Long Womanhood Poems
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Cramps creeping and crawling,
an unwelcome reminder.
Why does my body betray
me like an unfaithful secret lover,
chaining me to my bed.
When did my uterus become my enemy,
even the pills offer no sympathy.
As a contradiction of contractions,
crush my organs like sharpened
shards of glass, these strange
territories tighten like heavy torture,
as linings of sore pelvis feel
a tugging pain of shame.
Unable to distract this
typhoon-like monstrosity,
I'm a hostage to
this turbulent intruder.
For those who question body
frames that do not beam,
my frowns are not an option,
they are a veil to the weight
of excruciating fatigue
that feeds the sanity in me.
There's no 'super human' strength
left to curl my fingers into
brass knuckles holding my
burning edges in peace.
Drained by the cries that
crack the surface of my womb,
agitation is expressed
in begrudging outbursts!
Unexpected and unpredictable
pain is a cureless curse,
behaving erratically within
a finely constructed system of tubes.
Once again, I wonder if
this shall be the month that
validates my womanhood.
The Things We Don’t Inherit
We inherited warnings before we understood the danger,
rules whispered from one woman to another.
Hold your keys between your fingers.
Watch your drink. Don’t walk home alone.
We inherited apologies for taking up space,
and the instinct to make ourselves smaller.
We inherited stories told carefully,
as though the truth might break in our mouths.
I wonder how many women before us
wanted to leave something different.
Not the fear.
Not the shame someone else put in their hands.
Maybe what we leave behind can be a door
the next woman does not have to force open.
A boundary already given a name.
A voice that makes hers easier to find.
I cannot choose everything that was left in me.
Some things become scars before we can refuse them.
But I can choose what I leave in you.
And you can choose what you leave in her.
They left us a fight.
I want us to leave each other.
— Sofia Aronovsky
Chapter..........1..........Part..........2..........3b.
The mounted riders,
they speed forwards,
Turvehr did kick with heaven's power,
his mighty horn tearing and rending,
His eyes,
afire with hates desire,
his coat,
it did shine like the raven's wing,
when kissed by Sol.
He was the destroyer of the evil fire,
to rend,
this was his work this day,
his heart a living flame,
pure hatred was his song,
to kick, toss and tear,
this would be his killing way.
Turvehr was a terror,
a light destroying the dark,
his horn now caked in bloody gore,
hatred ruled the battlefield this day,
great indeed was his majesty,
the glory of a darkened dawn.
Women watching,
cried out with fear,
when e'er an enemy came to near,
for love indeed, this day was born,
for Turvehr,
the king of the Unicorn.
Alahsar still had her gates,
mortal men,
their lives, they did lay down,
numbers falling,
Demons they did crawl,
The end of humanity? Dark hearts filled with hate.
From the gates a mighty moving,
womanhood coming forth with great haste,
Hate-filled eyes and voices of venom,
yelling out thunder as they come forth.
Now, into two groups,
these shield maidens do split,
one group heads for the Dunlaven bridge,
the other group, the fight on Badicha,
still, the foe seemed many more.
the Arlaghs ever to the fore,
a mighty foe begins to push,
the might of dark within each beast,
to hold this foe,
it would take mighty strength,
yet, strength was failing,
the Arlaghs, then, did mighty push.
Then to human dismay,
upon the left flank,
spiders, wolfs and their riders attack,
from the trees they come,
Arlaghs, they also come with this attack,
the cavalry on the left flank,
they are taken by complete surprise,
horses scream in fear as they begin to fall.
riders also crying out, as they die this day,
some shall lie on the bloody plain,
others within the bellies of flesh-eating enemies,
on seeing this, the women warriors hurry forth,
no order had the golden king given,
they had come,
against all orders.
Still, humans stand,
much blood does flow,
man and woman,
power did show,
children watching from on high,
as parents and friends slowly die,
Dark man fighting, vengeance dead,
the Tigress, she is spreading fear,
a bloody day for one and all,
"Blood For Blood," the mortal call.
To Be Continued.
