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.

See Me #YesEquality #straightupforequality #MarRef

In hope that May 22nd brings us a new outlook.



SEE ME

See me, says Mary
Born and bred in a rural town
daughter of fields and grey stone walls
See me, for I am a vote
I am a choice, I am a new day dawning

See me, says John
Under the glow of a street lamp
Son of the city, the pavement and street
See me, for I am a vote
I am the future, I am the morning reborn

See me, says Dolores
I may be old, but I can remember
I have seen changes you can't imagine
I am the past, but before I go
the future is mine to secure for the young

See me, See me, for we have decided
never again to close our eyes
never pretend that our friends or our neighbours
should live as we do, should live in the dark
should live without love, invisible hearts

SEE ME. For I am an ally
and I will not let you silence them again
those you ignore, I will acknowledge
those you silence, I will shout out their names
you should see me coming, for I am a vote.

1.

This Poem Has No Planning Permission

This poem is constructed
unstructured
and without
planning permission.


It advocates a YES vote.
I asked no permission.
The artist can advocate what he wants
and so can I


And I add, without permission
an extension
The bully is not oppressed
when we make him stop bullying
Giving others equal rights
does not oppress you


This poem has no planning permission
This poem is a YES vote

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By your presence

For Paula, for endless kindness

You will ask, or be asked someday
What good have you done?
What purpose, in this shifting world
What weight did you place upon the scales ?

You cannot answer for yourself
You'll never guess the moments
Only others can tell the tale
Of acts and omissions filed in your name

But like golden coins they'll pile;
Solid, worthy, generous, tangible,
Each one with a testament affixed
And each of these will start with this

By your presence -  three glorious words.
By your presence, we were comforted
By your presence, we were fed
And burdens lifted, hard times eased

By your presence - tangled threads unbound,
Problems solved and time reclaimed
Tea and biscuits, time and thought
And always laughter, always some moments joy.

There will be volumes written and declared.
Each one of a kindness kindly given
Each one shining in the deepening dark
A line of light to lead you home.

You, you wear this lightly as you go
But by your presence are you known

1.

Vote Early Vote Often (a poem about @YesEquality15 and #FiMeIrl)

I do not see, what makes me
more worthy to be wed
than Annie and Jacyntha
or Maurice to his Fred?

I posses no greater intellect
Nor higher moral ground
No secret way to perfect love
Have I or my ilk found.

We row and fight and hurt and bleed
And break and tear assunder
We heal the same, we love the same
And when we're six feet under

We'll all make bones, we'll all make dust
And twill be hard to say -
Which of us was wed or not
And who  was straight or gay

So while we live and breath we draw
And the sun yet shines above
Let us all be equal in one thing -
The beauty of our love.

If your heart holds within
one single spark of joy
It matters not what fans the flame
The sight of girl or boy.

All that counts is if that face
Brings solace to your life
And if you long to call that name
Husband mine, or Wife.

So may fifteen we all must join
To vote for all our sakes
Vote early and vote often for
The difference marriage makes

Vote yes, dear readers !

1.

Late Coffee

You were there.
In the smile when someone
(Could have been me.
Allegedly.)
Wore the plastic gown -
a mournful clown.
You were there.
In the moment you insisted
On sitting up
On getting out of bed
That old defiance, that bold man.
You were there.
In the pallid light
Over late night coffee
In the echo of other times
In brighter places.
You were there.
In the glint of an eye
When we discussed the state
of the Irish nation
after the Black Prince, and you nodded.
You were still there
When I left.
You were still there.

1.

Grand Canal Square In March #poetry #irishpoetry #Dublin #ireland

Grand Canal Square in March

Only in Dublin
would two swans
crossing the docks
greet you in March

Light reflecting
refracting the image
of urban life
and city living

hazy sun and
smokey stacks
 a tall ship mast
and two wild swans

Welcome to my city
cosmopolitan
21st century
metropolis

Welcome to my city
Viking terrority
mystical land
mysterious port.

(Photo taken March 2007 GCS Dublin, on the way from my husband's ( then fiancé) apartment to work.)

