Feminist poetry

Oxford Languages defines “feminism” as “the advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.” Famous feminist poets include Audre Lorde, Margaret Atwood, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman. I've included an example of one of those writers’ feminist poems below.

I'm not going to lay down any rules other than don't be a dick. (Although having a dick is fine!) If you’re anti-feminist, you're free to share your anti-feminist poetry elsewhere.

***

Afterimages by Audre Lorde

   I
However the image enters
its force remains within
my eyes
rockstrewn caves where dragonfish evolve  
wild for life, relentless and acquisitive  
learning to survive
where there is no food
my eyes are always hungry
and remembering
however the image enters
its force remains.
A white woman stands bereft and empty
a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson  
recalled in me forever
like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep  
etched into my visions
food for dragonfish that learn
to live upon whatever they must eat
fused images beneath my pain.

   II
The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson  
A Mississippi summer televised.
Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain
a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat  
her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney  
now awash
tearless and no longer young, she holds  
a tattered baby's blanket in her arms.
In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain  
a microphone
thrust up against her flat bewildered words
         “we jest come from the bank yestiddy  
                  borrowing money to pay the income tax  
                  now everything's gone. I never knew  
                  it could be so hard.”
Despair weighs down her voice like Pearl River mud  
caked around the edges
her pale eyes scanning the camera for help or explanation
unanswered
she shifts her search across the watered street, dry-eyed  
                  “hard, but not this hard.”
Two tow-headed children hurl themselves against her  
hanging upon her coat like mirrors
until a man with ham-like hands pulls her aside  
snarling “She ain't got nothing more to say!”
and that lie hangs in his mouth
like a shred of rotting meat.

   III
I inherited Jackson, Mississippi.
For my majority it gave me Emmett Till  
his 15 years puffed out like bruises  
on plump boy-cheeks
his only Mississippi summer
whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie
as a white girl passed him in the street  
and he was baptized my son forever  
in the midnight waters of the Pearl.

His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year
when I walked through a northern summer
my eyes averted
from each corner's photographies  
newspapers protest posters magazines  
Police Story, Confidential, True  
the avid insistence of detail
pretending insight or information
the length of gash across the dead boy's loins
his grieving mother's lamentation  
the severed lips, how many burns  
his gouged out eyes
sewed shut upon the screaming covers  
louder than life
all over
the veiled warning, the secret relish  
of a black child's mutilated body  
fingered by street-corner eyes  
bruise upon livid bruise
and wherever I looked that summer
I learned to be at home with children's blood
with savored violence
with pictures of black broken flesh  
used, crumpled, and discarded  
lying amid the sidewalk refuse  
like a raped woman's face.

A black boy from Chicago
whistled on the streets of Jackson, Mississippi
testing what he'd been taught was a manly thing to do
his teachers
ripped his eyes out his sex his tongue
and flung him to the Pearl weighted with stone
in the name of white womanhood
they took their aroused honor
back to Jackson
and celebrated in a whorehouse
the double ritual of white manhood
confirmed.

   IV
   “If earth and air and water do not judge them who are
     we to refuse a crust of bread?”
     
Emmett Till rides the crest of the Pearl, whistling
24 years his ghost lay like the shade of a raped woman  
and a white girl has grown older in costly honor  
(what did she pay to never know its price?)
now the Pearl River speaks its muddy judgment  
and I can withhold my pity and my bread.

           “Hard, but not this hard.”
Her face is flat with resignation and despair  
with ancient and familiar sorrows
a woman surveying her crumpled future
as the white girl besmirched by Emmett's whistle  
never allowed her own tongue
without power or conclusion
unvoiced
she stands adrift in the ruins of her honor  
and a man with an executioner's face
pulls her away.

Within my eyes
the flickering afterimages of a nightmare rain
a woman wrings her hands
beneath the weight of agonies remembered
I wade through summer ghosts  
betrayed by vision
hers and my own
becoming dragonfish to survive  
the horrors we are living
with tortured lungs
adapting to breathe blood.

A woman measures her life's damage
my eyes are caves, chunks of etched rock
tied to the ghost of a black boy  
whistling
crying and frightened
her tow-headed children cluster  
like little mirrors of despair  
their father's hands upon them  
and soundlessly
a woman begins to weep.

deleted