January 20th, A Poem. #womensmarch #inauguration #resistance #feminism

January 20th

While the False Man blustered, and ranted;
while he mis-used words like great
And made empty promises that hung on the cold air
Like icicles only to melt away like ghosts;
a woman walked across the street to give
Food to a needy neighbor, check on the old
Help a friend with tired and hungry kids
Held a hand and mopped up broken tears
A man paused as he walked, reached into pockets
Walked back a 100 yards to give what little he had
To the man who had even less, and shared a smile
That said, I love you and I see you
A child stood up to the bullies in her class
Because they used words adults have made common
And she shielded the outsider, the smaller
The scared from their anger and their hate.
And millions of hats bobbed up and down as they marched
And millions of banners waved in the night
And millions of candles were held in defiant hand
And chains of love and hope and decency and progress
Were woven again and again and again until
When the Fake Men pushed the vulnerable over the edge
A safety net caught them and a million hands set them
Gently on their feet, to rise again.

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When Things Were Better, In the Good Old Days

I'm increasingly sick of the blather about the good old days. Apparently, there were no murders, no problems, no hate crimes - nothing to make CIS white people uncomfortable. 
Really?

When Things Were Better, In the Good Old Days

I remember he says

the respected actor with his trademark grimace

the good old days.

Do you? Really?

These would be the days when women were silent

not uppity, emancipated.

Nice quiet women, 

who didn't report pesky things like domestic violence

in those halcyon times.

Nice mothers at home

using prescription pills and booze in lonely boredom

in that past idyll.

Lets celebrate, eh?

The days when being white was not so problematic

and people knew their place

Good-natured banter

and people could take a joke against themselves 

and a lynching or three.

Happy days of fun

When jobs for white men were assured and everyone else

did the dirty work.

When using words

like weapons, piercing souls and destroying futures

wasn't such a big deal.

When being gay

or trans or different or visible or soft or effeminate

could get you killed.

When adults screamed

abuse and hatred at a little girl walking to school

surrounded by FBI agents.

When the Church

in Ireland, and beyond, put women in their place

quite literally

Put them in their place,

a Magdalen laundry where they rotted for a lifetime

in those gentler times.

Ah tell me more

about political correctness gone mad in these post feminist days

while I puke. 

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Eiru Speaks to the False Kings #rosc #ireland #poetry #feminism #misogyny

As the False Kings attempt to impose themselves on the people Eriu moves from Her seat, to address the assembled crowd.

False speaker, false leader, false man

Born of a woman, unworthy of the honour

Debased by your rejection of Her womb, Her heart

Enemy to half the world

Apostate to the other

Liar and spreader of lies, like mould and decay

Dead among men, unborn among women

Unclean among the pure of spirit

Firenne rejects you

You are false and therefore unable to exist

You are the three marks on a king’s cheek

Your ramparts fall before the anger of the Druids

And the Wise Women will make bread from the fire

Of your roof,

The earth rises against you

The stones and bones and blood of the land

Reject you and your band

Be they born of the land, they are undone

Found them shelter in this land, they are undone

If they visit this land, they are undone

The birds of the air, the food of the earth

The spirit of life, the Tuatha  and their homes

The Tiarna and their laws, the Tír and its being

Turn from you, deny you, fast against you

The root of your name shall be poisoned in the ground

your stem shall be blighted and the ground salted against you

Your tongues fall silent, your limbs weakened, your fruit die untasted on the branch

And you shall be unmourned in the hour of your fall.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Another Angry Black Woman Speaks.....#feminism #SandraBland #SayHerName

I'm white, Irish, privileged and middle class, educated and while I'll never be rich I've never suffered true poverty. That is my disclaimer, because whenever anyone writes about someone else's experience, someone else's point of view, they risk bringing a patronizing layer of filter to the issue. I can't say I know what it is to be a woman in a developing country, or to have a disability . I know what it's like to experience racism but I don't know what it's like to experience daily racism, at first glance, in a million insidious ways. It's not my place to speak for black women; my sisters in feminism share many experiences with me that we can freely explore but I will never know how it feels to be them any more than they can say they "know" what it was to be Irish in Britain in the 80s. It's not my place to pretend I do.

But a lovely friend shared her frustration at the following and unruly poetry made itself in my head and I wrote it down and now I rely on her charity, and yours, to allow it stand, with the above in mind.

Inspired by Kazi

Another Angry Black Woman Speaks And Makes Us All Uncomfortable

She pauses.

Don’t think I’m being aggressive, it’s not that -

I’m not saying you are the same, I’m not -

Just that – one more person dead for being Black

In the wrong place, at the wrong time? How can that happen?

And yes I know not all police/white/insert your demographic

Are like that, I know you’ve never done it,

But it’s hard to read and watch and fear and think

What the hell is going on? And then

When I talk to white friends, I see them stiffen

Instead of listen, And it’s the body language,

 the expression

The veiled reception of my words that says

Oh no, another (she’s such a, so very much a)

I can see it coming

“..Another Angry Black Woman.”

She stops, and sighs. I know, I say tentatively

Well, obviously I don’t know, but I can glimpse

If a woman talks at all, passion is hysteria

Emphasis is aggression

Strong words are criticism/harsh/giving out

The dreaded

“going on and on about it” -

And I can see, from over here, how that is amplified

For non white, or poor, or gay

And our friends agree, oh my god yes

They say,

I can totally see your point.

We move on,

The topic tactfully, skilfully changed

Lighter moods prevail, we rail no more at fate.

But later, I get a call / text/ pm

“omfg what did you make of that?

Why was she going on about it to us?

I’ve never been racist! I don’t see colour, you know that!!

She made us all uncomfortable, and after you left

We were all talking, you know the way

She used to be a laugh but don’t you think…

I don’t like to say it

But hasn’t she become…”

And the words are unsung, hung by hesitation

But I hear them so loudly they scream.

“another angry black woman," that's what they mean

1.

The Problem with Women #poetry #feminism #4thwavefeminism #irishpoetry #ireland

The problem with women


I post about issues, many feminist in tone
Abuse of the female, inside the home
or out on the streets in full view of all
Or insidious lessons that make us feel small 
And I say every time not all men do this
A line in my stories some men seem to miss
And I say that the male is vulnerable too
I say men are mainly good, and it's  true.
But then the replies start derailing the thread
As some men read things I never actually  said
Answer accusations I didn't actually  make
Argue the point for argument's  sake
I can talk about women broken and battered
I can post about young girls whose dream have been shattered
Without needing instruction from men who feel slighted
You're not like that? Good. I'm fucking delighted.
Stop telling me that and read what I wrote
Open your hearts and start to take note
Because some of your kind are doing these acts
Don't be defensive just be aware of these facts
Give your opinion without the lecture. I'll  listen
And I'll happily learn if there's something  I'm  missing
But in return when I point out your own oversight 
Don't call me a feminazi for daring to be right.
shrugging off debate with an injured defence
"Oh! The trouble with women is they take such offence ."

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