Hear Me Roar

'No, I didn't envy the boys their penises,' I said. The psychiatrist paused, then asked quietly, 'What did you envy?' 

I floundered. 'Oh, things I wasn't allowed to do that they could. "Girls can't play football" – you know?' (This was true when I was a schoolgirl, six decades ago. It was still true in my twenties, when I spoke to the shrink.)

'You wanted to play football?' he asked. I laughed. 'No, never. But I wanted the freedom to do it if I had wanted to. Do you understand?' He did. 

It wasn't Betty Friedan who radicalised me. The Feminine Mystique wasn't my book; I wasn't a housewife yet. I was a young single. The Female Eunuch spoke to me. I'd been at university with Germaine – not that we were acquainted, but when she wrote her book I knew exactly what she was on about: every precise, beautiful, powerful word.

Women can play football now if they want to. They even have the right to go to war. I don't want any of that, but I did my bit to make it happen, I was in that groundswell. I haven't stopped yet.

Thank you Germaine, thank you Helen who wrote the anthem, thank you my old shrink. Thank you Betty too, you herald of the great awakening, who spoke for many if not yet me. Thank you Marilyn French and Mary Daly and all the others, too many to list. ’Numbers too big to ignore.’

Thank you to the dad and grandpas and uncles who didn't think education was wasted on girls. Thank you to the mum and grandmas and aunties who believed I could have self-reliance and still be woman.

I haven't stopped. There are battles yet to be won. When will we ever get equal pay for equal work? But family violence is now beginning to be ended. 

I am my own hero. One of a generation.

What did we want, Mr Freud? Freedom!

May the young remember, and take firm hold of the torch.

I watch old footage

of the Women's Lib marches 

tears pouring, face raised

Annie Kenney and Christabel Pankhurst

source en.wikipedia.org

International Womens' Day rally, Melbourne 8 March 1975. Educational picture from Australian Information Service, Canberra.

Written for day 8 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': In the Footsteps of the Suffragettes.

'Hear me roar' and 'numbers too big to ignore' come from Helen Reddy's song, I Am Woman.

Sevenling (I seldom wear it)

I seldom wear it. It was spelled

to protect my mother, not me, and
keep her well and happy.

A gift for her: our magician friend

chose the metal, spoke the charm,

and left it the requisite time under the moon.

Ah well, they are both long dead now.

(On my arm, not hers.) Photo © Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2016. This photo is mine and should not be copied or used in any way without permission. 

At 'imaginary garden with real toads', for day 7 of poetry month, we are inspired by bracelets. And at dVerse, in Meeting the Bar, we are invited to write sevenlings, one of my favourite forms. So I combine the two.

This Terrible Era

“What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.” – William Shakespeare

You expect me to write a poem

about Donald Trump, I know –

that clown who, every time

he opens his mouth, exposes himself

as an idiot and worse, while those

who follow him surely look to be blind.

Some, on the other hand,

would think of Bernie Sanders

whose idealistic dreams

appear impossible, as well as impractical

to the hard-headed; and his adherents

likewise blind in their opponents' eyes.

Both, though, symbolise change.

Each – albeit at extremes –

speaks with the voice of the people.

Neither is the puppet of Big Money.

But I doubt if either can win. And so I'm glad

not to live in America in the coming era.

To my ears, Cruz makes Trump sound mild.

And I don't care how many vaginas Hilary has,

she's war-mongering and pro-fracking.

(Margaret Thatcher was a woman too,

but shame on any woman who supported her.)
Who are the real idiots? And who are the blind?

3rd poem for Magaly's 'Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month'. 
(In which I am idiot enough to offend people of every political stripe in the USA.)

Unpalatable

I can't forget honeydew –

cloyingly over-sweetened;

raindrop-thin liquid

parading as juice –

in my stepmother's garden

next to the hothouse,

or decorative on her table

alongside the Wedgewood teacups.

And, with one of those sweeps of her eyelashes,

seeping through her poison-sugar voice.

Image by DailyCraft via Flickr Creative Commons

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to use compound words to include in our poems, from lists provided. I did that and added a few not listed.

Night, Rain ...

A shimmer, white

against the pane,

at the edge of sight …

Might

it come again,

shimmering, white?

Faint, not bright:

drifting rain

at the edge of sight

dims the light

to a mere stain,

a shimmer of white

pale on the night –

a hidden pain

past the edge of sight.

I seek to deny it,

refuse to entertain

that shimmer of white,
at the edge of sight.

April Poetry Month, day 5. Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads': any topic, with the option (which I took) of writing a villanelle.

