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Literature Text
I dream of them, the nameless women.
Young and old, condemned and broken.
I dream of the simple women
The poor women
The women who could not hide.
I dream of mothers who do not
Know the faces of their babies.
I dream of women harmed as I was harmed
And then cast away in blame.
I dream of splintering the doors
And defying the Sisters with my words
My ringing words.
I dream of running through stone halls
Shouting
Giving names back to the women.
I dream of playing Moses
Leading the fallen women out
Freeing them from false shame.
I dream that we leave that place
Laughing, a living tide of women
Running for the low sweet hills.
I dream of tears, of joyful faces.
Their clambering words
And we plan to free the others, the children.
I dream of sad women made hopeful.
I dream of justice.
I dream of freeing the Magdalenes.
Young and old, condemned and broken.
I dream of the simple women
The poor women
The women who could not hide.
I dream of mothers who do not
Know the faces of their babies.
I dream of women harmed as I was harmed
And then cast away in blame.
I dream of splintering the doors
And defying the Sisters with my words
My ringing words.
I dream of running through stone halls
Shouting
Giving names back to the women.
I dream of playing Moses
Leading the fallen women out
Freeing them from false shame.
I dream that we leave that place
Laughing, a living tide of women
Running for the low sweet hills.
I dream of tears, of joyful faces.
Their clambering words
And we plan to free the others, the children.
I dream of sad women made hopeful.
I dream of justice.
I dream of freeing the Magdalenes.
Literature
We Are All Going
Thomas Edison's last words were:
It's very beautiful over there.
And Mr Barrie said: I can't sleep
Before he dreamed his way to Neverland.
And seventy-four years later,
When it was Mr Jobs' time to go
He said Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow
Before he left this world.
Let's go and see the other side
And touch the clouds with our lost lives.
But maybe there's just plain old darkness,
That's familiar even though it's cold.
Mr Darwin said he was not afraid,
And Ms Austen asked for nothing but it
The revolution that was Mr Marx said:
Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.
And no they didn't, they never said enough.
You may never
Literature
The Change
Miss Basildon liked us. Our parents often let her baby-sit, but they didn't bother telling her where they were going. Before she arrived, they'd write down all the important phone numbers and give them to Anne.
I was the fourth child, so Miss Basildon had been coming since before I could remember. Anne and Lucy told me that she used to lean over my cot, fondling my hands and saying, 'Such sharp little fingers.' Joseph joined them in telling me how she used to pull down my lip with her forefinger and say, 'Such pointed little teeth.' I remember well how she used to run her fingers through
Literature
Undressing Poetry
She clothes herself in poetry,
seals her skin within the verse.
Each line becomes another garment
that conceals her fixed form's curvature,
but peels away when read.
Last night I dissected a stanza,
clamped it tight between my teeth
and tugged it down her legs.
Her body breathes warm and sweet,
speckled red like a summer strawberry field.
I sucked the juice from her lines and
spit the punctuation like seeds.
My lips mouthed the shape of her words
as my skin grew more sticky with
every splash of imagery dripping down my chin.
I peeled apart her soft pages
with sticky, pink fingertips that left them
clinging to my skin.
A sing
Suggested Collections
The poem is mine, the shame is Ireland's.
© 2011 - 2024 DoctorMadwoman
Comments8
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Unfortunately, this is all too true.