on why i write.

all

the tears

of my

foremothers,

spill

hot

relief

onto the pages

that i write.

i weep in ink.

— on why i write.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

These last few weeks (on social media) have been really hard.

I have wanted to cut myself off.

From the anger.

From the heartache of women who remain, unbelieved.

I have, instead, decided to write even more transparently — even more bluntly, than ever before.

There are women, who share my DNA and those who are my sisters by the sharing of hearts, and wombs and fears — women not known to me, but whose stories share the same ancient refrain.

Whose voices need to be heard — need to be honoured.

This, is why I write.

nothing has changed.

i walked along the lapping edge of a loch, seeking

the mute swan

who speaks her

peace

without a sound, finding

solace beneath the

tender canopy

of ash and

sycamore, for the world

is bleeding from her bones and every woman

that I carry within my

dna is afraid, it has

always been this way

the feminal voices whisper.

nothing has changed.

nothing

has

changed, since we buried

our bruises under layers

of silent resignation, carrying

the world in our womb

and our word

still

not

enough.

so, i take them by the hand

lead them by waters that

are quiet

and still,

seeking

the peace

of the wild things, the robin

calling from the undergrowth

and the wary fallow deer

always watchful,

of man

in this sylvan glade, where

nothing has changed.

nothing

has

changed.

— nothing has changed.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

EDIT: I have stumbled upon a beautiful poem by Wendell Berry, called ‘The Peace of the Wild Things’.

And in honour of his exquisite words — you really should read it — I have changed the title of my poem to ‘Nothing has changed.’

The Interview.

“Right,” He said, eyes roving over her with interest, “What can you bring to the marriage?”

She looked at him as if he were the only man in the room; to her, he was the very oxygen she needed in order to survive, “I will love you with every fibre of my being. Until I die, everything that I am will be yours.”

He nodded slowly, “Right… erm, but can you iron a straight pleat in formal trousers? It’s really an essential skill in a woman, you know?”

Things we must teach our daughters.

There is a type of man

with a heart as grey,

and dreary as a damp winter’s day,

who will compel you to

dim your light;

monochrome your kaleidoscope of colours,

in order to feel like a real man.

This is not Love.

No matter how it is dressed up.

He is a fatal disease that will

consume

you

from the inside out,

until the only thing left of you is a

husk.

A ghostly imprint of the

masterpiece

you were created to be.

Run from him.

Do not look back.

You are so much more.

– Things we must teach our daughters.