Poems for Women

I read these two poems at a recent women's workshop. They hit home for many, so I was inspired to share them more widely. 

There is a deadness, a confusion 
A felt sense of being far from myself 
A sense of other voices yelling inside 
Much louder than mine, beneath them all 
A confusion that clouds just behind my eyes 
A heaviness that descends downward, into my chest 
A distinct feeling of flat, concrete, boxed 
It is visceral and visual and stifling 
I have been taught that this is the soil for growth 
But I am always forgetting that advice 
Beneath is pain, I know enough to know that 
Tears that are stuck, dying to be shed 
And despite my wish for the flood, the concrete is too heavy to lift 
Words and works are buried underneath there, ready to flood forward 
Waiting for its chance to burst out 
The deadness has its message 
One of conditioning, of the request for smallness 
The concrete has a message inscribed in deep, thick lettering 
You are not allowed, it says 
To know what you know, to do what you do, to own what you have 
You must be quieter 
Your power is not welcome here 
Your knowing is not invited 
The concrete comes with a feeling, of guilt and shame 
A vision of all the wagging fingers and shaking heads 
The voices of women who feel threatened 
The voices of men who prefer our silence 
Sometimes I just can’t shake it and it settles, heavy, over my heart 
And the feeling is a feeling like death 
Perhaps that is what it is, a death 
Of myself, of my voice 
Which begins to feel so far away that even I don’t recognize it anymore  
.....

​I keep waking up  
With this ache on my heart 
It is cringe-worthy 
My face scrunches up  
As I draw the feeling in again  The message is: 
“What are you going to mess up today? 
How are you going to be an embarrassment today? 
Being yourself is not a good plan. 
‘Yourself’ is too loud, too real, too strong, too passionate” 
Passionate, they call me. 
Well, she certainly is passionate, they say, 
Belittling my message to the child’s play of an 
Uncontrolled girl. 
She sure is passionate, alright, 
They say, as I try with everything I have to scream their goddamn souls awake 
They don’t know that I’m screaming at their deadness 
Their falseness, how little they know about what is happening here 
They don’t know how every word flying out of my mouth  
Are words the universe wants to crash in over their heads. 
Since nothing else is getting their attention, maybe this will 
But no, they just find me like entertainment that  
They are slightly embarrassed about.  
All that passion. 
Fuck you.
This passion is the Great Mother trying to save your fucking life 
Actually, trying to save all of our lives 
And you aren’t listening.
And that is ruining us. It is ruining all of us. 
With floods that overrun what once were thriving cities 
And fires that take down entire states 
As people die in a million unjust ways 
And you sit in your chairs and as I yell to you that you better wake up 
That your comfort is killing you and the rest of us 
​And you tell me how passionate I am.