The topic is inspired by the latest quadrille prompt at dVerse, to use the word 'shimmer', But I couldn't fit my villanelle into a quadrille, no matter how economical with words I tried to be.

Also submitted (three years later) to dVerse Forms for All – the Villanelle, in the hope that it may still be eligible.

At Brunswick Heads

That confluence of waters where

the Brunswick River meets the sea

is only a little dirty after recent rains.

Its taste is clean salt.

We swim safe

behind banks of rock.

The waves crash, out there;

in here they are sweet ripples.

I stand on a sandy bottom,

no stones to cut my feet.

Seaweed fondles my ankle;

I wriggle it easily off.

A lone galah flaps fast

toward the clouds then back.

A seagull perches alertly

upon the nearest rock.

A blue heeler pup

splashes and bounces,

chasing its boy up onto the sand.

A crow soars over the trees.

Photograph taken by Benedict Spearritt, Brunswick Heads swimming hole near the mouth of the river. Available through a Creative Commons licence.


Posted for Day 4 of April Poetry Month 2016 at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Nature Poetry. 

I took the opportunity to revise a 10-year-old draft.

A Birthday Dirge for Magaly

Oh Magaly, I’m sad for thee.

How shall I be right glad for thee?

For sure thy birthday 

is no mirth day –

the number of the years

must bring a girl to tears.

But Magaly flung up her head

and to her spurious well-wisher said:

The tomb is dank and full of mould.

Better by far to keep growing old.

The years are mine to live and own,

my path to travel unto Crone.

There’s wisdom in my shining skull

and flesh upon it, firm and full.

My bones will not be clanking yet.

I’ll thank you with this epithet –

If you’ve the urge to sing a dirge,

you silly cow, go take a purge!

For Day 2 in Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, Magaly requested a birthday dirge.

Which Classical Heroine Are You?

Please, not one of the good girls –

poor orphaned Jane

who ended up marrying the boss,

nor feisty, smart Elizabeth,

although she found love and wealth.

Nor yet rebellious Cathy –

those moors were probably cold.

Could I be Natasha?

She had both passion and heart.

And she had Pierre,

a kind man who could think.

April Poetry Day 3 at 'imaginary garden with real toads' is Flash 55 PLUS. The optional 'plus' is to consider the classics. My title is an imaginary facebook quiz – but if it doesn't already exist, I'm sure it soon will.

Horses

We used to hear the horses 

running for fun, 

all the whole length

of the high paddocks, 

then stop, wheel and return –

a rapid rumble, a drumming,

like sudden wind or even

the thunder of waves.

But we were far from the ocean.

Later we lived on the coast.

At night, outside our door

we heard the rhythmic roar 

of waves endlessly

rolling and breaking.

Not much like hooves, although

I remembered Arnold's line:

'the wild white horses foam and fret'.

Anyway, we were far then from the hills.

Image Copyright © Karin Gustafson

Written for April Poetry Month day 2 at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Still getting out of the starting gate: to be inspired by horses.

Cats and Witchy Women

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men.

This night was made for cats and witchy women.

We don’t wag tails, we switch and hiss: feline;

deadly as gods, not merely bitchy women.

The fires we light tonight will surely burn

into your brain visions of witchy women

and shadowy cats. They slink and scratch, they turn

against the firelight; restless, itchy women

who rub against you, catlike on your skin,

furry and purring – wanton witchy women.

Oh take the tame Dog hence, that slave to man.

Try the embrace of Danger: richly woman!

Written for Magaly's prompt for day 1 of 'Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month': Has It Begun To Sprout? asking us to use a line from Eliot's The Waste Land in a poem. In this case it's my first line.

Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #296.

Photo © Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2016. This photo is mine and should not be copied or used in any way without permission. 

Not an April Fool

How afraid they were, the everybody,

that he’d be born on April Fool’s Day, but

he came more cleverly, one day early. Saved!

He grew into a most unpleasant man –

an abrasive irritant, yet unaware

just how and why he causes widespread rage.

The child he was could never get a joke.

When others laughed incomprehensibly,

he knew it must be him they laughed at … mocked. 

And then at last it seemed he woke to humour.

Years later, I discern it was not so.

He learnt to fake it – imitate, pretend.

He’s gained a kind of humour now, at last:

the ability to laugh at others' pain

or their humiliation – just as, once,

when he was small, he thought they laughed at his.

He has his share of folly, but no fun.

He cannot clown around, devoid of jest.

If only he had waited just one day!

How much happier might we all have been
if only, blessedly, he’d been born a Fool? 

Written for Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': 1: April is for Fools and Poets