Friday, April 10, 2009

Wilted Women [latest poem]

Babel's latest assignment was to write a poem about female genital mutilaton. I didn't think I would be able to come up with anything since I still don't have a poem written for out last assignment (what, not who, would you die for?), but this worked out pretty well. Here you have it:

Uprooted from her homeland
And replanted in foreign soil
She was a flower
Robbed of her most precious parts
He had picked away at her petals
And left her with nothing but thorns
This prick
Was the reason she sat in a field of carnations
Trying to justify his actions

He loves me
I am an African woman
This is tradition
He loves me not
We rejected this way of life when we became American citizens
He loves me
Circumcised women are viewed as holy, clean, and pure
He loves me not
This may lead to infections I won't receive medications for
He loves me
My role as his wife is one of submission
He loves me not
Gender stratification is prevalent regardless of female circumcision

He loves me
He loves me
He loves me

And she kept saying this to herself
Hoping she'd soon believe it
But the last petal she landed on was the one she heeded
He loved her not
And suddenly, it all added up
Cause numbers don't lie
And there were 6,000 women a day
Dealing with a pain that felt just like hers

Give or take a few
Cause some bled to death in the process
Baby girls and grown women alike
Fondled with the same care as inanimate objects
...all for the sake of male ego
Though they'll tell you it decreases premarital sex and a woman's libido
It's oppression at it's finest

There is no shame in claiming the very thing that makes you feminine
Cause a rose called by any other name smells just as sweet
But a woman with nothing but thorns is considered scorned
And if she could, I'm sure she'd heal herself
But there is no hope in reviving wilted flowers

So I beg you
Stop picking at her petals
For they are, in fact, the very thing that makes her beautiful 

It's My First Kinda Metaphoric Poem,


  1. Job well done dear. "prick" line was ill

  2. Absolutely loved the word "prick" being so close to "thorn" and making all the difference. The ending to this piece was absolutely explosive. Yes, it's rare that I see you use an extended metaphor, but you have a knack for it, not surprising. This is a very intense subject to write on, and you used such soft imagery. You hear about flowers being compared to the woman's womb, but you flipped it in such a powerful way.

    Good work.
    -Chucked Deuce-