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 ."

1.

Love letters of a busy life

To my husband Mark, who is currently trying not to nod off in work, having minded our poor sick baby all night in one room while I minded the poor sick toddler in another. And then we swopped. Some day my love, we'll sleep in the same bed, have a lie in, have breakfast in bed, have time to chat. Probably after the boys turn thirty. 

Hi, it's me

I'm sorry that I haven't been in touch

I see you every day, morning and night

so why write? well, our time is short

I seem to say hello, goodbye and sometimes

in between, a hurried I love you

but oh! it's not enough, my dear.

Here in my head we talk all the time

like we did when we were leisure rich.

I itch to tell you all the details of my day

and every way in which you touched them,

lightened them, help me carry the load.

Is there room

for love letters of the old type, the ones

that fill the spaces in a busy life? Recount

the dreams and hopes and fears of every day

renew the links that bind us to our life

and say, I would not live any other story

walk any other path, fight for any other cause

but you? You are my star, my stone, my roots 

and all there is to praise in heaven or on earth.

You may not know this but it's written there,

in shopping lists and texts about dinner -

whenever you read between the lines, it's there. 

1.

Between Moments. new #poem #poetry

Between Moments

Colgate and shower gel
The scramble for clean clothes
Inhalers and toast-ready brek-stodge
And a glass of milk; where are the car keys?
Where are - shoes socks bags
Bottles nappies coats
(No not that coat that's not my good coat
I want my fireman sam coat)

Somewhere between milk and bags
You touch my arm
You smile or kiss or squeeze
You wink - we're in this together, love
We're a team; I don't know
Where I put his jumper/what I'd do
Without you. Between moments
Is where true love resides.

1.

Puddles - an adventure by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne #childrensbook

My very first children's book, beautifully illustrated by Austin Lysaght

Tells the story of Dara, a little boy who loves sunny days. When it rains he's very sad and bored....but rain brings puddles and puddles bring fun! Jump right in and enjoy this story ideal for 1-4 year olds.
Copyback:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/geraldine-moorkens-byrne/puddles/paperback/product-21308786.html?ppn=1

Hardback & full photobook version available at blurb.com

1.

Pomegranate Annual Christmas Raffle "Pomegranate"

This is a poem I wrote last year, inspired by Pomegranate the charity http://www.pomegranate.ie/ 

Pomegranate helps couples who otherwise wouldn't have had access to infertility treatment, something that is completely unsubsidised in this country. Their annual Christmas hamper raffle is an amazing event, several fabulous hampers up for grabs including a top prize hamper complete with unique handmade quilt.
Please check them out at either the website above or on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/PomegranateIE
Tickets cost €5

Pomegranate

When they talk of it

It is assumed, only the fecund know

Where the heart lies

When it comes to babies,

When it comes to birth,

When it comes to dreams

Of sticky hands and kisses.

Oh no, no, we the Barren,

We too understand these joys.

We yearn for them in ways

Only we can understand

We are steeped in the mysteries of pain.

Oh but your words can sting us

Anything stirring? No news for us?

Sure would you not relax?

My sister’s neighbour’s cousin’s friend

Got pregnant using the scapula of some saint

 you probably should have tried when you were younger –

I’d never go to those lengths

Ah we know the heart of it all right

We hold their little hands and kiss their brows

A thousand times in our dreams

And the sweet drug of hope

Lulls us into the arms of sleep

Dark night, after night.

1.

Leaf in Autumn

Leaf in Autumn

The gutters turned to streams,
torrents raging through the streets
as grey rain beat down on us
as the wind whipped us
as the sky turned dark.
As I clutched my mother's hand
I saw a leaf charge the rapids,
white water of the drains,
to spend one moment suspended
in the eye of the storm.
And I followed it as it journeyed
through the streets
out of sight but never out of mind.
I follow it still, when the rain howls
and the wind catches my fancy
blowing it where it will
Somewhere out there, it wanders still.

1.

