Post by Jamie Quinn on Apr 26, 2019 20:51:23 GMT 8
So I am, among other things, a poet. I saw the creative corner, and I thought it'd be a good spot to post a poem a wrote at the exact point I realised that I had been suppressing a large part of my gender. If you remember that app that trended a year or two ago where you could see what you'd look like if you were older or gender-swapped, it was seeing a feminine version of my face that triggered something quite painful and confusing. I wrote this poem as the first few pieces started coalescing into a clearer image.
I apologise for the violence of the imagery, though it's not too graphic (at least I don't think). There's also exactly one expletive.
This is one of thirty-or-so-poems that are in my first anthology that'll come out in a month or two (eeeeee!)
Let me know what you think!
My Woman Is Dead (And We Have Killed Her)
I shovel soil.
Flecks get caught in her lipstick
I swear I didn’t kill her.
They did!
those ruthless, terrified boys!
Her favourite colour was pink
(or was it mine?)
but I persuaded it to green.
She has such a beautiful face
–though no woman’s face–
and I cover it with soil,
my shovel plunging into soft earth
as if into my own self,
and I bury her again.
I love her,
but she must be buried;
buried along with all weeping–
buried along with all tenderness–
buried along with all vulnerability–
buried along with all joy.
So I shovel.
Her face disappears into the ground.
And the dam breaks
into an endless torrent of abusive rage
because that’s all those fuckers left me with.
No mourning this beauty with tears
even though I love her so–
even though she has my features–
even though she is a part of me.
I pat the last of the soil into a small,
neatly masculine,
mound.
I know they’d have killed us both
if I hadn’t let them kill her.
So I betrayed her—
her blood on my hands
and I cannot forgive myself.
I want to kill those who killed her
those who fear women so much that
they would not
even
allow me
to befriend one.
But I know to remain stoic.
But I cannot stay stoic any longer.
I cast the shovel down
and it wounds the earth
and then, finally, comes the flood.
I weep.
and she is there, in the flood.
and now, with her white dress soiled
she rises
despite everything
to comfort and embrace me.
I apologise for the violence of the imagery, though it's not too graphic (at least I don't think). There's also exactly one expletive.
This is one of thirty-or-so-poems that are in my first anthology that'll come out in a month or two (eeeeee!)
Let me know what you think!
My Woman Is Dead (And We Have Killed Her)
I shovel soil.
Flecks get caught in her lipstick
I swear I didn’t kill her.
They did!
those ruthless, terrified boys!
Her favourite colour was pink
(or was it mine?)
but I persuaded it to green.
She has such a beautiful face
–though no woman’s face–
and I cover it with soil,
my shovel plunging into soft earth
as if into my own self,
and I bury her again.
I love her,
but she must be buried;
buried along with all weeping–
buried along with all tenderness–
buried along with all vulnerability–
buried along with all joy.
So I shovel.
Her face disappears into the ground.
And the dam breaks
into an endless torrent of abusive rage
because that’s all those fuckers left me with.
No mourning this beauty with tears
even though I love her so–
even though she has my features–
even though she is a part of me.
I pat the last of the soil into a small,
neatly masculine,
mound.
I know they’d have killed us both
if I hadn’t let them kill her.
So I betrayed her—
her blood on my hands
and I cannot forgive myself.
I want to kill those who killed her
those who fear women so much that
they would not
even
allow me
to befriend one.
But I know to remain stoic.
But I cannot stay stoic any longer.
I cast the shovel down
and it wounds the earth
and then, finally, comes the flood.
I weep.
and she is there, in the flood.
and now, with her white dress soiled
she rises
despite everything
to comfort and embrace me.
