Creative | Posted by Talia on 07/1/2011
He Promised Her A Rose Garden
It was 1976.
Peak of the women’s lib movement.
New York, New York.
Peak of the peak.
She was going for a PhD in psych.
She could, thanks to Betty Friedan.
“After you finish your PhD,” he told her,
“We’ll move to Long Island.
Have three or four kids.
Buy a house.
With a white picket fence,
And a rose garden.”
She was nineteen.
She fell for it.
A week after the wedding
He got fired.
It wasn’t such a surprise.
Between the mental illness
Never showing up
And long sick leaves
It was just a matter of time.
“I won’t get a job immediately,” he told her.
“You can type anywhere.
I have to do something important.
I have to have a career.
I’m the man of …
Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 06/3/2011
I won’t follow your conventions; I’ll lead my own way,
And I will refuse to listen to those that say nay,
I’ll speak my mind and do whatever I like,
Whether you think I am wrong or right,
For who are you to judge me or the things I do,
When you have barely spoken to me for a second or two?
I’ll welcome your friendship with open arms,
Yes I’m kind and cool, don’t be alarmed!
But the day you treat me like dirt on the floor,
You’ll sling your hook, and there’s the door!
I am a person of value and high esteem,
No matter how anyone else tries to make me seem.
Bash me and bruise me if you dare,
I’ll still trust my convictions sans any …
Feminism | Posted by Annie T on 03/12/2011
Saturday Vids: “This Is For You”
These three young men were National Youth Poetry Slam finalists. Their willingness to stand up for women is inspiring.
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 11/24/2010
Excerpt from a Fairytale
Girls should have exoskeletons, he told her.
Their ribs could be can openers.
My parents never touched each other enough, she said.
He traced her stomach like a coloring book, stopping
And starting to a thousand imaginary traffic lights.
“Happiness is a cliché,” he told her.
“I want to feel in black and white,” she said.
She wanted her heart to print receipts.
Their menus rest on the table like slain birds.
She garnished her soul like it was a thing to be consumed.
Every human being is waiting, she said,
At the bus stop of someone else’s
soul. wanting to be taken to Paradise.
So stop waiting, he said.
He imagined her soul bobbing away, like a balloon.
She wanted to kill him and press him into the
Creative | Posted by Emily B on 11/19/2010
Girls always believe in
things told in whispers. And the
circuits connecting tangential fields of
stars and fingertips holed
in alphabets slip across rained in minds in a circumcision
I’ve invented you, carved you out of traffic lights
to become beautiful–what kills me is the way birds always
fly south, down, and the way their beaks preclude
the possibility of kissing.
I’ve invented the colors underneath your clothes and
the things you could say under street lamps, erased a thousand illuminated mosquitos
But this isn’t a drawing class and the symmetry of sidewalks
is sketched to be beautiful only to insects.
Let’s say the stars are in your eyes, because
beauty is always imagined, and the lights are too
dim by the mattress anyway. Let’s say the moon …
Creative | Posted by Jayna J on 06/30/2010
Oh, how I wish to
be in a fraternity.
How grand it seems;
basking in the glow of
Alas! Tis’ the stuff of dreams-
never meant for a girl