The Games are Over

As Russia prepares to host the Olympic Games, many observers are aware of the hideous treatment of the LGBT community there - including recent laws outlawing homosexuality, talking about or discussing homosexuality, imprisonment of LGBT people, outlawing any LGBT activism - laws reminiscent of Hitler's attacks on the Jewish Community on the eve of the notorious Berlin Olympics. The Olympic committee and the various countries participating in the Olympics seem content to ignore these blatant human rights violations even as most Western countries move forward into an era of equality.


The Games are Over


I sat on Mount Olympus
under a weary sun
and waited til He came
His glory undiminished, the Beautiful One
I greeted him and we talked
of old times and days
of all the strange and wondrous things
since we last parted ways.

And then He asked me sadly
Is it true? Will they
sully the games anew, and hold them ransom
for some coins -
is this the truth?
The games I gloried in, in my youth,
the honour, the pride, like prayers and incense
pain and defeat, victory and joy, offered on my Altar?
Are these things naught?


I told him, yes.
For convenience, cash and an easy life
they'll hold the games where they like.
they will ignore the cries of the oppressed
they'll see them beaten in the streets
and close their eyes, it's for the best -
they'll stride out under a thousand flags
but none will be Rainbows.

I told Him this
and He, manly, wept
He held my hand and talked
of His past loves, of golden limbs
and kisses sweet
They have outlawed me, He cried
I am the one they beat.
I am the one imprisoned
I am the one despised -
Anger hardened His lovely face -
The games they hold offend this sacred place
I curse them and their modern play
Olympus turns its back today.

1.

Posthumous

Inspired by a prompt from my friend and fellow poet Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose.




Posthumous

I am increasingly hopeful
... that when I die
there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth
my relatives will mourn my passing
with deep black and willows,
and at every gathering from now til the
last one standing
will remark, "If only She had lasted just a little longer.
If only we had had her, just one more day."
For on my deathbed I intend to say
- as my last words, with my last gasping wheeze -
"The box where I keep my money is buried...."
and the death rattle will leave them baffled
and yearning
and missing me, wishing me, alive again.
Just long enough to finish....

1.

Farewell Maggie (better late than never)

This poem needs no explanation except to say, those who like me remember the devastation wreaked by That Woman on both sides of the Irish sea are glad to see this day.


Farewell Maggie, my old foe.
This day has been long in dawning -
too slow.
I wish you had gone long ago
when we were still young, with ideals still intact
before you broke a generation on your rack
of consumerism and greed.
You were driven by a need I cannot guess
some class hatred / self hatred matrix in your soul
but you squandered the price of many lives
to reach your goal, and threw aside
the hopes and dreams and pride
of both your nation, and mine.
I wish you'd left my country well alone
and done at least as much for your own.

Farewell Maggie. Never has it rung so true;
better late than never, was coined for you.

1.

what shall you teach your son?

In the light of recent events, it's time to stop telling our daughters to be careful and start considering what we should be teaching our sons. As the mother of a son I know the kind of man I want him to be. It's my failure if, as a woman, I raise a boy who does not respect women.




               
How do we fix this shit?
Let us start with what we teach our sons                                  
Yes you, my innocent little man;
If you ever lay your head next to mine
And whisper that you have hurt, degraded or demeaned
Some woman
Any woman
Any girl
The old one. The ugly one
 The pretty flirt. The one whose skirt
Is too short or blouse too low.
The silly one. The shy one. The odd one.
The one who was mean. The one who said no.
The one who passed out.
The one your mate said was loose.
Any one of them
You will feel the power of your mother.
  You will quickly learn that I am woman, too.
But I love you, my son.
So I will teach you first  
No means no.
Drunk means no.
Unconscious means no.
Uncomfortable means no.
But before that I will teach you
She is entitled to wear, speak, like, dislike, walk, drink, think, live
How she pleases.
And before that I will teach you
There are just people.
Not a war between sexes.
Just people.
You are people.
She is people too.
And when some people try to make you forget that, I will teach you
To say
NO.

1.

It's her world....but I think I'm living in it too!

