Long Feminism Poems
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Perplexingly puzzling world,
Finds fault with things truly good;
Exalts evident evils,
Where sadness of madness turns gladness…!
Individualism wins,
While humanism stands in Queue;
Altruism alters always,
Feminism in female feticide...!
War seems ethics of the day,
Fight for rights; Fight for mere fights;
Lazy weapons needs testing,
Ukraine today; Russia tomorrow...!
No time for us to star-gaze,
Dreams turn frightening nightmares;
Nights turn days and vice versa,
Sleeplessness and somnambulism rule...!
05 March 2022
LIND30NR Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Women —
we are the fault lines of the world.
Every shudder,
every quake,
every heartbreak —
we hold it.
We turn pain into knowing.
We carry weight like it’s woven into us.
We feel everything,
everywhere,
eternally.
We are tuning forks for feeling,
diviners of grief,
antennae tuned to ache —
drawn to the buried,
the overlooked,
the lost loves still pulsing under skin.
We are sacred dowsing rods.
We find water in the desert.
We find truth in the noise.
We wear our false face well —
polished, professional, smiling.
But underneath?
Oh, sister.
We burn like galaxies.
We are whispers of starlight
etched across the night.
We are the caretakers,
the carers,
the misunderstood,
the misnamed.
We are chaos,
wrapped in avalanche.
We are — above all — sisters.
A fiery genesis.
A storm of will.
A will to rise.
Do as I kneel beside you, sister —
look me in the eyes.
Know: you are the strong one.
Let your gentleness rise.
Let it grow like flame beneath your skin.
Let it speak.
We wield the strength of willow:
bending,
but never broken.
Quiet,
but never powerless.
We are the pulse behind history’s silence.
We are the flare
in the throat
of every silenced scream.
We are not what’s left after the storm —
we are the storm.
And we are still —
still —
rising.
We are not the ashes —
we are the match.
Strike us,
and we burn with the memory of every sister
they tried to silence.
We are love with teeth,
mercy wrapped in thunder.
We do not shatter —
we sharpen.
We carry sorrow in our marrow
and still walk like gods.
So kneel, or rise —
but do not look away.
We have risen.
We are flame.
And we remember
everything.
Male or Female or Transgender
Every being must surrender
to the concept of equity
in every field of society.
Pay respect to one other.
All are the birds of same feather.
Each owns fundamental rights
to get same benefit in plights.
No class can be superior.
No section is inferior.
Each person to possess same status
as is born from human fetus.
Each person to hold same dignity,
even in sex diversity.
Carrying no discrimination
shows perfect civilisation.
Patriarchy: Most unhealthy
Devaluing women: Filthy.
Ever ruling male chauvinism.
New term came up as feminism.
All over world women to fight.
Transgenders starting claim for right.
Humanity must rise above
gender divisions: Do observe.
Feminism
Nude women pose, showing off their wares
to thirsty gentlemen with debonair wolf stares,
where money and pedigree stock distinguish
them a cut above the common people; and pricey hookers,
with plastic enhancements pasted in paint, solicit their company.
And so these permissive women take the lead and allow
others to teach their daughters provocative attitudes
in body use that are pleasing to captive audiences,
who idolize them as talented and beautiful
and intellectually liberated, whatever the perspective.
It is a dangerous degradation of feminism to justify
this mother-daughter relationship that can be infectious,
with historical examples in male-dominated cultures.
Prostitution is not gainful employment nor a profession.
The Guardian, a failed paper?
The middle-class ladies, in the sunny pages of the Guardian, a newspaper that used to be on the mild left
But when scolded, he quickly moved to the middle of the road, where the paper was knocked over by the dramatic tide of feminism, and became self-conscious
existing in fear of being called anti-feminist, which reminded me of the days some years ago when the paper was called anti-Semitic after a critical article
of Israel's behavior in the occupied Palestine.
The ladies' concerns were whether one should forgo the afternoon cool glass of white wine or stick to the pesky regulation of 21 units a week.
The serious illness of alcoholism was safely overlooked
as it has little to do with the readers.
In the same newspaper, an article about working-class poverty, can anyone wrap their head around the fact that
Many workers are so badly paid that their children go hungry.
They are there in our midst, the poor, the hungry, the desolate, and totally forgotten. We ignore them to our peril, and they will arise, getting up from the floor, ready
to turf us out of existence.
As for The Guardian, it can dismiss the woke people and hire new writers, returning to its irreverent roots.
Not Anne, But Gabrielle
by Gabrielle Munslow
If you want me to take you to another time,
take my hand.
Don’t furrow your brow.
Slick with storylines,
my tongue twists
like an adder.
Poetry spills—
some good, some bad,
but always real.
I write of suffering.
I write of death.
I write of want.
No pretty, prophetic prose.
But I can still
slip a ditty off my toes.
I am Anne with an E.
No bird.
No net ensnares me.
Still, I rest,
and language thrills my bones.
Time stills—
or quickens.
Language isn’t luxury;
it’s necessity.
Down rabbit holes I go,
deep and twisted.
I braid my breath into roots.
I speak to the dirt,
and it answers.
Once a girl.
Now a woman,
retelling her youth.
I
am not Anne with an E.
