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Okay, I have a reason for posting this that will become apparent soonish. Maybe by the end of the day. This is a poem I wrote, it's dated under the cut, at the end, and somehow it's managed to worm its way into something else. >.> Anyways. It's free-verse. Mostly. There's some rhyme going on, but it's not consistent and I'm pretty sure I didn't even attempt to stick to any rules at the time.




Ask Next Time You Want to Steal My Innocence

Leda dropped an egg and birthed
beauty and betrayal.
The world applauded Zeus for his
role in the matter.

No one asked the staggering girl
if she minded taking center stage
in this historic moment.
Or if she'd rather have no part in it,
thank you.
No, no one bothered.

And after her brief, strange
helpless
fifteen minutes of fame . . .
Guess what?
The audience who watched, awed, the swan make history in violent measure . . .
They left.
The place deserted.
The stage empty
save for one broken girl with only martyred innocence
for company.

Don't cry, Leda.
Company comes.
See, they march two by two
or three by three.
Even four by four
through the theatre door to kneel by your side
and say
"We know. We understand."
Others of your status
and those not quite, who could not take flight
all know. None were asked.

There stands Lavinia.
She speaks with her eyes. Chin caked with blood.
Useless stumps flail.
She knows. She was not asked.

Jean d'Arc.
Burned alive for daring
to speak to God.
Burned in another way for daring to be female
and speak to God.
She knows. She was not asked.

Over here, the nun with head bowed.
Her habits no longer protect.
The church no longer sanctuary. She knows.
She cried out to God
who could only shed rain for tears.
She was not asked.

Here is the child
who dares not play in her yard anymore.
No knowledge of what she did
so wrong
to deserve the punishment received.
Mommy cries; bad memories hauled into light.
Of the car and the night and the
offered drinks
and the denial of wrong done.
They know. They were not asked.

A business woman, strong in the boardroom.
Spiked heels to add height.
No good done on the walk
from the building to the car.
Torn from her height, ripped from her strength.
She knows. She was not asked.

They all know.

The goddess, the mortal.
The princess, the peasant.
The doctor, the cashier.
The politician, the priest.
The human, the beast.

The woman looking into her newborn child's face who sees a stranger.

The mother, the daughter, the Christian, the Buddhist.
The beggar, the screamer, the weeper, the silent.

The young and the old.
The black and the white.
The ones who lay still
and the women who fight.

None were asked, Leda, none were asked.
Like you, who were not the first
And have not been the last.
They know. They all know, Leda.

The world still applauds Zeus,
the swan who took your choice.
He still reigns.
And we still pay.

September 16, 2002

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
impervection
Aug. 12th, 2010 08:55 pm (UTC)
I can't quite wrap my mind around the format of the poem, but it's powerful stuff, anyway.
celestineangel
Aug. 12th, 2010 09:42 pm (UTC)
Probably because there really is no format. I don't stick to any rules when I write poetry (which isn't often), I just go for the gut-punch: powerful images, fewer words than prose, a structure that's a lot to do with visual impact.

Thanks for reading. :)
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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