poem

The Two of Us by Isabel Marler

The Two of Us
How was it that you had two sets of eyes?

First eyes saw me.

Second eyes, shifting, saw someone else.  A shadow in someone else’s bed.

 

And didn’t you have two pairs of ears?

First ears listened while I talked.  Heard my feminism as stranger but accepted it as friend.

Second ears heard privilege.  Got poured with poison and heard lies.

 

What I could never understand was your two mouths.

First mouth brushed mine.  Crackedlipsroughstubblewarmtongue.  And beamed and screamed I love you! First mouth made me come.

Second mouth spat syllables.  Called me whore.

 

So now I have two hearts.

First heart beats strong wrapped in clichés: itsforthebestbetteroffwithouthimonwardsandupwards

Second heart shrivels and drains.  Chamber walls collapse and stick together.

Second heart croaks for the blood that your pumping blood pumped into it when it was just the two of us.

 

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This Beast by Isabel Marler

This Beast: An Ode to Patriarchy

 

Coldness marks the success of this beast

Calculation and swiftness

Efficacy

Coldness is mathematics and is also knowing how to make them hot for your fruit

But dry bran and gelid cuts will not feed this beast

Sustenance is alive and moving

Sustenance is full of hot blood shining waves bright as magnesium

(No need at night for this beast’s lidless eyes)

Sustenance isn’t small but substantial and squirming

It squeals to stay on the forest floor

To dodge the gaping jaw

Sustenance is swallowed

Acid and time turn bones muscle blood and hair into neat chains of aminos

Absorbed, protein renews this beast who, replenished

Stalks again in colourful cold new skin

[I wrote this poem as a response to the recurring image of systems of power having crises and replenishing themselves. The starting point was thinking about the adoption ‘feminism’ by entities that otherwise uphold existing power relations, such as the UN security council, which reflect the global imbalance of wealth and power.  Transformative political movements can be taken in, broken up and absorbed by existing power structures in order to re-consolidate the latter.  It is when power masks itself that it is most effective.  Stagnation in the guise of transformation.]

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Reading magazines: A poem by Ruth-Eloise Lewis

I am in the kitchen, dressed all in black

My feet on fire and flailing; running up slippery staircases

Because a job is a job.

A single lingering fingertip; a tap, a knock, a pinch

Of my skin. Reminds me that you think me inferior.

“But cheer up, it might never happen.

Are you dirty enough between the sheets?”

 

I am walking down the street, being rained on

By a constant hiss- the pluck of thirsty lips

That hunts my own body for kicks.

 

“Clever little girl.

He’s a lad, it’s a laugh- we didn’t mean to cause any offence,

She’s a slut, she’s a wench- don’t take it personally.

Don’t be frigid.”

 

You don’t need to be a misogynist to be a man.

 

“But she’s a bitch, she was asking for it-

Did she drink too much, was she wearing a skirt?”

I cut my hair short regardless of my sexuality,

Maybe being a lesbian isn’t solely for your voyeuristic pleasure,

I am sick and tired of imaging if it were my sister, my daughter, my mother:

 

It is me.

 

“Lighten up, get over it.”

 

“I’d smash her back doors in, I’d pound her pussy.

Keep calm and rape on.

You wanted it because you didn’t explicitly say no.

If you’re happy and you know it show us your tits.

Make her a sex addict.

Very capable woman, if such a thing exists.

Women’s Running; lose weight, look good.

Men’s Running: get strong, run faster, be a better athlete.

She’s probs a dyke.”
Boobs are not news.

 

I am in the kitchen, dressed all in black.

My feet on fire and flailing; running up glass staircases

Because a job is a job.

Yet, we are so much more capable-

 

Than just being looked at.

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Complacent Women 1918- Max Ehrmann

Complacent women, sitting idly by,
Bestirring not a hand for freedom’s sake,
Hear you no voices calling you to rise?
Hear you no bitter cries of women slaves,
Scar-marked and cuffed through all the ages past,
The sea dirge of a sea of women’s tears?

Complacent women, sitting idly by,
Bereft of dreams, dead-faced, with leaden souls,
What sting will rouse you up to stand erect,
Convert your placid thoughts to fierce demands,
And warm your hearts with flames of human fire?

Is there within your soul no pride of life,
No whispered music, and no star of hope,
That you have no desire for human rights?
Slaves of ten thousand years, or playthings cheap,
I taunt you, sting you with the tongue of shame,
To rouse you up to claim your heritage.

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Hollie McNish – A Poem About Flo Rida’s Blow My Whistle

Have you ever sat and wondered what the hell is going on in Flo Rida’s Blow My Whistle video? Is it keeping you up at night even? That imagery is pretty cryptic, impossible even. Jokes aside, Hollie McNish is a super cool poet and we absolutely love her satirical parody about this godawful song. It’s like the best comeback imaginable to the most terrible insult imaginable.

