Tag Archives: poetry

Every Woman by Nancy R. Smith

    “For every woman who is tired of acting weak when she knows she is strong, there is a man who is tired of appearing strong when he feels vulnerable.

    For every woman who is tired of acting dumb, there is a man who is burdened with the constant expectation of “knowing everything.”

    For every woman who is tired of being called “an emotional female,” there is a man who is denied the right to weep and to be gentle.

    For every woman who is called unfeminine when she competes, there is a man for whom competition is the only way to prove his masculinity.

    For every woman who is tired of being a sex object, there is a man who must worry about his potency.

    For every woman who feels “tied down” by her children, there is a man who is denied the full pleasures of shared parenthood.

    For every woman who is denied meaningful employment or equal pay, there is a man who must bear full financial responsibility for another human being.

    For every woman who was not taught the intricacies of an automobile, there is a man who was not taught the satisfactions of cooking.

    For every woman who takes a step toward her own liberation, there is a man who finds the way to freedom has been made a little easier.”

Abyss

by Katrina Vandenberg

If the best love poems have a little darkness,
how far down can I go? Thousands of feet?
The coelecanth is near, but it’s too easy –
the metaphor nettable and clear, the lost
link found, the beginnings of our own bones
in its pelvic fins – and I want to write about love

with depth to hold the unverifiable, the oarfish
that survives with half its body gone.
I want it to hold the giant squid no one has seen
alive, strong enough to scar sperm whales;
sailors have claimed its tentacles unfurl
from the night’s water, taking down their mates.

But can such poems survive these confused witnesses?
Can they handle the scanty evidence that surfaces:
the mottled sick and dead, the night-feeding
viperfish impaling victims with fangs
at high speed, its first vertebra designed
to absorb the shock? And how much horror

can this poem sustain before you forbid me to say
some call this love, the hagfish that bores
into the unsuspecting body, rasping
its flesh from inside out? Am I making you
uncomfortable? The pressure at these depths
could crush a golf ball. Are you cold?

Or is it enough to be awed by the blue-
green photophores of the lantern fish, the brief
and brilliant light displays? What the lights say:
I want you. Not so close. I am moonlight;
I am not here. I would eat you raw –
tell me if you want me to stop.

Four Related Things

1. I am not subtle. I wear what I want. I am loud. I am bad at keeping most secrets. I like it this way, however it never really dawned on me before a friend pointed it out.

2. I think I’m forgetting how to use my words the way I like to. I want to write poetry again. I want double meanings and second thoughts that hit hours later. I want delicate references and concealed dreams. I need practice.

3. I got 91% on my English 12 provincial. Fantastic news, I love getting good grades.

4. Meaningful conversations have become more frequent lately. I appreciate this. I think I am getting better at putting feelings, thoughts and ideas in to words. I secretly thank my scholarship essays for this, and not-so-secretly thank my philosophy class.

2008

was a reckless year

When we were all untouchable and determined to

Prove it

And our lives were destined for perfection.

The more risks the better.

We were all invincible,

Because the world outside was just a rumor, like imagination.

2008 Was a graphic year

When vulgar tongues flailed and hallways stank

There were fights sometimes

And what happened on the weekend was no secret.

Nothing was a secret

Among the nosy, bored girls perpetually trading gossip,

Wearing down the same tired topic

Until finally someone did something more drastic than more

drugs.

No one wanted to run, or even walk too fast that year.

We were all waiting for something to happen, I guess.

Maybe we thought the world would change itself, or that somewhere

Someone else was getting it all done.

Our effort

was never required, and if you did reach up,

Try to touch a

Star

Then you could be sure someone would

Grab

Your ankle

And tug you back in to place,

In to line with the rest.

The girls wore low shirts and the boys

Wore lower pants and we all looked nearly the same

Even though it was the age of

Individualism.

We didn’t care most of the time

And when we did it we hid it well because

We were all superb actors

We were lost

But we pretended we were found,

That we knew it all and just didn’t want to share.

…but it’s over now

isn’t it?