Skip to main content

Daughters of Witches you couldn't Burn

What is common with the numerous stories 
and fables and mythology 
and history and NOW, and ever,
of a tribe of strong women?
Why is history and NOW so spineless
that they bring down crime  
and war, rights and wrong
to the doing of this tribe
that they cannot handle?

That they cannot handle 
a woman with herbs,
a woman behind a telescope,
a woman with an axe,
with a head full of snakes,
a woman with beauty or without, and hair,
a woman with a voice,
in their heads or in their body,
a woman with the ballot,
with a sceptre, 
or women with the pen
or swag.

The narratives that should move around the
morals of right and wrong,
are inevitably reduced
to darkness, you cannot explain
that is beyond your comprehension.
BEYOND YOU.

And then you chop down the head of Medussas,
burn them tied to the poles,
and make them examples to many women-
to get it in their bones 
that strong women are "audacious".
That "audacity" is a crime.
and then her herbs are the crime,
her brains are a crime,
her cigarettes are a crime,
her scientific acumen is a crime,
her body is a crime,
her laughter is a crime.

Her inquisitiveness to take a bite 
of knowledge was The Sin.
That asking for her stature be equal as yours
made her a dark, senile outcast.
And then when it has been ingrained
into her bones, and in your lores,
and your stories of her fate
when she defied you,
 to gaze into stars--
That is when you made her, her own enemy.

And yet, there will always arise
Kalis and Medussas,
Ametarasus and Katherines-
Helens and Cleopatras--
despite your twisted tales to malign--
and yet again they will rise
In forms, you will never know--
In forms that are still the strong women
who, you will fail to understand--

And they are the daughters of the witches 
you could not burn.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Hiraeth

At the end of the disaster that swept Our streets with the twilight And seeped into our hearts  Like the moonbeams, What remained was a patch of purple On my dress. It was not your purple... It was of a mindful kid who drew blossoms of lavender on everything On my copies, my walls My dress. Yet why does a purple patch  Like the twilight And the disasters  Remind me of  times  That never were.

you should have been there..

I  was dealing with depression and family responsibilities, yet trying to heal from trauma but you chose to leave me right then. Right when, I was gathering up courage , courage to finally owe up to a 7 year slow burn for you, waiting for you to finish your career goals when you left me. And not even a word before the final hour. Not even a warning , but a blow. I have loved you since the first day I met you.. since the first trip I took with you. Since the time we stared at a moonlit mountain together. You were a rock, my anchor. The day it all ended, I told my friend... I feel like a rudderless anchorless boat.. As I suffer through my personal troubles now, my failing health, I wish .. and I rage.. and I scream internally... YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE. And although you never promised anything, it seems weird now that it was all me and zero of you in there.

the beginning of all good conversations

  It is the rain. The rain. The rain that is unbearably cold and unbearably reminds me of blue days. unbearable blue days, of exhaustion that comes with being happy. Happiness is an exhaustion. Sadness on the other hand is a slow intoxication. It is the rain. The cold rain that finally unburdens the exhaustion of happiness and trickles into the world, sadness, one drop at a time.one sadness at a time. sadness is accommodating. Come sit with me, tell me your sorrow. it is the rain, The rain. The rain that has this buzzing that calls forth the sadnesses it is the rain, the rain the slippery glasses that opens the inward gaze. in a dark room.