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Hillary B Apr 2018
feminism fails
when it disregards
those of color

for we know that every dollar
a woman makes
a man makes more

we seem to disregard the bit
where a women of color
make even less
than their white counterparts

feminism needs to stop
excluding
disregarding
those impacted most
it's a hazard to progress

pull up a chair
scoot down the bench
it's time we serve up
intersectional feminism
for the table can hold more
there's plenty of progress to go around
Emily Rowe Apr 2018
when i got my first period,
i was thrilled.
marked with the crimson stroke of womanhood,
i was no longer a little girl.
i was no longer too young
to be a part of the whispered gossip filled conversations
of the women in my family.
my sister and i could share boxes of pads and tampons,
bottles of advil and naproxen.
i was no longer too young to go bra shopping,
too young to understand.
i could read Teen Vogue and relate to every word,
i was a woman.

no one told me that it was now okay.
it was now okay for men to comment
on my new chest.
it was now okay for boys to yell their
tube sock dreams of my wider hips.
no longer protected by the shield of childhood,
it was now okay.

while i experienced many new things
after that first visit from Aunt Flow,
i also began to feel things i had not felt before.
an unexplained, unwarranted hatred of
the body i lived in,
my burden of anxiety heightened
with raging hormones in my blood,
mood swings worsening the monster
living under my brain named depression.
red spots on my face that boys liked to make fun of
as if their faces were not acne warzones themselves.
another growth spurt, as if i was not already towering
above the other girls in my class.

“don’t let anyone see your pad when you go to the bathroom to change,”
my friend whispered to me at school,
“it’s inappropriate.”
“don’t say period in front of boys,
it’s gross.”
“don’t talk about puberty,
boys think it’s unattractive.”

suddenly i realized that my body
was not for myself
and it was my responsibility
to act like I didn’t feel like there were
earthquakes in my ******.
it was my responsibility to hide my new body,
because my education was not as important
as the pervy boys in my math class.
it was my responsibility to not bleed through
my new jeans,
and miss class because i’m crying in the
bathroom as i call my mother to bring me
a change of clothes.

because being a woman is unattractive,
but when she’s half naked on the cover of ******* we like it.
because spreading your legs open for a ******
is gross,
but when a man is in between them it’s hot.
because a woman’s body was never for women,
unless it’s ****** and crampy,
then we don’t want to hear about it.

i am here to say that Womanhood is for women.
i am here to say that young girls should take pride
in their new bodies.
your body is yours and no one else’s
and you should never feel ashamed of it.
you should never feel shame
when the crimson wave comes.
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
i.
The morning mist dissipated
as the ships keel ploughed a furrow
through the Great Green of the Aegean,
leaving far behind the magick isle.
Vigilantos stood at the prow,
marvelling at the accompanying dolphins,
curious and playful,
schooling with purpose to the ocean.
Ahead, waiting, a grand tour.
Of Sumer, Abyssinia and desert lands,
to glean hidden knowledge,
regain the mysteries of the ancients,
read the Necronomicon and old scripts
from a time when power crackled,
and the storms of the gods
belittled the existence of mankind.

ii.
The twilight Moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
And she weaves hap-hazard
through the crushes of the crowd.
A high-born daughter of the desert,
a vision of beauty from the sand.
With silks and satin and perfume
richly obtained from foreign lands.
Through the colourful bazaar she threads
with occasional glances thrown at stalls,
priestess jewels sparkle in the night,
its her Name the sirocco calls.

iii.
Cobalt blue water, an illusion of light
where the sun slides through the meniscus,
and the harbour of Tyre was alive.
The bustling of boats around ships at anchor,
snatching glimpses of a turquoise sky
and the quay throbbing with the pulse of music.
It would be another 3 thousand years
before Rome was even a trading post on the Tiber,
let alone an empire conquering the east,
or building hippodromes and columned avenues.
Vigilantos drank in the atmosphere,
his magicians instincts bristling, noting all.
Meandering through the narrow streets,
loosely following direction, getting lost.
Seeking his retinue and camels, ready to start,
across the desert to Ninevah on the Tigris.
To speak to tribes, pray with the priests of Ur.
To find the secrets of mysteries, and treasure,
reaping the knowledge of the Old Gods awe,
amongst the shifting dunes of history.

iv.
Vivid colours of silks and dyes
adorn the tents of cloth and stick.
The summer sun beats down lazy,
heat as oppressive as mist is thick.
Her charms and delights are hidden,
with misery and pain, the last week spent.
The dark, the quiet, the inane chatter,
deep within the women's red tent.
Free from the curse, her moon-cycle complete,
she wanders with mood sombre and slow.
A powerful man from a western place
will arrive at the camp as the sun sinks low.
He had seen her in the main bazaar
and decided to stake his claim.
Whilst confined away, behind her back,
her father had bartered for riches and fame.

v.
His travels around those beautiful lands
had yielded books of law and scripts.
He had heard the oral traditions of elders
and gazed in wonder at the Moon's eclipse.
Then he had seen the greatest treasure
wending her way through crowded markets.
With tact and guile he discovered her Name,
and vowed to grace her father's carpets.

The desert folk live a simple life
but far from simple are they.
Sharp of tongue and quick of wit,
erudite in a most unusual way.
The father was the elected leader,
King of the tribe that he now led.
Vigilantos had bargained hard
to purchase the girl for his marital bed.

vi.
The sun sinks, falling from the sky in the eve.
Spectacular reds and orange colliding with the dunes.
The azure twilight sky lit and sprinkled with stars,
and the tribal camp fills with laughter and tunes.

vii
He walked with purpose toward the campfire,
his features silhouetted by flickering light.
The sudden hush of the assembled camp
echoed strange, deep into the desert night.
His eyes beheld her most beautiful form,
half in the shadow, half in the light.
For her families benefit he had traded,
agreed bargains, and come to claim his right.