However, you must listen to her poem under strict instructions!
1. Play Flo Rida’s video, ‘Blow My Whistle’ and Hollie’s poem at the same time, and
2. Mute the sound off Flo Rida’s vid

I can almost guarantee that she’ll make you laugh. So, win win for the feminists. And a big fat fail for Flo.

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Trichotillomania by Yarn and Lace.

I had a sense of souls and songs

That we were on the edge

Of something; twisting and pulling

It exhumes you.

Follicles gape like barren rabbit holes.

The weight of her chin presses on your shoulder,

It drags you down or digs you up.

 

I did not know there was rope.

 

Invisible railroads tied to the cotton of your clothes,

Tapered ends fraying with new growth.

 

The bare burrow lays open, expelled and abjected,

A consummate cord runs from the pit of your stomach,

Pulls every artery downwards, tight as guitar strings,

Resisting the strum of strands, the pluck, the pick

For weeks, for months, for days.

 

We were on the edge of the something?

 

My hair grows like twine over my paper collarbone,

Burying its roots to where my neck meets my head;

Where my heart reaches my mind.

 

A ribbon bows, a billowed branch grows.

Eyelashes and eyebrow stencils shower your cheeks.

Broken hairs and blunt ends seethe and seep.

The weight of her chin presses on your shoulder,

It pulls you down and picks you up.

 

And I am that empty follicle-

I am that empty edge, drawing in

I am the string, the string,

The string

Of something.

by http://yarnandlace.wordpress.com/

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Introducing Mr DZ…

These landscapes together slow.
Tired, gloved hands
With bleary eyes
Tying small bows of thought
Streaming ribbons tangle into knots
Growing wild
In disused quarries where poppies flower
And tiny feet shuttle.
Dried fruit lies unpicked
Fruit of fertile ground.
Seen through a haze,
Tasted in a dream.


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Envelop by N. P. Donnelly.

It’s poetry time once again! We treat you well. Please enjoy this splendid poem ‘Envelop’ by our very own Irish American poet N.P. Donnelly. Happy Sunday.

I fear that if I engage the way I wish

My dreams will be dashed

Those unknown dreams that have not

Revealed themselves to me, yet.


What I’m supposed to want –

On either side of that ceiling.

Cracking in my mind,

Shards and splinters and sharp edges

Invading my psyche.


Now I know that the worst thing

in the world

could be the best thing

in my world


The opportunity to love and cherish,

Without fear of rejection

Something that is all mine,

And half yours


Escaping, fugo, my legs

And running, red with uncertainty,

Into my arms.

Whispering away the wimpers;

You are safe;

You are safe.


Oh sand, sky, clouds,

Surround me with your reach,

Embrace, what I have come to believe is,

The un-embraceable.


Let me have all that I want,

On my scale,

On the world’s,

I’ll work, I’ll strive,

I’ll pine, I’ll even perish!

for mere moments of happiness,

the security…

The success.


The blessed moment when

The cosmos converges and screams my name,

Louder and LOUDER

Until all hessian cries, all siren calls

Evaporate. Into oblivion.


When the difference

Between what is hard

And what is right merges,

Melting,

Melting,

melting… and all is well.


So good, another nature will sob with ecstasy.

And I will understand and I will know.

I will know.




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A Pinch of Sugar

I was twenty one
Twenty years of learning
To breathe, to reject, to be
To piss on a stick
And pray
For a single pink lipstick kiss.

Three years in
To a life constructed for me
By the pillars of academia
My days spent in books
Books spent in days
Spent for six whole years
When I decided that
Fifteen years were old enough
To lose something I never held
In hearts or heads.

You happened but twice a year
You were all but ten days younger than me.

Once in a drizzling summer and
Once on a new years eve
Stuffed with gin and nostalgia
Running down hills to the invisible ocean
Scuffing our leather shoes on the wind.

Twenty one days have passed.

Twenty without the streak of scarlet
Twenty without the burning, searing
Trickle of liquid
Running down my legs
One lump of flour and
Two litres of water.

I was twenty one
Too young

Add salt and a pinch of sugar.

Ruth.

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Introducing Aoife Beville

…for your poetry fix today, where better to look than to this beautiful Irish lady?

To Turn Back and Descend the Stair

The tragedy of subtle dissipation,
is due, in part, to lack of real immagination.

Half-thoughts of you, and us, and we,
Had you played out my scene,

Leave me a tangled, empty, choking mess,
helplessly, violently vomiting out the rest.

Purged I lie, shaking in my bed,
but you, again, steal into my head.

Feebly I protest your indecision
It has become my prison.

Now I will in silence sit,
And hear the effervescent hiss

Of dissolution and goodnight,
Fast fade sparks too bright.

You’re welcome.

Check her out: http://herelfingrot.wordpress.com/about/

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