This Is Not Another Man Bashing Poem, Just an Observation

It’s hard to be a poet and a female one at that.

I say poet, not poetess because the latter is idiotic and fuck political correctness. The fact is there is discrimination and for poets, it reigns supreme. A man, for instance, can write of anything. Nothing’s off the table even topics too taboo banned from my list will cause women to swoon and other men to beat their fists in appreciation of the very not-to-be-mentioned. Let’s take a closer peek—

I cannot write flowery prose or of a romantic tryst, heated sin or of love’s first kiss. If I pen these things, I’m a cliché an eye roll or a cheap trick. But my male counterpart can get away with all of these and use punctuation as he sees fit. Look, I’m guilty too of the swoon. Bukowski gets me in the bones, e.e. cummings swallows my dark heart—whole, and Neruda can wad my panties in a twist. And these are greats, at least in my book.

Perhaps, it’s because we women are the hardest critics of them all when it comes to other women and their fall. And why are we so cruel? If I’m too pretty I’m a slut, too wordy I’m a fool, too chatty I’m a twit. All of this is utter bullshit. Judge me it’s okay. It won’t make a difference either way.

Plath and Sexton (gals with some meat in their soul) confessional poets who made their mark. You see, they didn’t waste their time with highbrow idiocy because they felt relegated to these things. They reached right in and tore out organs so you could feast.

So here’s the thing… I don’t write of lush lips and summer days, or the political parade as the carnival comes to town. I will write. But I’m the delirious sort of serious poet who has no clue what to say. I’m on a meaty exploration, a field trip of wordplay. Mind-fuckery and a fighting chance. I try to paint this canvas with my mental mind-waves. I’m not pretty or witty, and small-talk is a bore. But I’m me, a writer with this disease called poetry.

once your eyes have opened
there is no turning back
hold a candle to the sun
and you’ll know futility

© Grace Black

imageNational Poetry Month: Day 12


Prompt: Sorta did mah own thing today.



30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.

Love and Ink,


    1. Aw! My dear poet friend, thank you for taking the time to comment. This was an exercise in stream writing. Just playing around with random thoughts. I’ve found (on this new path) that giving a voice to the randomness at times is more useful the the product of result.

      Thank you for your continued support and sideline cheers. You are a wonderful inspiration to me and many. xx

  1. I love women artists precisely because I want to know how they really experience life- hell, I already know how men experience it. I will never know the discrimination that a women knows, so I appreciate your candor here.

    I try not to categorize writers into genres, only into categories of whether they speak to me or not. For what it;s worth, your prose spoke to me.

    With gratitude,
    Buddah Moskowitz, Unrepentant Feminist

    1. Thank you kindly for taking the time to peruse my prose. Your comment is a lovely compliment. I find that when I doubt what I should “post” or what I deem social acceptable for the blog that is precisely what I need to do. Take chances, be real, expose raw or unpopular beliefs, or post randomness and nonsense. All of these things feel a tad scary. But that is where I find the “magic” happens and the growth occurs.

      Thank you again for taking the time to read and comment and indulging me on this little escapade.

    1. You know I respect you immensely, Jim. Those four words and the “full stop” just confirmed why I wrote this yesterday. And why I decided to share it publicly.

      Thank you, my friend!

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