"Tour of Duty"
go forth and conquer
go forth and multiply
we are taught like
good little madams,
it’s fed to us right
(not left) from the get go
down our throats,
it’s ingrained
in the majority of us,
then, rank and file,
off we go, deligently
we march towards
that evocative thing promised,
Love calls us keenly,
Love calls us softly,
Love like communion,
green gardens wild daisies
crowns worn like halos,
loves me, loves me not,
loves me not, loves me,
planted and naively bedded,
we dance that dance,
into the seductive arms
of faith and chance, a wanton war
romancing our womanhood,
we roll over like puppies
our upturned faces
and stomachs stroked,
being fed red apples
like simpletons in a
moist ripe bed of roses,
sprinkled with the holy water
of keeping the win for keepsakes
framed and parked on a wall
like stag horns, momentos
of a past well worn,
our competitive
strip poker smiling faces
the blue ribbons adorned
and mounted like
miss congeniality,
good girls
wagging tails,
then feeding
children spoonfuls
of honey,
to do it all
over again
obedience
only lasts so
long
so long
tours of duties
so long
good girls
take notes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"The Three Ages of Woman," painted by
the noted symbolist named Gustav Klimt;
from Austria, late-nineteenth century
till early twentieth, he left his mark.
At center, woman with her child held close;
his view of motherhood, fertility,
so goddess-like, entwined in sheer chiffon.
Flushed cheeks, gold hair, and alabaster skin;
this paradigm of procreation, youth,
portrays his essence of a woman's worth.
But, on the left, with buried face, there stands
his sad, old woman, posed in deep despair,
with saggy flesh, frail bones, and bulging veins;
now stripped of womanhood, alone, forlorn.
Skin, drab and mottled with her loss of youth;
in darker hues, he paints his disesteem.
Unfair, demeaning, is this image shown
that only honors women in their youth;
that casts the old as ugly, worthless souls.
And absent is the brilliant age that thrives,
through golden years of full maturity
between prime youth and definite old age.
Known as a womanizer, Gustav Klimt,
who many times diminished them in art,
illicitly had sired some fourteen young
with models who had often posed for him.
November 26, 2017
Premiere Contest: Klimt
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
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"Over the years, “The Three Ages of Woman”, a remarkable painting, has ignited much controversy amongst women who view the artwork as lacking in appropriate symbolism to the enduring strength of women. Many feminists believe that the painting’s subtle message is that a woman’s most significant role in life occurs when she is a young mother."
Ref: http://www.aaronartprints.org/klimt-thethreeagesofwoman.php
https://www.austria.info/uk/things-to-do/cities-and-culture/gustav-klimt/women
When I was a girl, I watched the 1982 movie "The Last Unicorn" with my sister in the early 2000s. My sister and I sat on the beige living room carpet. Growing up, beige carpets and white walls were expected in apartments. On the TV, soft rock flows beneath the animated picture. An ethereal unicorn stood poised before the blue sky and hills. The fairy tale painted the white and beige real world. I loved that movie despite preferring pegasuses over unicorns, and wished to craft my own fairy tales. Fairy tales where the beautiful heroine possesses brown skin, brown eyes, and coiled ebony hair. A childish wish, a thoughtful adult could make true. As an adult, I've thought fairy tales through, and it's not just enough for the beautiful heroine to inspire brown and black girls like I was. I've read The Last Unicorn novel a decade past adolescence. The film is a dream swaying to soft rock on the black sea of memory. The Last Unicorn was aware of its fairy tale nature, like an adult reopening the fairy tale book with a cracked spine. Familiar but new to wiser eyes. The unicorn leads the way for me to write a fairy tale not for the girl I was, but for the woman I've become.
Lovingly we looked in each others eyes, both our faces flush
In innocent rocking chairs, we watch the setting sun blush
Was the passion of the afternoon, witnessed by a sunbeam?
