The clouds are // following each other // Into Eternity
Reblogged from forthedamagedcoda
Women’s History Month: March 3, Warsan Shire
Warsan Shire is a London-based, Kenyan-born, Somali writer whose powerful poetry has left me blown away each time I read it. In her book of poetry “Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth” Shire explores the relationship of women’s bodies to war and displacement.
Check out this interview if you’d like to learn more. If you’re a writer or poet or someone who just enjoys being knocked off your feet by words, read all the poetry!
“If our secrets are secrets because we are told to be ashamed, then we must share them.”
Warsan Shire, you are a true inspiration and an empowering woman.
Reblogged from warsanshire
The neighborhood boys have grown taller
than their absent fathers.
My girl use to be one of the boys,
throat a gun tossed in to a river
fist fight for a mouth
bag of ice for a father.
Then her body grew soft where she did not want it soft
grew full, grew heavy, grew ripe
if the boys see then the boys will become hungry.
My girl avoids mirrors
binds her breasts like a secret
buries the dead in between her legs
every month bleeds like she is a wound
calls out the names of the dead like lottery numbers
and all the names sound like her own.
My girl picks her father from a list of fatherless rappers,
measures her thighs in her bedroom
is on a diet, forever
is a red balloon stolen from a party
deflating in a corner.
Her first kiss, a boy who does not like girls
unless they are face down on a mattress.
My girl has a blank cd for a father,
the back seat of car for a mother.
Once in a basement when the music was on
and she thought no one was looking
and she could not help herself
and the body wanted to move
and the body it did move
and the body became almost sound,
she was wet from the bass in her stomach.
Everyone wanted to be like her,
that splinter in the oversized shirt.
My girl is the knife in the family portrait
the miscarriage at the sleepover
pink bubblegum expanding from a whores lips
riding the carousel with a nose bleed
glitter in a coffin
confetti in the barrel of a gun,
My girl is holy, is sacred, is pure
is clean, is loved, is whole, is beautiful
is worthy, is okay, is alone, is just fine
just the way you are girl
just the way you look babe
with that dirty mouth
and those hands, wherever they have been
and that sadness, whatever caused it
and that anger, wherever it came from
and that fear, who ever brought it
you are my girl, girl, you are me.
Reblogged from thisbirdhasflown
Mary Oliver, “How I Go to the Woods” from Swan: Poems and Prose Poems (Beacon Press, 2010)