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Real Witches dress in ordinary clothes and look very much like ordinary women. They live in
ordinary houses and work in ordinary jobs. That is why they are so hard to catch. – Roald Dahl, The Witches. A throwaway remark, wicked whispers in the dark A tumour turned cancerous Rumours, harassment, persecution grew Whispers became deafening The Divine Feminine is the feminine aspect of the divine power that connects and binds the
earth together. It is the goddess energy that exists within us all. – Google Definition of The Divine Feminine Call of hawks Rumble of thunder Goddesses rise from your slumber Sister’s merge Form a herd Of unbridled, wild horses After Frank O’Hara
You do not always know what I am feeling. It was ten years ago I buried my heart in the sand by the sea where the tides could not reach. But just last night you asked me if you could touch, and so I retrieved it, and let you hold it, a writhing and shrieking fruit, Artist's Description:
To me, this photograph primarily resonates with the theme “Imperfect Present”. I took this photograph of a stray cat laying on a street corner in Jeju City, Jeju Island. This photograph seems to exhibit a strong sense of juxtaposition between the beauty/elegance of the cat, with its glacial blue eyes and pink undertones, and the heartbreaking situation it faces, having to live alone on the street with limited access to food and water. I see a resemblance to women; despite the inner beauty and innocence of women, they can often be surrounded by negativity and discrimination purely on the basis of their gender. When I saw this cat, I was extremely saddened by the isolation and negligence that was so central to its lifestyle, and I hope that everyone can empathize with women in a similar way instead of dismissing their ideas and experiences. I also feel that there’s a strong sense of hurt or vulnerability depicted in the photograph. Upon approaching the cat, I immediately noticed the cuts along her waterline and the dried blood covering the tip of her nose. I also saw lots of dirt covering her delicate white fur, and from the way she looked up at us longingly, I could tell she was pleading for love. Thus, I’d also like to place this photograph in the perspective of “A Past of Protest” because for so long, women have endured so much suffering and bigotry despite their purity. It’s important that we don’t forget the years of injustices women experienced, such as denied access to education, unequal treatment in wider communities, and domestic violence. We must acknowledge the innocence and value of women, break the chain of inequality and move towards boundless respect. Artist's Description:
I believe this photograph is best suited with the section “A Feminist Future”. I took this photograph in the Outdoor Seoul Botanical Garden as the flowers began to blossom in the Spring. To me, the rose blooming represents my hope for a season of empowerment and growth in feminism across the world. With the onset of more feminist groups and social media campaigns, we have become closer to transforming power dynamics and policies. Furthermore, a rose is often used to symbolize female reproductive organs, with various cultures and artistic representations using flowers to represent fertility. Through this photograph, I aim to draw attention to the recent efforts to combat legislation restricting reproductive healthcare. I believe that autonomy over reproduction is the key pillar of the overall health, empowerment, and human rights of women. The beauty and intricacies of the rose pattern in the photograph alludes to the physical and emotional significance of womens’ ability to control their beautiful bodies. I also think that the photograph pairs well with “A Past of Protest” as well. The rose also embodies the years of strength, resilience, and vitality demonstrated by women who fought for their rights in various facets of life, such as voting and workplace treatment. Both the vibrant energy radiating from the rose and its ability to grow in various conditions, from lush gardens to harsh environments, speak to its power to overcome challenges and thrive. Similarly, over the past few decades, women have been able to use their powerful spirits to combat sexism with a drive for change. When she sings it was enchanting
To meet you staring into the audience, With a blank gaze that masks all that She feels, I remember the 11 year old Inside of me, listening to her sing as I Absentmindedly looked out of the splotchy bus window on my way home, Hide me within your walls
so I won’t be seen stuff my mouth with spare fabric and bind me so I can’t move / prove your Goddamn point. Girls are ghosts
Dancing as the haunted woodland’s gracious hosts Restrained to exist in the ebony abyss of a desolate midnight Seeking adoration only from the eye in the sky’s scintillating light Swirling shadows aflame reveal their gaunt silhouettes Onlookers gaze in horror upon their blazing pirouettes Dusting the air with an iridescent blanket of ashes Little do they know that death didn’t deliver their final lashes Bang that drum
boom and rattle along the ripcord from scalp to tips of toes. Connect past to present and speak on our colonially constituted conjuncture. This association is pursuing an agenda (they say) the university promotes free speech and it’s not all about race (it is). Content warning: body dysmorphia
she’s the Crouching Venus Aphrodite poised on a marble plate a figurehead carved by a generous hand. hands trail down hips that curve, rolling valleys beneath her fingertips. Dr. Blasey Ford Explained,
“Indelible in the Hippocampus is the Laughter,” and I Still Can’t Forget It Ishmael was cast out in a wood, beyond the reach of God’s voice, trembling. A fierce black cat,
