Poetry competition CLOSED 27th March 2021 3:31pm
WINNER
Remy_L (Remington Lancaster)
Remy_L (Remington Lancaster)
RUNNERS-UP:
MadameLavender
and _Skylark_
Aunt Flo Art
Poetry Contest Description
Write a period positivity poem
”Menstruation is the only blood that is not born from violence, yet it’s the one that disgusts you the most.”
*
Today, there’s a whole movement of women reclaiming their menstrual cycles as a positive thing, creating art whilst empowering their bodies. So this comp is all about being period positive! Even in this day and age a women’s menstrual cycle is still demonised as a dirty and shameful thing.
Period poverty is still a very real issue across the world. In the UK, 1 in 10 women cannot afford to buy menstrual products. In Kenya, approximately 50 percent of school-age girls do not have access to sanitary products. In India, approximately 12 percent of its 355 million menstruating women cannot afford period products.
*
Write a period positive poem. You may want to use the quote at the beginning as inspiration or voice your views on period poverty, it’s up to you.
Everyone is welcome to participate regardless of gender identity or what stage of your lifecycle you are in.
Rules
• Up to 2 entries per human being
• Audio / video / visual allowed
• Under 300 words. Poetry, not prose.
• New entries only
• No erotica
• Two weeks
Good luck! 🩸
Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Baptismal Fonts Of Life
She came to me, each month
sometimes when the moon was full,
sometimes with a vengeance.
She would have stories to tell, Aunty--
and they came in whispers
upon her lips;
red stories of battles
and pain in the fullness of childbirth
and of life.
"Ssshhh-- sit down again, child
and let me tell you another, as
time is measured in days."
Aunty cradled me in plump arms
puffed and womb-like, until
waves of contractions
passed unused parts of me,
clots of DNA
not needed this time.
"But you still birthin' somthin', each
time, child ..."
She is black .
She is white .
She is all colors
and every woman
and Mother Eve--
Maori and ice-eyed Finns, peer
through, behind her transparent face.
Aunty collects us all
in celebration of years
until --
one by one, we bid her, farewell.
And she returns to the snows of Siberia .
and lays down in desert pyramids,
and she waves goodbye, from flap doors
of plains Indian teepees,
and she leads the parade, of
the Day of the Dead.
Such bittersweet things ,
remain in the empty casks
and dried up pools, memories
of love-hate feelings
which never yielded to our whims--
only Aunty's.
Yet somehow, we see her face
still
in sons and daughters, our gifts
for having endured
a part of life .
sometimes when the moon was full,
sometimes with a vengeance.
She would have stories to tell, Aunty--
and they came in whispers
upon her lips;
red stories of battles
and pain in the fullness of childbirth
and of life.
"Ssshhh-- sit down again, child
and let me tell you another, as
time is measured in days."
Aunty cradled me in plump arms
puffed and womb-like, until
waves of contractions
passed unused parts of me,
clots of DNA
not needed this time.
"But you still birthin' somthin', each
time, child ..."
She is black .
She is white .
She is all colors
and every woman
and Mother Eve--
Maori and ice-eyed Finns, peer
through, behind her transparent face.
Aunty collects us all
in celebration of years
until --
one by one, we bid her, farewell.
And she returns to the snows of Siberia .
and lays down in desert pyramids,
and she waves goodbye, from flap doors
of plains Indian teepees,
and she leads the parade, of
the Day of the Dead.
Such bittersweet things ,
remain in the empty casks
and dried up pools, memories
of love-hate feelings
which never yielded to our whims--
only Aunty's.
Yet somehow, we see her face
still
in sons and daughters, our gifts
for having endured
a part of life .
Written by MadameLavender
Go To Page
In Me
A drop in the water
Turns clear into muddy red
And I'm so god damn blessed!
It's not that I'm happy
It's just that I'm logical
Because there's nothing in me!
Turns clear into muddy red
And I'm so god damn blessed!
It's not that I'm happy
It's just that I'm logical
Because there's nothing in me!
Written by A_Failed_Artist
Go To Page
man coiled in menses
a journey has commenced
something that can be sensed
as lining breaks she aches
she wears my shirt to pacify pain
my scent gives her solace
I bestow myself to her
placing pillows for her comfort
she lies her head gently
as the drums invade to serenade
her temporary visitor
tracing the outlines of her face
in attempt to place her in stillness
she rises and kisses my lips
while I persist to soothe her pain
I watch it drain her essence
slowly I bleed too
she shows concern for me
in plight and still
she takes flight for my rescue
I am nature and she is nurture
something that can be sensed
as lining breaks she aches
she wears my shirt to pacify pain
my scent gives her solace
I bestow myself to her
placing pillows for her comfort
she lies her head gently
as the drums invade to serenade
her temporary visitor
tracing the outlines of her face
in attempt to place her in stillness
she rises and kisses my lips
while I persist to soothe her pain
I watch it drain her essence
slowly I bleed too
she shows concern for me
in plight and still
she takes flight for my rescue
I am nature and she is nurture
Written by Remy_L
(Remington Lancaster)
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Why We Bleed
"Mother, why do I bleed?"
You bleed because
You are the keeper
Of legacies
The blueprints of which
Are written in
Each bursting pomegranate seed
You bleed because
You are the keeper
Of legacies
The blueprints of which
Are written in
Each bursting pomegranate seed
Written by _Skylark_
Go To Page
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Show and tell
It was a pale November morning,
as the smugglers beached their boat
on the silent red shore line.
at thirteen she'd been stowed away,
found out, as the out going tide
washed her legs clean.
She was contraband, boxes of cotton
concealed in caves, moved before high tide,
never spoke of in the village,
just a nod and a wink between them that knew.
At fifteen they didn't expect the flip top box,
as it made its way around the art class
she'd collected all her cotton treasure
displayed the jewels like a fresh pack of cigarettes
and told her tale with a toothy grin
like any good pirate should.
The label on the box read;
Warning - this pack contains
gender solidarity and power.
as the smugglers beached their boat
on the silent red shore line.
at thirteen she'd been stowed away,
found out, as the out going tide
washed her legs clean.
She was contraband, boxes of cotton
concealed in caves, moved before high tide,
never spoke of in the village,
just a nod and a wink between them that knew.
At fifteen they didn't expect the flip top box,
as it made its way around the art class
she'd collected all her cotton treasure
displayed the jewels like a fresh pack of cigarettes
and told her tale with a toothy grin
like any good pirate should.
The label on the box read;
Warning - this pack contains
gender solidarity and power.
Written by Razzerleaf
Go To Page
