In honor of Women's History Month 2020 (March) and National Poetry Writing Month (April), this is a double-themed poetry collection. Activism is a constantly continuing narrative; one generation's fight is passed on to the next. Many religions include an element of transformation- changes that seep through bone to soul. The title of this collection came to me while reading all of these wonderful submissions- all of these poems hinge on transformation and continuation,
themes highly reminiscent of women activists and religion.
Quantum Mechanics and Astrophysicists
by Vita
Vita is a poet and science enthusiast. She particularly enjoys blending her passion for learning about space, chemistry, physics, and computer science into her writing. You can find more of her writing at vitavolopoetry.blogspot.com.
One Step at a Time by Caraline Hansen
Caraline is an 8th-grader from New England who loves gardening, baking, and photography. She spends most of her time either writing (of course) or playing with her dog.
My Rosary
by Rowan Saxelbye
Rowan Saxelbye lives in England. He spends his time taking long walks in the rain and trying to communicate some sort of feeling through writing.
The following poem, Goddamaged, is by Alexis Hart, a seventeen year old aspiring poet, artist, and creative writer. She's been published in several local collections including a literary art journal for teens in her city and her community colleges literary magazine. She would one day love to publish a book of her own poetry.
I am a God-fearing woman, goddangerous.
But I fear the words associated with the
choice of my personal inclination. My holy
confession, my holy repentance. Goddrawn.
I see everything in the small things. Brought to
tears by the incomprehensible beauty of the
skyline. The spider. The ironwood.
I am a God-fearing woman, goddefiant. Taken aback
by the harm caused by professing a belief without an
understanding of the reality. Masquerading as
iconoclastic revolutionist while burying something
much more sinister. Hell Is Real signs along Interstate
65. Confess before you die. Shouting salvation on
street corners to ears that will not listen. Hearts
hardened by years of abuse perpetuated by men who
do not really understand the words they speak.
Screech. Straight from the devil, prosperity gospel.
Silver-tongued hate, flames comprised of nothing but
white lies and guilt burning into the skin of
unsuspecting victims. They just want a break.
Goddamaged.
I am a God-fearing woman, goddeprived. Looking for
Eden in everything. Uncertain what I’ve been called to,
afraid to hear a voice that tells me something other than
what I want to hear him say. Hiding from his sight in the
hopes that he won’t see me for who I am. Won’t see the the
parts I keep tucked away
underneath layers of self
protection.
I am a God-fearing woman. I
am a God-loving woman. I
am a God-hiding woman. I
am a God-ashamed woman,
and I can’t bring myself to use the same words that someone
else has used to hurt. So I bury my head in the sand and tell
them that “God will come” along someday and save us all
from our hiding and hating and I guess I’m no better than
Peter, thrice denying, self-proclaiming follower of a Christ
that I can’t see.
Every time I begin to wonder if I believe in a God simply because it is
comfortable I feel stones in my ribs, and upsetting of the goddarling way of
thinking. He is angry and maybe He’s angry at me but at least it means I am
feeling something.
Goddangerous. Goddrawn. Goddefiant. Goddamaged. They’re all
the same thing, the same wrestlings with an impossible
compromise between eyes and hands and heart and lies. And
maybe I won’t be here tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll burn in an insufferable rage until I am a martyr at my
own hands. A death of all the irreconcilable points because if I am
a sinner for loving or for dying then I will do both and ask
forgiveness
at the feet of whatever God (dangerous, drawn,
defiant) I find waiting.
And finally, two poems by yours truly. The first, pictured right, is Prayerworks. The poem below is titled Can You Hear Claudette?
Bravery does not know age and sometimes defies law
When the rules we set are not in keeping with justice’s call
You’ve probably heard of Rosa Parks and the day she refused to leave
The seat set out for white folk and by law out of a Black person’s reach
But Claudette Colvin held her ground nine months before Rosa Parks did, too
She was carted away to an adults’ prison, fifteen years old to Parks’ forty two
Fiery insults hurled at her and her personhood ignored
Montgomery police abused Claudette; called her n-word girl and more
I sing her name today and hope her story is told
To remind activists of the shoulders we stand on and inspire a new generation to be bold.
If you'd like to contribute art, photographs, poetic prose, poetry, or personal narratives to the upcoming May and June poetry posts, a submission portal will be available soon! Until then, you can email questions to seekingjoyandjustice@gmail.com or comment them down below.
Additionally, if you'd like to read more poetry in this time of isolation and quarantine, you can check out my latest project- a work of art and coding I co-created with artist and steminist Caroline here.
Thank you for reading!