poem: unbitter

 

sure, she’ll play. again, today.

   let me, upon waking- catch her

the imaginal capricious 

      nighttime version of her 

    she tries to run so fast across

moors and plains in other people’s

        countries- never telling what

   the dickens

    she was up to in those last 4 hours.

 any way. trying to escape, that one.

 

so we are agreed. I will have her first

   take her daily dose of acrimony,

prophylactic against incurable

  strains of raging idealism,

      and stand-still-be-silent maker.

    she’ll take her beatings, and wrap

her body tight in cellophane

      to hide swellings, contusions,

        control accidental bleeding

into a smoother, palatable package

           for delivery.

 

over that, she will mold herself

   into feminine something or other shapes,

     and layer her clothes for her role

  today, like all days- easy to shed

         and reorder, as demanded

    she is taking a moment now, says

        she is debilitated from internal

      hemorrhage; hold on while we

transfuse her veins- we’ve inserted a

    catheter into her right atrium

       for the purpose, and this should not take

   too much time from her productivity.

 

ok we have her requisite smile appliqued

   and she has donned the worn coat

      you gave her at birth- it is lovely

    how it is finally starting to fit her,

       but honestly you would think

she’d do something about

     those embarrassing attempts

           at patched holes. so unsightly-

   she really should take more

       pride in her appearance but

    as you know-

 there is just no getting through

    to some people.

 

yes, she has positioned your charges

  as requested, one on each hip,

      arms full, and the heaviest

   on her back, and she is ready to

rotate suckling all three from

   her two swollen breasts

      as she goes about her chores

 balancing them and using both hands

  to prepare the day’s offerings;

        your standard daily special:

 

7-course meals in three genres

    and yes, she knows she will be

       graded on each one by your

     appointed regime of critics,

and she also knows she must treat

       each one as you, for you

    hide inside lessons everywhere;

I must say, that was pure genius,

     on your part.

      

she says: I am ready to begin, anew

  but she has one question, for you-

    uppity little b***h now I see,

      let’s hope she does not forget

  to be grateful for the air you

     gave her this time. she says,

   I know what you want from me,

I think; but why, oh why

   could you have not also provided

    me a simple coat of armor

       in that wardrobe?

 

whatever the hell that

        is supposed to mean.

 

 

 

Author's Note

line 3, "imaginal" is a biology term; refers to "imaginal bud"- the leftover cell cluster in a cocoon that reprograms the animal's liquefied body into its adult, metamorphised form (a butterfly or moth)

Reviews

[Saint No-One]

This transfixed me. I love the image of a woman beaten down but rising up, questioning the roles placed upon her as she moves from one position of oppression to another, finally demanding her metamorphosis into what she was programmed to be the "imaginal" bud of her spirit taking up armor to fight back and be free. Truly beautiful. Strikes me as a brilliant swirling mixture of Blake and Angelou. I look forward to reading more of your work.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks for the review, Saint. We are all programmed. I find the irony is that most women are more attuned than men to knowing this fact, and often less empowered to act on it. I am glad my writing touched you as it did.

[Jen]

.

[Fernando Pessoa]

I read your words and become speechless in the moment of thoughts released. The metamorphosis of life transcends time and space; somehow brings us all to these places of transition. We die or we rise anew; those are the only two choices we face. Let us all have the courage to rise.

"The butterfly is a flying flower,
The flower a tethered butterfly."
~Ponce Denis Écouchard Lebrun

[Ken Simm.]

To be given the due
irrespective of the job you do
Although what they say does vex
It matters not what sex.

'Any man who says he can see through woman, is missing out on an awfu lot.'
Groucho Marx.

[Marie Anzalone]

you made me smile when I read this yesterday, and again coming back to your worss, today. thank you.

[Marie Anzalone]

*words

[De 'Anthony Subban II]

I like your writing

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you for the comment, De 'Anthony

[Tree]

It's interesting to me when I hear a woman's no holds bar perspective on how she see's herself in the world. But it's also interesting that many view their roles (relative to their female peers), so differently. I think it is because so few of them take the time to step away from themselves, or even have the luxury to do so. Or as you have suggested, programmed not to notice it or question it. Biologically, and of course, socially. The woman's role as it pertains to the human condition is heavy, and they are pillars of vast strength, in their own right.

