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#women's poetry
hairtusk · 2 years
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Anne Sexton, With Mercy for the Greedy
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asixnfr0g · 17 days
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Women are roses:
Beautiful, united,
And to be
Looked at with respect.
But hold her the wrong way,
Let her slip through your fingers once,
And it will draw blood.
Because remember,
She has thorns.
~ asixnfr0g
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leftistfeminista · 7 months
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María Cristina López Stewart, a brilliant 21 year old MIRista, student, historian, philosopher and poet.
From a comrade "But the girl also knows many other things, and with the deputy head of the unit - she is a humanist, now it is clearly evident - at the end of that day she dazzles us by talking to us about Auerbach, about Hegel, the German philosophers and how you get through them to Marx."
But to Pinochet's fascist thugs like Osvlado Romo she was nothing but a "nice arse, and a great vagina" as recorded by her friend in Being Luis, when he confronted Romo at his trial.
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Being Luis: A Chilean Life By Luis Muñoz Page 244
The sadistic guards cruelly boasted about enjoying her body to her friends and comrades.
But today we remember her for her mind and spirit. As the Blue Notebooks of her poetry are republished. Here we see the patriarchal, misogynist nature of the Pinochet project, the desire to bring these fierce intelligent women down to nothing but their feminine bodies. As objects to be used and consumed. In honoring he poetry and her thoughts, we refute these fiends.
She was a student at Liceo 7 in Providencia and a student of History and Geography at the University of Chile, and wrote the poems before her kidnapping in 1974. The text will be presented next Thursday at the Museum of Memory, after within the framework of the social outbreak his family decided to publish it. «For many years I thought that my sister's poems would not be understood. It seemed to me that we had not managed, as a society, to build 'memory' and vindicate those who were branded as terrorists, subversives and common criminals... After the social outbreak of October 2019, it seemed to us that a process was culminating and that the conditions were created for a new dialogue with history. The songs, speeches and slogans confirmed that not only was memory alive in the collective unconscious, but perspectives that had been postponed and repressed for centuries were also vindicated. Like a kind of revelation, we felt that it was time to share the poems from the Blue Notebook: there would be those who would understand them," says Patricia López, who edited the book with her daughter Cristina Alarcón.
« Today the books and notebooks are on the walls, on the stones or on the posts. Where is the best interpreted story? The facts are known in the street, a voice on top of a box, a honk at the kiosk on the corner , explosive bombs, tear gas, gunshots. Everything is there, the history of today and tomorrow . (7-21-73, "The Blue Notebook")
On September 10, 1973, one day before the coup d'état, Mary wrote the following verse:
Will 73 be like all the months that are sometimes called September? Won't a Hawker Hunter darken the sky ? Will the clicking of a rifle not break the harmony of sounds ? And a few days after the coup, these verses:
The story was defined in three minutes.
AND:
Life changes as suddenly as a gunshot that we all begin to hear and that still does not stop.
Mary's last poem reads like this:
No end, he told me it's just a chapter about to start. Is it true then, that not everything ends definitively? Is it true that prehistory led to slavery, slavery continued in feudalism, and the latter gave rise to capitalism, a new version of slavery? It's true? And then later...
Even in the darkest of moments, surrounded by degradation, she had revolutionary optimism in the grand sweep of history. That the new version of slavery that capitalism has subjected her to, would meet its' end. Despite the cruel methods of Junta guards to reduce women comrades to their bodies and raw femininity, she remained concerned with world destiny. Humiliation and degradation will not make revolutionary women forget who they are.
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intomore · 1 year
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Barbara Chase Riboud 
Barbara Chase-Riboud has lived an extraordinary life. Born in Philadelphia in 1939 and based in Europe since the 1960s, the celebrated artist, poet, and novelist is a long-time pathbreaker. 
Her remarkable accomplishments include selling her first artwork to the Museum of Modern Art at age 15, being the first woman of color to graduate with an MFA from Yale, being the first female American artist to have a solo show at MoMA Paris, writing best-selling, prize-winning books that have sold millions of copies, and much more.
The Artist in her atelier at Rue Blomet with bone sculpture, 1968
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teanicolae · 19 days
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shame is learned. celebrating autonomy & the potential to unlearn & deprogram conditioned thought processes. my poem for yesterday's international women's day. poem from my poetry collection, songs of youth. written in 2017 after learning about a case of gendered violence which happened in my home country, and reading social media comments attached to news about it. it made me realise how the dynamic that leads to such violence was being (and is) continuously perpetuated in social spaces in different forms (such as speech, enforcing gendered constructs) & how women were active agents in its perpetuation as well. to unlearn is to become free.
