This weeks features are looking deeper into all the things that make us ‘woman’ – all the struggles, all the pain and all the hope.
We’re starting with Winter – it reminds me of Snow White in her coffin.
The Winter My Heart Froze by © Heather King
This heart breaking poem seemed to tell the back story for the image.
the loss of a soul by © Sally Omar
it didn’t happen in one day
nor one year
not at a certain time
slowly throughout a lifetime
perhaps it was the disappointments
the tragedy of everyday life
perhaps perpetual pain
the bad dreams
the terror of ghosts past
loss of love
loss of faith
pictures engraved in the mind
that could not be erased
but somewhere in time
between the anger
a heart drained
a soul lost
never to be found again
to the world
huddled alone in darkness
the loss of a soul
On to more hopeful things and this beautiful image of a woman who seems to have found herself.
Mundoo 50 by © Alenka Co
And here is one still looking to find herself or watching others looking.
de profundis by © hsien-ku
by the fiberglass statue of aphrodite
at the swimming-pool’s edge
she watches the invisible children
like wraiths, their shapes echoed
in the silhouetted palms in hotel windows
and in chinese restaurants
their voices curl through the vases
of cut flowers: tiger dahlias and orchids
through the steam that coils on a teacup’s lip
all night the rain sweeps sideways, branches
whispering at the glass:
what are you doing here, on this strange highway?
through the neon of late night supermarkets
she is looking for the comet
The strength in this image and the details are fabulous.
Power by © CassandraOfTroy
However it is a strength and power hard come by and sometimes we find it deep in ourselves and manage to swim to the surface.
EVE by © electriclstorm
We are never fully taught.
No Mama, we are not taught
To fight back.
A woman now,
Curves, legs and all.
Mama, a woman I’ve become
Not plain and certainly not tall.
But Mama, Mama why?
Why is there still madness in this world?
Why is there a recurrence of abuse?
Why are these challenges the norm nowadays?
When I looked into your eyes
A world bright and full came to life,
With experiences rich and plentiful.
But then the darkness came and swallowed me whole.
I drowned in the waves of confusion and denial.
Swollen with vulnerability,
Gradually encasing my soul and self preserving.
Mama I was soo scared.
But I did the best I could
With the resources that were accessible.
And now I’m here Mama,
Blossoming anew and waiting for the winds to take me.
But today I was reminded,
Forever being reminded,
Of my gender,
Of my body,
Of my precious body,
Of my precious vessel.
I have had ENOUGH, ENOUGH,
Mama my voice was heard!!!
I will not be silent,
For I want to see the world and its wonders.
I am taking my world back,
And I want to help others take theirs back too.
I want them to see the world they envisioned,
A world encompassed by love, laughter, strength and well-being…this is my dream.
The winds are coming Mama.
I must take flight.
S P R E A D I N G
R O O T S
Sometimes it’s hard to find your way out though.
03-31-11: It’s So Hard When You Have No Leverage by © Margaret Bryant
Especially when our role models are struggling themselves.
Unboxed Paradox of The Burning Giraffe by © Jenifer DeBellis
It all comes down to Freud
and his psychoanalytical ways.
Ways that creep into
unsuspecting hearts and minds
during the inception of twilight hours.
What’s in a dream? That which we call
the unconscious by any other name
would smell as sweet as a longing heart’s
repressed desires and fantasies,
or as sour as a tormented soul’s
greatest fears and darkest thoughts.
Show me the inner workings
of a (wo)man and I’ll tell you
what’s hidden at the back
of that chest of drawers.
Malnourishment moved in
like an unwelcome house guest,
cleaning out the cupboards
and dressing the masses as mannequins
on display in a showcase window.
Most irresistible is this extended bait:
a seductive enticement for
the battle-bound hearts of raging beasts.
The inevitable premonition and prophecy
of war is Dalí’s burning giraffe:
“the masculine cosmic apocalyptic monster.”
Yet when dawn illuminates
the nightmare of reality,
what can be said of the psychosis of
(wo)man’s skeletal foundation?
We wait with our key in hand to find the right treasure box to open that will give us all we need and want…
Waiting With A Key by © Lenora Brown
…but our becoming is rarely easy and unfortunately we are not always helped by those entrusted with our childhood
The Blossoming by © Beautifuldreamer
Our wills clashed
over the wooden ring I coveted
and bought with my own money
on a family vacation.
What harm? I wondered
while you voiced your vehement disapproval,
leaving me with the typical worn to a nub guilt trip,
“Do what you want if you won’t follow the church’s teachings…”
What we fought
what we fought about, mother,
was more than the circumference of a smooth carved ring
perched cool on my bare finger:
You interpreted my budding breasts
as a kind of treachery,
and all my unadorned fingers
(with their unpainted nails)
couldn’t hide the fact of my blossoming femaleness.
I wore knee socks
longer than anyone else,
pretending not to see my classmates’ shiny nylons
on keen flashing legs,
even while my restless fingers ached to stroke their cashmere sweaters
worn with such brazen ease.
Girls who mattered,
(the ones boys whipped around to check out
when their names rang out
during roll call)
held their manicured hands
in dangled fashion
like bunches of keys
attached to their wispy waists,
by which they gained admittance
to the cool clique with its
kohl rimmed eyes
and tentative petting
(over the clothes only) in cold back seats.
Having nothing to prove
( for they had no need to earn their worth)
they could afford to set rules,
could dare to boldly cut their eyes
at panting boyfriends
and patiently slap away square hands
fumbling with nylon encased flesh.
You often accused me of stealth—
but I was not the sneak, mother,
not the pilferer
only what was mine:
to blossom naturally
without the topic of my puberty
being the theme of jesting dinner time conversation.
For oh! There are so many means
of hobbling daughters.
One has only to convince them
of their ugly pinched selves
while shoving begrudged flesh
into drab dresses and childish, outgrown jumpers
meant to hide a burgeoning beauty.
One has only to deny
the blossom on the rose
and, come twilight,
wilting has set in,
and with it
a kind of root rot
for which there is no cure.
Drooping, the head lolls
and caves in on itself,
Becomes another sort of obscenity:
the obscenity of beauty deliberately destroyed.
I knelt beside my bed,
knobby knees stabbing the hardwood floor like knives,
my body swaying slightly with the wanting of it
knowing it was hopeless to ask
(but— in for a pound in for a penny:)
may I please
please may I wear my ring,
and not go to hell for it.
So we wait and hope and look for the way.
She is still looking for the way to home by © FilleDeLEau
Wherever we go though, we take ourselves with us.
Bright Head by © wordthrift
There is nowhere I won’t be
such a poor,
at the window
in some secret daydream,
showered in the light.
Just a head full of darkness
in a world too bright.
I hope you enjoy these features which started off so brightly with blossom and birdsong and then went deeper and darker, however, the bright sunlight looks all the better for it.