New poem by Linda M. Crate
i am angry
that all these years later
i still remember and think about
what you’ve done,
of how everyone thinks you’re a good man
despite the fact i know you’re not;
you tried to force yourself
when we were but kids—
& later in college when i thought i was
finally recovering from the trauma of not being
able to trust anyone,
you found me;
and you smirked at me saying,
“i bet you don’t remember me”
knowing full well that i did as i froze unable
to move or speak
eyes wide in horror as i saw you
someone i thought i would never have to see
they say you’re a good man,
but i know better;
any time someone says a person is a good man
i don’t trust them because good men are introduced
by their character not everyone assuring one another
the other person means no harm—
i don’t know why people deny there are predators
it’s as if they don’t want to more closely examine
their friends and kin.
New poem by Tara Menon
You’re hurting because the boy
didn’t say much to you.
The dinner was just a pretense.
We all knew you’d be sizing each other up,
you, an Indian-American,
and he, an Indian who’d become Americanized.
Sparks didn’t fly,
though you and he had every reason
to like each other.
You’re smart, charming, and friendly,
and he’s handsome, sweet, and reserved.
He shouldn’t have remained tongue-tied.
Ten minutes was all it took
for me to know the evening wasn’t going anywhere.
Jane Austen warned me
about the perils of match-making in Emma,
but I didn’t listen to her authoritative voice.
She knew men and women so well
and human nature hasn’t changed three centuries later
in any of the continents.
She’s still highly regarded,
the spinster writer, who was engaged
for less than twenty-four hours.
Like Emma, I’ve brought myself
a notch or two down in self-esteem,
and I need to make amends to you, my Harriet.
You are not really like that fictional Harriet Smith,
but a bright, promising young woman.
I just hope you never lose that confidence
that you wear so well.
As for me, perhaps I should retire from this business,
but I’ll try once more for your sake.
New poem by Teresa G. Stankiewicz
She screams in the deep still night.
Her pain grips her in a suffocating hold.
She is lonely, emptiness is all around her.
She feels like a tiny moth left out in the dark. She can’t attempt the light.
It looks like a round moon drawing her closer, closer in a hypnotizing trance.
Still she is motionless.
I must get up. I must reach my wings and flutter.
Still she is motionless.
I can see others fall to the ground. Do we all?
New poem by Elinor Clark
Oh strange, spiky plant.
Though stunted, you still stretch upwards,
Desperately digging in roots.
But with each growth remember the tub that you’re held in.
Nowhere to go.
Thick, plastic looking skin
Inflicted with some serious malady.
Will scare anyone away.
Put the spikes up.
Pretend that’s what you want.
New poem by Casey Catherine Moore
Is the bottled-up emotions, forced down by Uranus into Gaia’s belly
The tears that leak out after ages of suppression
Our oppression is when the words
Are trapped on the backs of our tongues
And feelings pull forth instead
Like the last bit of honey oozing from the jar
They call us hysterical, a word tied to the darkness of the womb, hystera
But you need no womb to be a woman and to be a woman is to be transcendent
They teach us to be givers, to twist ourselves in different spaces
They tell us we are both Madonnas and whores
They build the gilded cage and ask us to dance
And call us bossy when we make the rules
When Pandora was made from Earth Phobos screamed
And man took heed and tried to shovel her back down
But woman is necessity, Ananke, and because she is darkness she is the only thing who
can chase away Night.
New poem by M. Magee
All telling stories
Like tender snowflakes
All part of a raging storm
They call to me
And to you
And to all of us
Rage! Die! Kill! Scream!
Don’t let the mean ones in
Don’t let the nice ones out
Don’t let me out
Rage against the machine.
Such an awesome word
Tracing snow-angels after the storm
One, Two, Three
Angels in a row
All Her Stories left there
Three dead snow-angels
New poem by Tanasha Martin
I am laid bare.
An ink tattoo
with scarlet cells
my body welcomes
and warms, and
as is written,
I take my place
and multiply –
an option you should appreciate
and you say you do, but you
I am exposed.
of once tiny scarlet cells
to a body
and warmed, and
as is written,
I took my place
and she multiplied –
but no options were ever appreciated,
only met with white-knuckled
We live on display.
shunned by the blind; we
and torn, and
as is written
you take your
and as hypocrites do, multiply –
For the options of outrage are reciprocal,
its fury seizes you by the throat.
Our ears will repeatedly ring
with spurious sentiment,
but it should subdue and
soothe our souls to know:
is not an admirable attribute.
Breeds no mercy in your belief.
When hate is what you live to breed – promote,
Mercy is what you will have revoked.
New poem by Kim Malinowski
I bet Aphrodite didn’t have to shave her armpits,
no, she would go natural.
A goddess doesn’t have to conform
to societal pressures—
she is the pressure, the ideal, the embodiment
of desire and sensualness.
So, when I think of Aphrodite,
I think of her naked self as hairy,
maybe her navel a little linty.
Maybe her hair doesn’t cascade
to her waist and maybe both of her breasts
aren’t plump, maybe one is a little lopsided,
and the other a little red at the base.
She has curves and a belly—after all
she ate all that goddess food.
And her eyes are lightning, daring humans
with her sumptuousness, her dazzling bounty.
She spins and the heavens just drool.
That’s what rain is.
Goddesses don’t shave, they just look damn good
in whatever they wear, and do it with pizazz.
That’s right: S/tick Issue 4.4 Angry/Mad is finally here!
What you’ll find inside:
And watch here for more Angry/Mad blog posts in the coming months! We will be posting a new piece 1-2 times per week.
Please share widely so we can reach more feminist readers and encourage more feminist writers!