Fastenings and thick strings
Daintily her feet hang down, that trademark
Serene smile playing across her ruby lips.
Roughly they lace her, clean and white: pure, they call her, pure as the
Virgin dew on the farthest mountains on the night of eclipse.
Her eyes flutter, she tries to catch her breath in vain, she is dead.
Ravenous she awakes from her grave, Poised even in her
Fury, her golden locks like forest fire fly untamed
Her bindings tattered, the claws of her feet clutch the ground firmly
In vengeance, she revolves to strike down, them who shall be unnamed.
Demurely she sits, casting her eyes down at the ends of her silken
Heavy gown. A pretty doll she is, they agree appreciatively.
She can only listen while they bind her with painful spasms. None too bright, they call her.
Best leave her affairs in our able hands, they cry, clucking their tongues in feigned sympathy.
She rolls down the stairs, tripping from the agony of her burdens, she is dead.
In her dreams she is reborn, spitting fire from the tunnels of her eyes;
Seething with rage she charges at them, devours all in vicinity.
The earth around her darkens, damp with the filthy red of their blood;
That drips from her fingers as she smiles at her peaceful atrocity.
Quietly she sobs, her eyes shimmering with the tears that
They frown upon and disregard completely.
Submissive, they call her, their grip tightening on the reins only she can feel.
We have moulded her well, her nectar is drawn, they cackle gleefully.
The reins choke her, she stutters, she is dead.
On a cloudless dawn she falls back to sleep, her vow fulfilled, breathtaking in the
Intoxicating fumes of her newfound freedom.
****************
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4 comments:
First of all, my opinion about this poem might be a little biased because I'm a sucker for righteous anger, especially righteous anger borne out of repression. And the way you've cast that anger in this poem makes it really difficult not to be biased. The poem is pretty direct, which is a pattern I've come to expect from you, as always it's flavour and strengths lie in the words you've used and the phrases. The poem alternates between the girl's submissive, deceptively peaceful but lifeless exterior and her vengeful, bloodthirsty and increasingly morbid inner environment. This alternation takes place in an ordered and predictable way, much like the people in the poem expect the girl to behave, perhaps you're trying to indicate that anybody subjected to this treatment can never be truly free of it?. The alternation also amplifies the violent fury of the girl and makes it more potent and real, to me. When I was reading through those parts I found myself feeling the same thing I feel when I listen to a particularly brutal, punishing metal song - an enjoyable and euphoric brand of aggressive hate. Very few poems bring this about in me. The comparatively less bloody parts of the poem are mostly ironic I believe, as they all focus on the girl's outward appearance when she's already dead inside, as it says in the first line - "daintily her feet hang down", a quiet reference to nooses. These parts all echo some of the worst things that society does to women - raise them like beasts for slaughter and proceed to sell them, use them, parade them around and finally suck everything out of them. And the way these parts are written leaves an after taste of spiteful hatred. The act of beautifying this seemingly lifeless girl reminds me of the way certain religious communities beautify their dead women, in some cases making them look prettier than they ever did or were ever allowed to be when they were alive. A jab at society's obsession with physical appearance, especially of girls. However I believe there's also a message of hope at the end, in spite of all the references to death the girl finally does not kill herself, instead she finds solace in the world of dreams, I can't be sure but maybe you're ignoring the restriction on cliches and saying that one must never lose hope? I hope you are. Overall this is a very emotional poem, I loved getting angry to it and reading it. Keep writing.
Your comment's longer than the poem :-P. I dunno how much of all that I deserve but I'm super flattered, as usual.
The society we live in, women are still so deprived, stepping out of the kitchen even, makes them 'rebels'. They are expected, even forced, to be docile, silent, obedient, 'well groomed', or else people will 'talk'. Its disgusting, inhuman, so cruel. And I know, she is angry. She does not kill herself, she is stronger than that. She is fighting.
I do love cliches, because as someone most close to me says, cliches are the truest things. There is always hope.
What can i say? I'm going to sound repetitive. It's great! How do your rants just transform into such good poetry? Assuming this first formed as a rant in your mind...but random questions aside, really good stuff. Do you really want me to comment? All of mine are going to sound the same. ("Magnificent!', 'Fantastic!'....)
Its a great poem. Wow. It reminds me of the song Eleanor Rigby. Anyway, I loved the poem.
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