One of my favourite tactics when procrastinating about my own writing, is to read other people's writing; sometimes in my official and therefore virtuous role as Editor with the PPP Publishing Collective but all too often in my role as lazy and unmotivated writer with a two year old time-sucking machine. So imagine my joy when I read one of my favourite blogs It's Her World: We Just Live In It and found the newest entry was about ....not writing!

Any blog writer who confesses "Hello Friends, remember me? I'm the lady who USED to write this blog. Now I'm the lady who wishes she had time to write this blog." is all right with me. I sometimes - on a bad month, when my total contribution to the world of literature is a Kafkaesque attempt at a shopping list - refer to myself as "the woman who USED to write poetry." 
The writer of this blog is a mother with two toddlers and therefore has twice my excuse for being unproductive but I add in elderly parents, a business and a really lazy streak and I reckon we are about even. It's a great read, I won't ruin it by dissecting it here, but go enjoy it. One of the reasons this is top of my blog list is the self deprecating style, coupled with genuinely amusing observations and a core of truth. You all know my hatred of clever but empty writing- well, here is some clever but real writing. Top past posts for me were A Letter to my Spirited Child and Facebook Bullying: The New Normal?

Anyway, the title of this particular post "Endless Inspriration, Zero Energy" really hit a chord with me. Endlless Inspiration indeed - I have drawers, and computer files,  full of beginnings. Novels, poems, Short Stories. Some reside in darkness because frankly they are too horrible to see the light of day. But other pieces languish in obscurity because as excited as I was by the flash of inspiration that ignited a frenzy of words across a page.....I was equally incapable of sticking at the damn thing. They reproach me, they berate me, they accuse me...and yet I still ignore them.

Some day I will find myself with that elusive and extraordinary gift - free time. In the meantime I will read blog's like  http://ceeceescrazyworld.blogspot.ie **and enjoy someone else's witty reminder that I am not alone. I leave you with a promise to create more poetry this year, and in the words of the blog "I miss having something burning inside me that I just gotta get down on paper right then and there" 
Also, I too miss my breasts. 



. ** Ceeceescrazyworld blog is written by MamaZinga All copyrights reserved: extracts reproduced here courtesy of author for review purposes only.

1.

Songs Of My Heart Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose !

One of my great pleasures is to help publish new and exciting poetry and to act as an editor and publisher to emerging poetic voices. I have the immense delight to announce that my latest project, the long awaited collection of poetry from American poet Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose is now ready and available. It's a great collection, with diverse themes but a unifying style, confident and passionate, but wise and compassionate. And overall, hopeful and optimistic.

One of my personal favourites comes from the first section of the book, the love poems and as it's a wednesday I am sharing it here, with kind permission of Maureen herself. If you would like to read more of Maureen's wonderful poetry, please go to:

Songs of My Heart, Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose, ISBN 978-0-9562403-2-3  PPP Publishing Dublin, Ireland

Love on a Wednesday

Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose, Songs of My Heart

It never gets old...

I walk down the halls of this house

and I feel your love for me beating in the walls

Like the blood through my veins.

I never get tired

Of feeling the energy of the love we share

surrounding me like the wall paper.

I walk into my office

And the first thing I see is you smiling at me,

more beautiful even than the view from the windows...

(Which is saying something!)

And I feel the reality

Of every dream I ever dared to dream in secret,

Knowing they were all fairy tales

And never expecting fulfillment.

It's just Wednesday

No special anniversary,

No day made for lovers...

Except that every day is that, now,

And I am among the privileged,

The ones who have someone to cherish,

Something to sing about...

And so I sit here,

And I know every word I say is inadequate

But in the face of beauty,

And love,

And the fulfillment of every waking dream,

How can I be silent

Even on a Wednesday?

Lovely words for a Wednesday ! I'll share some more shorter excerpts from poems over the coming weeks. 

1.

Miracle

The world came to an end today;

as it does each day twixt dusk and dawn

and just as surely as it ends

with morning light it is reborn.

This is a wonder far more deep

than tales and prophecies of old;

the miracle that is each passing day -

is the greatest story ever told. 

1.