Outside your house invoking a doomy omen. I stop at the intersection of Four directions- Heart/Mind/Soul & the body Each standing at the crossroads, Leading nobody to nowhere. Where am I? Perhaps there, where- Love slips from one wall to another Falling onto her shoulders, sugar by sugar Salt by salt…sprinkling death Speaking life Honey, I miss your Mother. Terrill was not honest with us about the reason that he was sent on the extra planetary ship to
earth. He came to us with that same old same old alien to human "I come in peace" nonsense. And we, being schmucks, ate it up. We wanted to appear enlightened and accepting. We wanted to think a superior being had traveled light years just to commune with us because we were that special. It's not like he was a lizard man who wanted to eat us. And he wasn't trying to repopulate the planet or anything with a race of mutant aliens. (In case you were concerned about that.) Really, it was simpler than that. Governmentally, things had gotten out of hand on his home planet, El. Terrill was a con man, a prisoner, and, to prevent crime, his planet's government had adopted a three strikes you're out policy. So third crime, no matter what it was, meant that you went to prison for life. If I could have, I would have despised her until the ends of the universe. In the midst of a Bigger Bang or
explosive stars, through discoveries of new galaxies and my utmost desire to ship her off to them. In my skin-sizzling, grumbling moment of teenage angst, an undying hatred bubbled for a certain Aine. A greyish glow dimmed the streets of Dublin, allowing a cautious light to evade cover. The stench of oil clenched around my lungs, an old lad’s guffaw echoing across the pebble-speckled path. Owing to my doting granny, I’d been well wrapped-up with a knitted scarf, gloves and a sprinkle of sticky kisses. My boots squelched on the edge a rippling puddle, glimmering with an Irish dew. Yet beauty, thick as the wandering cloud of smoke, left me entranced by my home city. He made it big and solid and stable. Dad worked hard to keep us away from harm, safe underwater,
in our little refuge, our tiny cage, and we could play games, have fun, only it didn’t have much air, or light. Dad was a master at suffocating, and he taught me well, how to hold my breath, to not need air, or light, to endure darkness and hardship, he taught me that as long as I remained silent and still, nothing bad could happen. Dad made us a safe house, but I was greedy, asphyxiating, dreaming of reckless swimmers, colorful boats, sparkling ships crossing the oceans, and I dreamed big, I scratched the walls, created holes, little cracks to let the light in, turned to the sun, opened my mouth, took deep breaths, swallowed the warmth, and I felt grateful, if only for a while, grateful for those tiny holes that let life slip through. I see dead people just like the kid in the movie. They speak to me all the time, they haunt me, and
they’re not aware, they can’t tell what’s wrong, they are confused, afraid, upset, they laugh, they cry, they gesture, and just like the kid in the movie, I don’t tell the truth, I play along, and we feign life and normalcy, as if no disaster can touch us. I see the dead and we speak about the news and future plans and past regrets, because I have the magical sixth sense. I watch them smile, dream, be happy, fall apart, then rise up and smile again. I watch the loop repeat, the downward spiral, and I wave goodbye to the sound of ‘If you go away’, sung by Terry Jacks in a sad but less melodramatic way, the banality of grief-to-come briefly interrupted by loud bursts of hope, and it isn’t a love song, it’s but a goodbye song, and this is saddening, but even more saddening is the uncertainty; the dead could evaporate and vanish and you never know when it’s the last time you see them. On the day I was born in San Lalo, our peninsula on the Pacific became an island. A thin
strip of forest sheltered our casa on the eastern side from the strong winds in the west and bore fruit all year long, but the ocean hugged us so tight we separated from the mainland. Daily, my cousin Kika and I would play near the sea. We were more like sisters or friends than cousins. She called me Luna, even though my name was Luana. Abuela said my name meant happiness, and they named me after a traveler from another distant island. I was six when I noticed water responded to my feelings. Bathwater warmed with my anger; cooled with my tears. By ten, the sea granted me things. That summer Kika found a conch, and a grander shell appeared for me. Abuela called me spirited, feisty, and jealous—always competing with Kika, instead of appreciating what I already had. Norah’s head is as heavy as a gallon of milk, held by two fingers, as she climbs
the steps with the rest of her groceries. But the cupboards are bare now. Food stamps have run out, her baby’s father has left her, all because she is clean now. Clean for her new daughter. Her heart is heavy, too. About as heavy as an empty milk jug in the face of her hungry baby. But Norah is determined. Al’s Orange Grove is hiring and she has an interview today. Norah read they hire almost anyone, including addicts in recovery. The ad also said there’s a daycare. Somewhere for Sarah, her beautiful little girl. During the interview Al warns Norah that the city only subsidizes wages for those who can stay clean. If the city isn’t helping pay her wages, then there won’t be any work for her. Norah agrees to the terms, passes the pee test, and starts work the next day. After Hussain Ahmed's "Flight"
a body reincarnates into a bird & flies without perching. a body diffuses—in the turmoil-- as fire papers, trying to escape gravity. every day, the air takes from us: our prayers which never return answered; CAST YOU: An AFAB, trans-masc person in their early 20s MIRROR IMAGE: YOU’s reflection SCENE A small apartment with a kitchen and a living room. TIME Early morning.
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