“Princess of the desert, Daughter of the sand,
step forward gently and take me by the hand.
For my island home calls out loud to me,
so come, let us away across the sea”.

Head bowed in fake submission
she boldly makes her cold admission.

“I am a Woman of the free,
these sands are my home to me.
With all good grace; I could not face
life on an island in the sea”.

viii.
Black and red, darkness and rage
descend upon his fevered mind.
Humiliated, spurned by a maiden fair,
and pride will not be left behind.

“A curse. A curse. 'pon thy beautiful head,
prowl and creep as do the undead.
Evil deeds are now thy course,
henceforth our contract is now divorced”.

But something made Vigilantos start,
a pang of something from his dead heart.
With such feelings he could not contend,
so a caveat, for the curse to amend.

“Thy deeds and crimes maybe invested
'pon mortals only who invest the same such evil
'pon their fellow mortals”.

ix.
Leaving far behind the desert
he turns his face to the sky.
The ships keel ploughs a furrow
as the evening mist draws nigh.

And now she prowls the dark night,
her Name lost in the sands of time.
Seeking out the mortal sinners and
punishing their evil with her crimes.

... and thus it begins ...
Judderwitch.


© Pagan Paul (08/08/17)
.
Prequel to The Judderwitch poem (posted in April).
I fear this may create more questions than it answers.

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/28451/judderwitch/
PPx
.
Shannon Jun 2017
Are my shoulders too promiscuous for you, sir?
Can you not control yourself?
Are you the reason I fear my walks home?
The answer is yes

The answer is no
Why can you not comprehend that?
It wasn't my skirt or my alcohol's fault
It was you

You and your obscene shouts that you call compliments
I have to disagree
Please don't follow me home
I didn't ask for this

Nor did my Mother ask for you to brush your hand up her skirt
Why are you not listening to me?
We are not silent beings there for your pleasure and satisfaction
We are not your objects

Do not degrade us to the fabric we wear on our skin
Do not touch us without our consent
We are not here to play your sick games
We do not exist for you

I don't exist for you
Neither do my sisters across the world
Do not underestimate us
For we can spark rebellions
Wage Gap exists
Don't believe me?
Than why did the US Female Soccer Team get paid $2 million and the men got paid $30 million?
Women have made some substantial improvements
I've taken notice
But we still have a lot more progress to go.
Fully supporting the Women's Soccer Team and their lawsuit for wage discrimination. Go get'ed girls, you deserve it. I can't run for five minutes without panting like a dog in the summer.
Rianna Mar 2016
Was that little six year old girl walking home from her bus stop ready to tell her mother about her first day of school asking for it?

Was the teenage girl asking for it by walking to the restroom?

What about a mother? Was she asking for it by making a trip to the grocery store?
I'm currently writing an essay to bring attention to issues facing women. I know this isn't exactly poetry but it's a good question.
Racheal McKnight Dec 2015
Does anyone truly know,
The meaning behind the thread?
It represents fourteen women,
Who as of December 6 lay dead.

We should all take time to remember,
All the lives that were lost.
To appreciate the lives they lived,
Because their lives were cost.

Violence against women is wrong,
As everyone should see.
We are all equal in all ways,
Which is how things need to be.
This is to remember all 14 women who died at the sight of the Montreal massacre
Noelle Marie Nov 2014
I cannot believe the **** culture that exists in these modern times. We, as Women live life thinking that our rights have have come a long way since those times when we had little to none but have they really? Have our rights gone anywhere when we are still, now WARNED about ****, when we are told ‘you need to be careful, you’re vulnerable, watch out for ****’.. Why is it our responsibility to not be *****, why is it not our responsibility as a nation to educate our young Men on ****, to educate them on a Woman’s right to say ‘No’ and to not have it ignored, argued with or discussed, to have it accepted, respected. Why is this placed upon our shoulders, something for us to guard against, something for us to worry about as we walk down a street, as we walk through our towns and something for us to be blamed for when we wear a short skirt, a tank top, tight jeans and are therefore ‘asking for it’. I was warned about being ***** today on the bus, an old man said to me ‘you be careful, you watch out, a young woman with a body like yours’. This is the body God gave me, this is the gender God gave me, this is the woman that God made me and why should I therefore have to protect myself against being ***** because of it? This is **** culture and it needs to change NOW.
How can this be accepted? How can we ignore this when we have daughters, granddaughters, sisters, nieces, friends, sons, grandsons, brothers being raised with this perspective, this ideology, this **** culture?
Today, this is said not as a poet but as a woman in this society, as a one-day mother and as an individual who knows that things need to change for the better.
Skai Sep 2014
I am told that I should love my body,
and I should not be ashamed.
BUT the white, conservative men tell me otherwise, making me feel nothing but shame.

When did it become okay for a male's education to be more important than a woman's rights?

When did it become okay to sexualize a woman just because her shirt does not cover her rear end?

This is apparent in the things my teachers have told me.
"Your shirt must be fingertip length when wearing yoga pants," she said.
"Why?"
"Because the males that sit in the class might be too destracted to listen to my lecture."

We are treated like *** toys.
Us girls are used for nothing more than a mans pleasure, so they imply.

This is MY body, and no one else's.
I may do what I please,
and no one should have a problem with it.

I refuse to be sexualized and treated like we are living in the 1920s.
But I must conform and live in fear of my consequences.

**** culture is real,
and school's are promoting it.

— The End —