Hi, I was browsing the poetry sites (so many) and liked one that I joined and this one caught my attention, so joined it. The 'rebellion' caught my eye. I'm not a poet per se, though I write poetry. I don't have that much knowledge of form and what is deemed creative and what not, and frankly, don't care. Its like art, I work in textile art and though I do read art theory, I don't base my work on it. Anyhow I posted this on the other poetry site and will post here, its meant as a message of an issue that I feel strongly about. There is so much discourse on what is proper and acceptable poetry and art when in many regions of the world people, particularly womyn, are butchered for simply speaking the truth, the realities of their oppression. It is for this reason I write and paint (thread paint) and that reason alone.
original post, will share here:
I occasionally write poetry but I wouldn't say I am a poet. I do write on women's human right issues [worldwide issues] and often it can be depressing, the research, the news I receive from various organizations and NGOs, etcetera. Writing was not my major and I must admit the use of words for me is a task and I have to rely on a thesaurus and dictionary when I write for the organizations. My writing is definately rural and by some definitions underclass. This used to bother me but I decided that to assimilate into something I am not is a falsehood and that though the words may not be as academic or eloquent, they are flesh and blood all the same.
So anyhow, I wrote this poem in dedication to a woman poet who was murdered not too long ago in Afghanistan for her writing on the realities of the brutal treatment of womyn though they were promised liberation after the US and the Shites overthrew the Taliban. Liberation has not been the case however and daily hundreds of womyn in Afghanistan torch themselves to death. Its not uncommon to see womyn lined up in burn centers that have immolated themselves and not entirely succeeded.
This poem is dedicated to her and to the voices of all womyn who struggle to be validated in a world where the judging of word merit has been defined by the practictioners of the male elite. (exceptions of course)
"The Words"
He dismembered it
knifed them to shreds with his contempt
of my kind.
Foolishly I abnegate
my words with his in precise measurements
of his kind.
Hollow empty they are
undressed of intrinsic matter, of origin
of my kind.
Reads like violence
virulent like frozen marrow of bone
of his kind.
The word in her died
he killed it with his contempt
of her kind.
And there was no resurrection.
[written Dec 4, 2005]
ModottiManifesto
original post, will share here:
I occasionally write poetry but I wouldn't say I am a poet. I do write on women's human right issues [worldwide issues] and often it can be depressing, the research, the news I receive from various organizations and NGOs, etcetera. Writing was not my major and I must admit the use of words for me is a task and I have to rely on a thesaurus and dictionary when I write for the organizations. My writing is definately rural and by some definitions underclass. This used to bother me but I decided that to assimilate into something I am not is a falsehood and that though the words may not be as academic or eloquent, they are flesh and blood all the same.
So anyhow, I wrote this poem in dedication to a woman poet who was murdered not too long ago in Afghanistan for her writing on the realities of the brutal treatment of womyn though they were promised liberation after the US and the Shites overthrew the Taliban. Liberation has not been the case however and daily hundreds of womyn in Afghanistan torch themselves to death. Its not uncommon to see womyn lined up in burn centers that have immolated themselves and not entirely succeeded.
This poem is dedicated to her and to the voices of all womyn who struggle to be validated in a world where the judging of word merit has been defined by the practictioners of the male elite. (exceptions of course)
"The Words"
He dismembered it
knifed them to shreds with his contempt
of my kind.
Foolishly I abnegate
my words with his in precise measurements
of his kind.
Hollow empty they are
undressed of intrinsic matter, of origin
of my kind.
Reads like violence
virulent like frozen marrow of bone
of his kind.
The word in her died
he killed it with his contempt
of her kind.
And there was no resurrection.
[written Dec 4, 2005]
ModottiManifesto
posted by:
|
Denver
|