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samaeljigoku · 1 year
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Velvet Ivory and Corpse Flowers
My heart swells with sweet venom and molded candy I touch the flesh of the darkness in moments of strength And sink into the twisted relief of fractured innocence - I have seen not the pained eyes of my true face, But know for certain that half of it would be rotten, And the other, as cruelly perfect as porcelain
How I want to be like the white bride In her room of velvet ivory and corpse flowers, But I am torn, and also envy the red king In his court of violins, of decadent madness
Fortunes rise, and fortunes fall, But none will mend me into one
-Inspired by the works of someone I admire.
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circleofmanias · 2 months
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HD, "Sigil [XII]" from Collected Poems 1912-1944, p. 413
(one of my favorites from sigil)
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ce-archerhelke · 8 months
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(via The Sealey Challenge: And God Created Women)
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fixing-bad-posts · 4 months
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Women can be transgender.
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desirableendings · 8 months
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This sums up the Barbieheimer experience better than anything else ngl
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hairtusk · 2 years
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Sylvia Plath, Poem for a Birthday, 1959
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sarahmesstuff · 2 months
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Happy weekend guys💦
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leftistfeminista · 1 year
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compañeras keep the resistance alive
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In the darkness of my cell, where hope is just a thought A prisoner of my beliefs, where freedom has been fought They take away my dignity, with cruel and mocking eyes Their twisted, sadistic pleasure, a cruel and endless prize
They ask me to dance for them drenched in perfume To twirl and spin and entertain, in this haunted, lonely room But I refuse to give in, I will not be their toy I'll stand with dignity, in the face of their dark joy
For I am more than just a body, a mere physical form I am a warrior of the people, with a heart that's brave and warm I hold the ideas of Marx, and Lenin's visions true And even in this prison, I'll fight for what I knew
For I am more than just a form, Of beauty meant to please and warm I am a warrior of the mind, With Marxist theories of mankind.
And though I wear this lace and silk That barely covers all my ilk It cannot take away my pride For I am strong, I will not hide.
So let these guards call me a toy, Or a plaything for their cruel joy, For in my heart, I know the truth, That Lenin's books will help me soothe.
With every stitch and seam of my underwear I hide a secret, one that brings me care. A page, torn from the words of Lenin's lore A symbol of hope, in this prison I endure.
Through the tears and sweat, through the pain and fears I keep this page, and my soul is clear. For in the midst of this sorrow and strife These words from Lenin, they bring me life.
And when I share it with sisters so bold, Their eyes light up, and their hearts unfold. For in these pages, we find our might, And against the cruel guards, we put up a fight.
No longer do we cower, or bow our heads, For in this secret, our spirits are led. From these words of wisdom, so strong and true, We draw our strength, and our dignity too.
So let the Pinochet's guards sneer and jeer, For in our underwear, we have nothing to fear. For we are marxist women, proud and bold, And Lenin's pages, in our hearts we hold.
With torn pages of Che's books in hand I stand proud, in my underwear so bland But within me, a fire burns bright A flame that will never be snuffed by night
For I am a revolutionary, a fighter for the cause With a spirit that refuses to be crushed by cruel laws I share these pages with my compañeras so strong Together, we stand against the Junta's wrong
From Che's words, we draw our power A guerrilla spirit, in this prison tower We are not mere toys, to be objectified We are warriors, with dignity and pride
So let the Junta guards leer and taunt For they cannot break us, they cannot daunt For within us, a revolution burns bright Guided by Che, we shall win this fight.
And yet, despite the pain, I find a spark within, A flame that flickers, fueled by memories of home. Where comrades fought, where friends still hold the line And Lenin's words still guide us to a brighter dawn.
In my mind, I'm more than just a body to be used, I'm a fighter, a rebel, a revolutionary soul. And though they strip me of my clothes, they cannot strip The courage and the strength that I have learned to know.
So I'll take a deep, slow breath, and I'll raise my chin, And I'll find a way to bear this burden day by day. For I know that soon, the dawn will break, the chains will fall, And I'll be free, once more, to march on to victory's way.