In regards to your format and the poetic devices you implemented here, I liked how you framed it all. I saw this as a spoken word type piece where the poet engages the listeners, jumping from first person to the third person with ease, all the while speaking directly to the audience, and whispering into their subconscious: red pill? Or the blue one?....

[Marie Anzalone]

It had always felt to me that a man was praised for his ambition, and rewarded for a job well done; whereas a woman was criticized for hers and her work taken for granted. A man who aspires to be great is told, "do good things and get a woman to keep your house clean." A woman is told to not make herself unfeminine in her endeavors, make sure she keeps her own house clean, and that excellence from her is just prt fo the daily expectation. We as fellow women have a tendency to find insidiuos ways to hold the best and brightest of our kindred in roles that are way too small for them with our excessive demands and petty criticisms on weight, appearance, wordiness, etc. We expect them to be self-sufficient, self-healing, and self-supportive. To walk among the world's battlefields and hurts without armor.

As oyu imply, I wonder how many of us stop and contemplate what an enormous amount of energy it takes a woman to just get out of bed every morning and torture her spirit into compliance for each day's toil? I see it all the time, and feel so powerless to do anything sometimes.

Thank you, my friend, for getting this one.

[Cool Handless Luke]

"and she has donned the worn coat
you gave her at birth- it is lovely
how it is finally starting to fit her,"

"for you
hide inside lessons everywhere;
I must say, that was pure genius,
on your part."

these two parts really jumped out at me. there's lots of imagery here. brutal and bare and violent - and yet these two contain the reality below the surface that you never see coming. they are passive and yet they are perhaps the most aggressive or insightful. I need to get on here more. I must admit in the past I was on here more to be read than to read. Ego maybe? But works like this make me wanna read more without thinking about being read. "whatever the hell that is supposed to mean." lol

[Marie Anzalone]

It is wonderful after all this time to see a new review from you, CHL. You always had this knack of understanding my shadow when I let her out to either rage or play. You see right through me as the narrator in this, and you know exactly who is speaking, and to whom. I appreciate that. To put it bluntly, I would say that I wish some days for a suit of the armor you pretend to have. But what do we know anyway?

As for reading/ being read I have stuck with the site, almost leaving at several points when great writers left, I was being harassed, and life was overwhelming. I always found someone/ something to keep me here. I am still being harassed, vey few review me, soem of the greatest writers have left recently, and life will never be kinder to women drawn like me. But I still come here, because there is mastery, there is connection, and the writers with whom I have developed a relationship; really are engaged in their craft. I have learned just as much reading, reviewing, and commenting- more than- as I have from writing. we all find our own balance. I get criticised daily. There is a paranoid fool from Ohio who is convinced that I am out to "get him." No really, I am not making that up. But I stay because of people like you who teach me and support me with every word you put to page. If you want other names, let me know, I will gladly supply a few writers old and new whom I think you would enjoy.

[iliOZ]

use "imaginary" to clear all waters for this beautifully complex poem
thanks

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you for the suggestion, iliOZ. I tried it on for size in my mind, and am worried that "imaginary" has a completely different connotation form the word that I selected. "Imaginal" has a very specific context and meaning attached to it, in a generative, active, focused sense; "imaginary" to me sounds made-up, and thus easily dismissed. My point here is how much it takes to subdue the imaginal, and to what lengths we will go in order to hold back, overwhelm, and bring down our best and brightest.

[iliOZ]

there is nothing else left for me than to bow my head

[Emily B]

i'm ready for that transformation, where do i get that imaginal bud?

i want to leave behind the bent and broken and try out some wings for a while

[Marie Anzalone]

Where does one find it? You are born with it. Look in silent spaces. She is there. The surroundings have to be quiet enough to hear her whispering to you.

Thanks... for getting it.

[Emily B]

:)