Poesía: para estar calientitas en noviembre

¡Hola hola!

Ya llegó Noviembre y con ello:

1. Las bufandas calentitas

2. Los calcetines suaves

3. Chocolate caliente tras la escuela

4. Tomarse la mano en los bolsillos

5. Las luces de navidad en las calles

Aquí en Féminas también os traemos poesía para calentar un poco este frío con ya toque invernal (os escribo desde Holanda). Esta vez traemos a chicas como tú o como yo – de hecho, ¡como la mayoría!- que esconden sus poemas entre cuadernos de clase y que escriben principalmente para sí mismas.

¡Disfrutad!

Besos y abrazos calentitos,

Marina

I read a book about the virgin mary (Amanda Dochy)

Her body - bearing the son of god

Becoming, no longer hers - all of history’s, ceased to be -

Her meaning derivative of all the withered wisdom of the patriarchs

Celibacy and purity and chastity - a body with no history

Eve, hers, becoming the pain that it had to bear

A consequence for her own meaning-making

Two , became one in the eyes of all those minds

Stammering, spitting over those forms of meaning that bodies do make

Her womb was her meaning

In the eyes of all of history

How difficult it is for me

To tell myself

That it isn’t the same for me

Announcement (Madeline King)

I’m afraid you’re watching as I disappear into choices,

as I curl my fingers around the paper-metal blinds and draw them in.

I’m not leaving, I promise. My reasoning is sound.

I’m afraid you’re watching as I submerge myself in hours

upon the pale floorboards and pick through my old toys:

blue blocks, ceramic cats, bendy-limbed dolls, bottle cap pies.

I’m still afraid you’re watching as I pull away

to watch myself again in this unwatched state. I try

and then I stop. It’s taking far too long. I’m still afraid

of being watched and falling short, of being too young

and growing too soft, of discarding my bottle cap pies

and being too old, of never looking back to meet your gaze.

process (Nour Khairi)

when she wakes up

tell her she looks like a sunrise but a quiet one

shes always been the quiet kind

the kind to stand and wait in the sidelines

but no kind at all, shes a bit like a singing whale

its unlikely you will get to witness her

but she is like the sun in autumn

i mean showing up unexpected

like how these words show up unexpected

but never a muse, she is the words themselves

she is the sculptor and the sculpture and the entire process in between

she waits and waits for something that never arrives like the wind blew it away before it got to her

shes the bird on the twig watching or the twig itself or leaves that fall in autumn

shes a lot like autumn, never resting on spring or winter just an in-between where anything is possible

Untitled (Lana Bojanić)

We'll miss the postman, love

But I want to sit here a bit more!

The sun is small and people are tall

I put my lipstick on every morning, but

My lips are still two wooden matches

Kiss me when I introduce you to my colleagues

And what about that postman?

I think they've even moved my photo

Behind the ceramic fish or the Bible,

That's why I have troubles falling asleep

Let's go to the flea market or learn curling

Let's go to the dinner organised by Christian youth

And not think about our parents, not until the dessert

Let's pretend we've just met

That you don't know how skin on my back

Is checkered with fear like a coat lining

That I don't know how you flirt with the postman

Let's not speak the same language!

Ask me in English: 'How do you do?'

'Que sera, sera'

Ask me if my dad liked Shawshank Redemption

And about the smell of my mother's palms

When she covered my eyes during sex scenes

It feels like my teeth are growing again, love

They'll try to hunt me down for ivory soon,

The whole gangs of poachers and tooth fairies

So let's stay here

Let them think we went to wait for

Your fucking postman, new IKEA catalog

And the reminder from utility company

Let's trick them

They don't know I cannot feel my feet

Or the chlotespins on the fabric of my back anymore

Might've been the cold? Might've been the empty chair?

Or it might've been the bags under the postman's eyes

In which I've packed all of my belongings and

Now I cannot find anything of value anymore.

Untitled (Sama Khosravi Ooryad)

“We are the women’s association of Iran, looking at you in the eye,

We are the eyes of a future to come, a future for the women of Iran,

We know this would happen eventually, that women of Iran and the world, will come together for freedom, for love, for sisterhood, that’s why we, in 1932, are looking at you in the eye.

You will find us someday in the archives, will write about us, about our efforts and pains, about our ways and all.”

The voices are in my head, the voices of the women of the past

I look at the image and again

Something remains vague and again

I feel I should remember them all,

In a primitive dream, or

In a tribe my ancestors were used to stay

But I cannot see them in the eye,

Their eyes are eyes of history, eyes looking at me, here and now.

My heart’s beating, my heart’s beating

And oh, I see their hats, some in fur, some not, sign of modernity and the west.

I see their beautiful shiny hair, none with Hijab or scarf, except three or some more,

Women of my country, my past, I try to remember you as a long lasting image

As a morning dew, on my shared memory’s fingertip.

Then the man of the image, what about them? They seem to be important officials, wearing even army’s suits

But that’s not of my interest or concern. Instead, I see them “in the back” where they have stood “behind” the women and that’s happening all in one image, in 1932.

Or maybe, they are the husbands of these women, only the husbands, and because of their renowned wives, they have been asked to be included to this image. This makes me delighted to see, to see this image for good

But again,

One of them is shining more and more, and she is the founder of the association: Sedigheh Dowlatabadi.

I look at her hands, her fingers twisted into each other, and her head, upright and confident, looking at the camera (us?) very seriously.

Oh sister my sister! We are carrying your flag, and I wish we had more documents from you and your community

But alas, that we do not have much archive, of your brilliant efforts, which makes the sacred fight even more demanding

All of you are our consciousness and pride, our joy and glory, our passion and light

For the way we are in

And I

A humble researcher,

Am deeply happy, to find a photo of you

In the archive's website

Collages: Inés Cardó (@inescdo)

Fotografía: Women association of Iran, 1932. Photograph. IICHS Archive, Tehran

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