And until that day, I'll keep my tears inside, And I'll pour my soul into each whispered, secret thought. For though I may be broken, I am not defeated, And I'll never let the world forget what I have fought.
The lace, it taunts me, a symbol of my plight, A declaration of their power, of my defeat in sight, I am but a woman, a political prisoner too, Subjected to their whims, with nothing left to do.
My tears, they flow, a river of my pain, A heaving, sobbing wail, my soul in vain, For how can I find dignity, how can I feel whole, In this state of undress, my spirit so dull.
Yet still I dream, of freedom and of might, Of revolution's call, a beacon shining bright, Of Che and Lenin, whose words give me strength, In this dark and lonely place, where I am at length.
I am more than this, more than just a form, A body for their pleasure, a plaything in the storm I am a woman of fire, of passion and of fight A rebel in my soul, a beacon shining bright.
So I hold my head high, though I wear this shame, And I keep my spirit strong, my soul a blazing flame For I am a communist, a fighter to the end, And I will not be defeated, my dignity I will defend.
In this cell of iron bars and broken dreams, Where I lay exposed in ragged undergarments My faith in the Party remains steadfast, Its iron discipline my unyielding bulwark.
The guards may sneer and call me weak Reducing me to a mere object on display But they cannot strip away my dignity Or shake my belief in our cause.
For I am a comrade of the Communist Party of Chile A leader among my sisters in the struggle And though we may be imprisoned, Our spirit remains unbroken and free.
Our movement for equality and justice Is bigger than the cruel hands of Pinochet's Junta And though they may own our bodies, They cannot touch our souls.
So I stand here, proud and defiant, In my tattered underwear and unwavering resolve And I whisper to my sisters: "Hold fast to the faith, for our victory is near."
For though we may be reduced to trophies on display Our spirit cannot be conquered And our faith in the democratic centralist party Is stronger than any chains they forge.
So let them mock and sneer and try to break us, For we are the true leaders of the revolution, And our strength is born from the power of the party, Guided by the teachings of Lenin and Che.
So let us hold our heads high, And keep the faith, no matter what may come, For we are the children of the revolution, And our victory is certain, no matter the cost.
In my cell, I stand proud, though stripped of all my clothes My spirit remains unbroken, for my heart overflows With the fire of a revolution, a passion bright and bold That will not be crushed by Junta hands, no matter how they hold.
Though I stand exposed, in just my underwear, The guards may mock and sneer, but I do not care For I am a leader, of the Marxist-Leninist crew And my faith in the party's discipline, shines bright, anew.
I remember the battles we fought, the struggles we won The courage of our sisters, and their bravery begun For they are here beside me, our party comrades and compañeras And together we will fight, our struggles, no one will hinder.
Our cause is just and true, our hearts and souls, entwine For we believe in a world, where all are equal and divine And though the Junta may mock, and our bodies they do disrobe Our spirits remain unbroken, our passion, will not be slowed.
Let the tears fall, and our voices, they may wail For we are soldiers, in this fight, our spirits will not pale For we are sisters in arms, our love, a bond so strong And in this cell, we stand proud, our beliefs, our fight, goes on.
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metamorphesque · 11 months
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you are terrifying and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows how to love.
For Women Who Are Difficult To Love, Warsan Shire
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muskaanayesha · 1 year
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Peace be upon the daughter who helped her parents grow up. Accepted their cold shoulder, excused their anger, pardoned their mistakes, taught them how to be human. Peace be upon the sister who paid the price of rebellion. Screaming to her fullest, shaking like a leaf but standing tall, never letting the dictatorship go without a fight, paving the path for her siblings to breathe easier. Peace be upon the first child of an immigrant father. Aching to find their own purpose in life, firm in their own beliefs, contradicting generations and generations of cultural values. Peace be upon the girl who shouldered her mother's trauma. Swindled it into her own, morphed herself into an image of the womb she once resided in, immersed herself into troubles that weren't even hers, covered up scars that she couldn't even recognize. Peace be upon the woman who forgot who she was. So determined to be the savior of everyone, to fix her family, to nurture and love everyone around her. So deeply lost that she forgot she's just as worthy of love. Peace be upon you.
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circleofmanias · 1 year
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"In this sad circle I run round, Till giddily I tumble down; But should poor I suspire to air, I know the sad fruits of despair. Or should I into tears dissolve What horror would my soul involve."
Hester Pulter, "The Circle [1]" c. 1640-60s
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