What Eve said to Adam...

...hmmm.... yeah.... right....???

i'll take it from here then, shall i?

Drawing by Zena Edwards Dec 2010©

IF DADDY - A Poem for my Absent Father

Little girls need their Daddies too...

All too often we hear about young boys, particularly ones of African descent,  not having father figures and going off the rails.  We hear about them either ending up as fodder for jail, aimless wanderers with no idea how to behave as men and/or winding up being absent fathers themselves, with no sense of responsibility. Well guess what, sometimes those fatherless men end  up with fatherless daughters because these women  have no idea what it means to have an  entity around the house being a father or a man either. 

If there are no other male role models in their lives - friends, uncles  and such - then the journey to knowing what a 'Man' looks like is distressing.
Men are NOT the same as women purely because of that macho patriarchal socialization, programming and training of what a man is supposed to be.  Posturing Rap stars, magazines like FHM and bolshie arrogant banking city and media types have a lot to answer for.  But even then I think that idea is a confused misnomer. Who knows what manhood looks like these days when men can buy calf, bicep and pec implants, have as many cosmetic products as women  and expect women to pay their way out of spite for all the years they had to. Ok, maybe I'm being harsh there.

What I think is important though, is that there is a human responsibility to the nurturing of the future generations. Boy AND Girl children need good female and male ideals around them. Not perfect cos maybe that's too much to ask sometimes but they need people around them who are seen to  at least be trying to do the right thing. Kids are smart. They can tell the difference when someone cares or not.

Little girls need to feel the vibration of a man's voice that loves them. Then they will know the sound of Love. They need to feel the embrace of a man that respects them. Then they will know the touch of Respect and Love. They need to see the silhouette of a man wishing them sweet dreams.  Then they will know the shape of support for their dreams when they see it, the touch of respect when they feel it and the sound of Love when they hear it. No woman should suffer any form of abuse at the end of the fist or tongue of a man. It is unnecessary let alone wrong.

This poem is the for the father I have never known but who I love still for his absence. Part of my journey to finding out the true meaning of Womanhood has been through an unpredictable  and rocky path to understanding Manhood.
Click, listen, read, immerse, enjoy. Peace. Z

If  Daddy

daddy's gone 

            daddy's gone 

                   daddy's gone 

daddy's gone away

yes daddy's gone to stay gone

Was my existence braided on purpose

in to the journey of your mission bound spermatozoa?

where were they headed for real though?

meant for the long dark red of  my mothers fallopian tube?

to her open womb?

where i unfurled into this life

 a full thing with no name from my fathers side

just a black strike on my birth certificate

my fathers namelessness comes to me in dreams

or in the films of other peoples daddy’s

I’d turn my face ashamed of my dad

yes blindly ashamed and  blissfully proud

I’d be comforted, reassured and strong with my daddy

as he carried my 3 foot high body, my head resting on his shoulder

while he strided like palm trees sway

but I'd also be angry and hateful toward my daddy,

grateful toward my daddy, cuss him out in my pillow,

wish he were dead and call him by his first name for a week,

my jaw stubborn as the karma of my life without him

I’d be dutiful daughter and kiss him sweet on the cheek at bedtime

I’d want to smack my own dad in the mouth

disobey his rules / come back 43 minutes after curfew and not apologise

I’d be his sugar dumpling, loyal and smiling,

I’d be full of love  then  I’d curse in front of him  and back chat,

wear make up at thirteen and never bring my boyfriends home to meet him

I’d do all these things and more

just to test to my daddy

fling my arms around his neck and see if he’d forgive me

 just  to make sure,

I’d put my dad through hell

I’d do all these things and more

just to make sure

but where does the fire from all these impetuous tempestuous feelings go

in the of decades space, shoulder deep into an army back pack

smelling of johnny cakes mum made on Sundays and gunpowder

from the war that took him when i  was three weeks old.

my daddy was an army man with black cat claws

and couple of other women’s draws, notched on his rifle butt,

but he loved me enough to write a letter or two....

to do the right thing by his baby mama 

daddy should know his girls feet are strong

her shoulders are broad

that refined things don't pass by her ears and eyes unnoticed

no one can talk to her as if she’s

a fool

Daddy. Dad. Daddy.

