The United Nations General Assembly has designated November 25 as the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, saying, 'Sexual violence against women and girls is rooted in centuries of male domination. Let us not forget that the gender inequalities that fuel rape culture are essentially a question of power imbalances.' — UN Secretary-General António Guterres. See further details here: Facts everyone should know.
To this end, the monthly 'Poets Out Loud' spoken word event in my town, which happened this last Thursday, had the
theme 'Women's Voices'. We were asked to wear orange, the colour associated with this issue. Not having a lot of orange in my wardrobe, I went op-shopping (i.e. thrift shopping, for those of you more used to that term). The only orange item I could find was a big sun-hat. So I decided, 'Yeah, why not? Let's make a statement.' A poet friend took a snap – a fuzzy shot which no amount of editing will fix, but you get the idea.
I chose an old poem to share, written about a friend of mine who died after crashing her car in the early hours of a Sunday morning. This is the one with which I came second to young Jasmine Logan in the slam, as I mention at the end of my latest Wild Fridays post at Poets United. I wrote the first draft in 1979. How sad that it's still relevant.
I'd been worried that my fun outfit might signal the wrong mood, but at the first words the audience's faces became attentive and serious.
I'm sharing this poem now in Pantry of Poetry and Prose #5 at Poets United.
FOR FRAN
1. Driving home from the massage parlour
drugged and down and speeding
all at once
with a head full of pain
driving
from all the other times and ways
that she’d been smashed
home
to the latest one she called love
who bashed her up and took her money
an old story
– how beautiful her body was
how early she learned
what beautiful bodies mean
her dad when she was 10
and said to all his friends
‘Come around, Fran’s home.’
They came.
Later her brothers.
Working the Cross by 14.
Same old story.
She married loneliness
a husband chasing cash
through too many country towns
but shocked
by her earnings
the home she bought
for permanence
he kept.
She saved his face in her wallet
always
played his songs
a whiskey-sucking purple satin
razzle-dazzle girl
clanking golden chains
loved poems
music
her children most of the time
(they were girls)
and tried to mother me
but
alky / drug-runner / jailbird / slut
got what was coming
… death that was coming
just the same old story
just another woman killed by men
only once
she put her foot down
hard enough
to make an end
From Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
and Secret Leopard, Alyscamps (Paris) 2005.
First published Going Down Swinging (earlier version),
Also in The Great White Hunter Meets Darkest Africa
and Walking the Dogs (Pariah Press anthology).
I had several tries at writing this. The first half-dozen or so consisted of incoherent screaming onto the page. In the end I took out all my emotion and pared it down to facts, and that worked.
Part 2 of this sequence (in very different mood) is posted here.