I am Gabrielle—
with poems for sale.
?
© 2025 Gabrielle Munslow. All rights reserved.
This poem may not be reproduced, distributed, or performed without the author’s permission.
...The hard-core just leave men altogether,
but in the rank-and-file there’s a trend
of these women speaking of ‘gentle’ guys,
then shacking up with the dominant men.
Tale old as time, women love the ‘bad boy,’
there instinct responds to his aggression,
some deign to marry the ‘sensitive’ guys.
but then cheat, and take half their possessions.
It is quite the cognitive dissonance,
to say one thing, while craving another,
their teaching says they should be ‘empowered,’
while their instincts cry, “Make me a mother!”
They claim in one breath, “Women rule the world!”
but then complain their man isn’t decisive,
say they want a man to take care of them,
while preaching that such men are repulsive!
And this patriarchy the women built,
nobody can say that it has not worked,
we have built up great civilizations,
freed women from most of the threats of this earth.
We’ve built huge houses, all climate controlled,
machines that will take us any place quick,
we grow too much food, our infants don’t die,
yet they still get mad, and call us all sick?
I think deep down they want what they always did,
but are convinced doing so must betray
some cause created by unhappy women
all the way back in their grandmother’s day,
not seeing that those ‘patriarchal men’
are the men that those grandmothers created,
seems kind of ungrateful, after all this,
for them to proclaim men should be hated.
They said she loved only one man —
that’s how the old song goes.
But the truth?
It was a tree —
no metaphor, no myth.
A real one:
knotted, gnarled,
older than shame itself.
She found it when her heart
was still raw from trying,
and men were hollow bells,
rung too many times.
So she tended it,
whispered to it,
sang into its bark
with a voice no longer needed elsewhere.
Her youth curled at its roots.
Her strength climbed its spine.
And every year, it grew
as she grew smaller.
She told her daughter,
“This is love. Quiet. Loyal. Rooted.”
But her daughter heard
the ache between the words.
She looked at the rope,
the sky,
the body curved like devotion —
and asked herself:
Was it really love,
or martyrdom in a dress?
They found her hanging —
peaceful,
like she was returning
to something
she’d never really left.
And the tree?
It didn’t break.
It didn’t bend.
It held her —
not like a tombstone,
like a witness,
like a mirror.
And then,
they were one —
not woman,
not wood,
but myth.
Whisper.
Wild thing.
Every picture I’ve seen of you as a child,
You wear your hair in plaits.
A stern middle parting and two dark brown braids
Falling down on each shoulder.
A maypole’s dream.
You would do your best to wash them when you could,
When shampoo was available,
Or even in the single, small bathroom.
You would vigorously scrub your face too
With a brush and a bar of soap.
Until it stung.
It would get the dirt out you see,
Always look the most presentable you can,
As instilled by your father with his lean frown that never faltered.
Neatness and cleanliness are next to godliness, Georgina.
The dirt never leaves, though;
It’s contagious.
Fingers, toenails, arms, neck, behind the ears,
The remnants from the bombed buildings’ skeletons
You were just playing on from the previous night.
Air-raid sirens wailing like a baby in distress.
Arms wrapped around brothers in silence as instructed,
You never cease to be their second-in-command maternal figure.
No brother now.
That cheeky five-year-old who followed you down Chelsea’s streets
Was taken by the fires, by the wailing.
Now you're wailing as you hold onto the hand of your mother
As she takes you to the ‘hospital’,
A large brick building holding a sign with ‘Barnardo’s’
Written in polite cursive over the arched doorway.
Panic fills you like the silence in the left side of your head,
An intense realisation of lacking in the grimy hospital room,
Of your parents, your brother, of the bone behind your left ear.
You say: When is my mother coming?
And are met with the same response:
She visited you whilst you slept,
A lie only revealed to you as you heard the nurses mutter.
They just couldn’t afford her.
You pretend not to hear and scrub your face free from the dirt.
You plait your hair and continue to wait another day.
Dark glowing eyes, a hazel bun, well tucked
and neat. Lips curve like shells in porcelain,
Awaiting to express, her brave conduct
That I could sense audacity, back when
Ladies bowed to men, such common duty.
Yet she possessed an ardent fire, heated
by graphic flair; sultrily chaste to be
among lords of glory. Oh, brushes red
Spill on fabric; If I could but explore
Her sprezzatura dripping lush oil, while
I breathe her strokes. My heart needs not of more
from galleries that hide a face beguiled.
My own dark eyes will memorize her hands,
Sprayed by palettes of brilliant renaissance.
-----------------
*sprezzatura—an intricate display of elegance
and wit—with a bold flourish.
*~ Though all of Anguissola’s self-portraits reflect
her dignified essence, her work, "Sophonisba Angusola
virgo seipsam fecit 1554", mirrors her deep desire to blaze
a new trail in the world of arts and new feminism.
I looked into her eyes and they spoke
of some smouldering need to fulfil her destiny
as a self-possessed, creative woman way ahead of her time
when male artists ruled during the Renaissance.
~ Sofonisba Anguisolla: A Contemporary Sonnet
For A Renaissance Woman... Contest
~Sponsor: Cyndi Mac Millan
~Poet: nette onclaud