How does that word sit on my lips?

a cluster of D’s exploding from my tongue

vibrating the air around me like an ectoplasmic echo

But I ain’t mad, just lonely

to know know what saying “Daddy” would be like

and a voice with bass in it

that recognised mine like keys in locks 

would call back

opening doors to safe and sound security

a full night sleep with my Super Dad snoring loudly down the hall

I ain’t mad

daddy’s gone away

yes daddy's gone to stay

Written by Zena Edwards 2008©

WOMANS WORLD

SHE BREATHED (and the flowers came out)

Re-evaluate, meditate, and breathe.

NAILS TO DIE FOR

  Written By Zena Edwards 2001©

Melanie's nails tip the scales beyond the balanced rational of modern architecture.

Rhinestone encrusted, they arch entrusted to an adhesive, bonding live nail to acrylic

Unifying her in a mirage marriage of sophisticate Ameri-carib elite to brown girl in 
Beauty College from Tottenham high street. 

Mel got her nails from “US GAL, from a real Korean chick with her high heeled,
tiled floor cracking, sling backing tight jeaned or shorted skirt wearing, little tittied,
hair flicking, eye flitting but perfectionist focus for nails building self.

Three Saturdays of her minimum wage slave was the price Mel paid. Her manager points out the impracticality of her newly acquired appendages. Mel points a beclawed index digit retreating, hissing her warning like a lioness, cub protecting, "Don’t you come between her and her ten reasons for living!"

Mel's nails entrap the gaze of the mind ticking the gansta rap on MTV box - big black six packs and guns, undulating brown flesh in thongs... Mel imagines it’s her choice of rhinestones on her thumb that catch the sun and leaves them struck dumb.

Mels nails tell a tale of her clawing her way through a thicket
of charmless males, who liked her thigh, her buttocks tight and high
Her breast pointing to the sky, her clean wet eyes.
Mels nails meant she never washed a dish from that monumental day.
Like a buzz from a passing fly were her mothers the complaints -
Ignored or irritatingly swatted away with a curled lip
Her ears had closed to that voice long ago anyway.
The space between which was not full of air
as  maternal blusters and playground blasts had blown her to believe
from pubescent rebukes alluding to her bodily parts
that chose to round and swell before she had lost
her clumsy schoolgirl gait; those bulges that attracted 

an attention she only knew made her uncomfortable
made want to origami herself in to shape of a boat
or something even less interesting.
Poked at for contemplative visage mistaken for shy
inaccurately diagnosed as "Well She's just stupid, innit."
And her inclination for re-potting plants was not a reflection
on her personality as being an unanimated as a wallflower.
She just liked to help things grow.

 
somewhere down the line she had put down the gardening gloves
and picked up shears pruning that soft touch don't say much

into a loose lip l such and such
it wasn’t enough to just dispassionately exist
scratch the varnished surface and see after the eclipse

You find a small tongue cannot articulate big pain lying under cover, could not choose
which night was dream filled, could not wish away
the rain that fell on Mels small world. Her blamelessness
bent over backwards a rainbow under those dark clouds smelling
of thick mans smell and Tennents Extra unmasked
by the favourite aftershaveof her stepfather seeping
under her door and into her bed.


And between the mothers back teeth laughing, his big hand
her  mothers broad hip stoking and heavy whispering
in ears only open for compliments and good girl pay offs,
mother rationalises blindness for the impossibility
of his preference of her daughter over herself….

Thus after nose, brow, dimple navel and eighteenth ear piercing
through which her frustration escaped, Melanie painted
her nails a shock of colour  She chose herself. Definitively.
Uncompromisingly -  Nefertiti on her left pinkie with a tiny gold ring
punched through representing her vague knowledge of self, a sun setting
on an Island beach and solitary palm tree, firework, stars, explosions of a kaleidoscope 

Mel got her nails and face painted to accentuate the light and shade
of her dreams not to cover up the shabby seams of tear darned recoveries. No…. 

Misadventure was a survivor’s test. She knew this and her promenades into womanhood
Were strewn with the waste of her hurts.

But she prettied them up with polish and flares of yellow brick roads, 
glitterati carnivals, and the lazy sound of droning bees pollinating 
in a park in Tottenham filling 
her body to bursting, shooting out of her fingers tips like car headlights.
She had fine art Picassoed over her nails in the colours she chose 
for herself definitively and uncompromisingly. 
Cos Mel's nails were her dreams manifest. 

Her conquest. What she claimed.

Uncompromisingly.