Feminist Poets

Recently I have been preparing for an upcoming Sunday Service at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Ames.  I said I would speak on leaving my work as their religious educator and finding my calling in the work I do now, advocacy for victims of sexual assault and abuse.  I was sure that some edgy poem would exemplify and explain all that.  Not so, unless there is some poem I have not yet found.  I am in awe of the clarity and articulation of Feminist Poets.  I know I probably share some of their experiences, but it feels vain to make such a comparison.  A safer route, it seems to me, is to go with the words of the mystics.  Here is a poem I wrote about my experience in searching the poetry of women with powerful, stern voices.

Feminist Poets

I search my personal library’s

tomes, then the internet,

for the works of Feminist Poets

that speak my truth.

I want to find words that explain

to you who do not understand –

just how powerful I am and

how real my struggle has been.

I spend hours surfing, reading,

folding the corners, bookmarking sites.

I’ll come back to these if I can’t find

anything  better.  I’ve been at this all night.

Every minute or so, my head nods, jerks back awake - 

until finally I allow a brief dream-filled sleep.

I dream of a beach late at night where I

observe a secret gathering I will never be invited to join.

Walker, Atwood, Piercy, Plath, and Angelou.

There they are, sitting around a fire with their drinks,

laughing hysterically at the small, nervous

woman just outside their formation.

“Hang on,” sniffles a frustrated Oliver.  She

licks her thumb to get better traction on her pages

and pages of notes.  She is searching for

the words she’s written to impress this powerful circle.

“I write about Nature and Spirit,

Soul and Struggle, Creation, Geese –

metaphors for everything you all write about.”

The laughter stops with her comparisons. 

Guffaws become cynical smirks. Angelou’s eyes

fix on Oliver, “You let them off the hook. . . .” 
Oliver cannot argue with that.

She drops her notes and walks away.

I wake with a start, aware that I do not deserve

to compare my life to the struggles of Feminist Poets.

I get up to open a window in my room, sit back down to

open my laptop.  I google Rumi, Hafiz, Oliver.

                                                ~ Lori Allen ©2017