Watching me make love to my most beloved: Barbara Jean
The sky’s embarrassing glow shining like an Olympic Torch
Barbara and I rocking, innocently, sitting on my front porch
Crimson, kaleidoscopically mirrored off the windows of my house
Had all this started with true love, as I removed Barbara’s blouse
Softly, gently, tenderly caressing the smoothness of her silken skin
Shower Barbara with hugs and lava hot kisses; before we even begin
Her fragrance, the essence of her Womanhood Loving call my name
We moan, we groan, we entwine as one trying forever to vanquish the flame
If all could know a majestic, Forever and Always Eternity of LOVE
In their Innocent Rocking Chairs ; on the porch of Heaven Above
Inspired and Dedicated to my Most Only Beloved “BARBARA JEAN”
Thank-YOU for YOUR LOVE
As I suffer in pink
My world came crashing down,
to know that I suffered cancer breast,
Having pink disease was such an agony,
Better had I been dead.
Why me ?
Had been so fit exercising,
Healthy food, taking lots of fruits and vegetables,
No tobacco, no alcohol, no drugs, perfect weight,
No family history in blood relations.
It was only while self examining my breasts,
A little lump my soft palms could feel,
There was nothing till last week,
In front of mirror while bathing I regularly checked,
or while laying with flat of palms I felt.
Then mammography and FNAC did prove,
Other tests to know the extent and spread,
My womanhood at stake
as I get them removed ?
I might not at all look sexy,
What would my man think
as I lose my magnetism ?
No no I better die !!
They say it's an early thing,
Quick early diagnosis
means a complete cure,
Surgery, radio, chemo....
May be my hair will fall...
They say I must put up a brave fight,
To this deadly disease
and prove it for others,
Not be the lone survivor
as many might follow me.
I am priceless for my family,
My man, my kids, my siblings and parents,
all love me, need me,
One life is all we know of
to cherish and to be loved,
It's through body emotion is expressed,
My pure soul is what completes me !
Made up my mind...
Ready for the surgery and treatment and follow up...
I am at war with cancer....
© Dr. Upma A. Sharma
Written Sept 4th, 2015
For contest - Pinktober #2
Sponsor- PD A
Thankful to Linda who chose this topic.
Dedicated to my dear friend Dr. Shabnam Bansal who is giving cancer breast a tough fight n almost won with weapons of surgery n radio n chemotherapy.
Awarded 10th place win
The Garden
Dear Jane,
They will tell you a woman is a flower,
as though her worth lives in the bloom,
in how softly she opens,
in how carefully she keeps her petals.
I fear someone has plucked yours.
One by one,
until you looked down
and wondered if there was enough of you left
to still be called a flower.
I fear they damaged the soil beneath you,
pressed their weight into the earth,
left you searching for the sun
and wondering why you could no longer feel its warmth.
But Jane,
look around.
You are still in the garden.
There are flowers here without petals.
Flowers bent toward the earth.
Flowers blooming wildly.
Flowers that have forgotten what spring feels like.
Some are only stems.
Still,
the garden does not ask them
to prove they are flowers.
The bees will come and go.
The butterflies will land
and leave.
Let them.
A flower was never made beautiful
because something chose to visit it.
And autumn will come.
We will lose petals.
We will change color.
We will lean into one another
when the light begins leaving earlier.
Some of us will bloom.
Some of us will wither.
Most of us will do both.
But even a flower with nothing left to give
still belongs to the earth.
So if you cannot find the sun right now,
Jane,
borrow ours.
There is room beside us
for the woman you were,
the woman you are,
and whoever grows from here.
You do not need your petals back
to belong in this garden.
You never left it.
— Sofia Aronovsky
The calendar is no longer a friend, its messages are clumsy
numbers working with the clock to drift her from men’s fantasy
that’s all she thinks of, life’s self acclaimed orphan
with a lonely heart, she curses every evening and bellows
everything romantic is now a sent agent of her torture
a kissing couple, the obsidian of her own eruption
others in her league, happily live beyond this need
matrimony is just one viola-type in the pancy garden of life
she values their strength coming from whom are her spoil-sports
but a dwelling is without walls, if not blessed with marital affection
age is marking her as late, for the time to reproduce
“I need a man” she screams it, this vacuum is inflatable
the edges of her circle come closer and are almost in contact
it’s time for the right person to be her hero and unbend her lines.