Heartlines

Woman Life Freedom is a Kurdish slogan, a rallying cry challenging violent patriarchal deadly authoritarian government . Used during the protests which erupted in Iran as a response to the death of Mahsa Amini in September 2023.My poem is about women fighting for freedom, for the right to vote, to have an abortion, contraception, to say no or yes to sex, their choice, to wear what they like, to cover or uncover their hair, their bodies, to march, and shout aloud, in UK, US, Iran ,Nigeria, Afghanistan etc etc etc, millions of phenomenal women.

Woman Life Freedom
Her body was not yours,
her mind her own.
Her right to place a mark
by the politicians’ name she chose
hard won by those wild women
long ago; long skirts stained from dragging
in the dirt of prison yards; throats
too sore to swallow from gagging
on long rubber hose; stomachs drowned
in liquid-force-fed-mush; they fought on;

Their bodies were not yours.
Lillian Lenten lighting fires,
Mary Richardson smashing windows,
Emmaline Pankhurst teetering
on the edge of death-by-hunger,
Emily Davison killed by royal hooves,
Sylvia, Adela, and Christabel,
willing to win by any means
with ‘nothing off the table’
so just the fight they fought, and won

Her body is not yours.
Her womb her own to guard
from seed sown carelessly
and new life she cannot bear
amongst the stony, US soil
of resentment and despair.
Her choice alone, her right to have sex
or say NO, resist and fight for life.

Their bodies were not yours.
women in their thousands in Iran
on Women’s Day in ‘79
reject the hijab, face the threat ‘death to the unveiled.’
Masih Alinejad, Fatemeh Sepehri,
proclaim once more in 2023
their hair, their clothes, their own to wear,
to cover or uncover as they choose,
while Mahsa Amini dies in captivity
in the hands of male
guardians of ‘morality.’

Our bodies are not yours.
Our words our own to shout aloud.
All around the world, our rights
are under threat, but we stand firm,
our history erupts like lava flows
to burn away the lies, the silence, and the chokeholds
on our freedom.

Drusilla Long

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She sits and looks at her child,
looks with love at her child, disabled.
The Mother, single, looks through laughter,
then through tears.
She, the one who cares.
She, the one who fears.

Why the fears?
Because she, alone, looks upon her child.
Because she’s the one who cares.
Her life also disabled.
And so, the tears,
and so, the laughter.

The child, cushioned with love and laughter.
Whilst the mother hides her fears,
she laughs through her tears,
as she looks upon her child.
Her child called disabled.
Is she the only one who cares?

The child knows no cares,
immersed in her laughter.
Unaware she is disabled,
oblivious to the fears.
Destined to be forever an innocent,
whilst her mother’s heart tears.

In time there are less tears,
the mother slowly feels less cares.
No change in the child,
but now more fun and laughter.
The different life, the mother once wished for,
fades, her life difficult but not disabled.

Onlookers may see her life as disabled.
Cruel people can cause the tears.
But mother and child live freely, without fears.
They shrug off their daily cares,
with fun and with laughter.
And Mum enjoys her child.

Disabled, yes, but full of cares?
No.
Tears yes, but also laughter.
Fears yes, but also fun. Mother and child.

Malcolm Henshall

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You pass a woman in the street,
not a second glance given,
so ordinary,
nothing special,
But, she is a nurse,
saves lives,
comforts the dying.
She is phenomenal.

Look at her over there,
dressed smartly,
but no different
to many others.
Ordinary, not special.
But she is a social worker,
protects children,
suffers abuse.
She is phenomenal

Another sits opposite you on the bus,
she looks tired, worn down.
Aren’t we all, you think?
She’s nothing special, ordinary.
But she is a carer,
cares for those
who no one wants to care for,
with pay that no one
wants to work for.
She is phenomenal.
They, and many others, are phenomenal.

Malcolm Henshall

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“You’re an angle,”
the drunken man said
at 3.30am, in A&E.
“An angle?” the nurse replied.
“You’re an angel, an angel” he slurred
“Don’t suppose angels have to use food banks,”
she muttered.
“I clapped for you,” he said
“Well thank you, she said,
but applause don’t pay the bills.”
“Do you know what might have helped though?” she asked
“What”?
“You not getting drunk and falling over,
then this angel wouldn’t have had to float down and see to you”.
“But you’ll forgive me, he said
because you are an angel.”
“No, I’m not,
just an ordinary woman, mother
trying to do my best.”
“Not an angel then,
but allow me to say…
you are phenomenal

Malcolm Henshall 

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She Little But She Tallawa is a poem about an Eighteenth century Jamaican heroine, Nanny, small and wiry. ‘Tallawa’ means strong. She was trafficked from Ghana to Jamaica to become a slave. But once there, fought her way free and using guerrilla tactics successfully fought the British over many years whilst setting up Maroon communities and armies in the Blue Mountains. The Maroons were a formidable army who defeated the British over decades, attacked plantations and freed slaves. This led to a treaty with the British, who granted them 5 hundred acres and their freedom but at a cost; against her wishes, her siblings agreed to help track and return runaway slaves. Rebel groups from the Asante tribe were common throughout the Caribbean and South America.

She grabs the cudgel
Armed and ready
Looks to the hills
Where she will plough her own furrow

Desperation bleeds hope
Steals the lock
Door opens
Smells freedom

Run
Though hell will run her down
She not looking back
Run, run,
Through river
Down gully
Dash way the scent of blood-thirsty
Bloodhounds and bloodier men

Up, up the mountain
Deep into the impenetrable forest
Scrabble, slither and slide
Gather herbs
Plait branches
Lay traps
‘Come if you bad.’

‘Is war you waant
Is war you gwine get.’

Higher she climbs
Scaling the ridge
To a world where she makes the rules
Where she will decide what to plant
When to harvest
When to sleep
When to wake
Free from whip-laced exhaustion
And scars that will not heal

Elephantine leaves quiver
Birds of prey swoop
Fly, fly high into the sky
Smelling blood
But no match
For Nanny

Nanny
Yes man
She little but she Tallawa

Myrna Moore

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Bertha (Antoinette Cosway) The Woman in the Attic (inspired by Jean Rhys’
Wide Sargasso Sea)

My real name Antoinette Cosway
New husband Rochester
Brands me Bertha
Henceforth
My land, house, body
mind (what little remains)
All his

I know who I am
But he calls me Bertha
But she will never be me
I know my real name
I whisper it, trace it
On the window – pane

Once Mistress of all I could see
Acres of land stretched before me
Emancipation came
Freeing the slaves
Trouble as far as the eye could see
Came Knocking
He, Rochester came knocking

Sold off
Shipped off

Off-loaded to his Yorkshire estate
Imprisoned
Guarded, like an escaped prisoner.

I hear them say: His wife, pity she’s mad
Beware the mad woman in the attic!
Pity for himself
But ‘tis I should be pitied
Stripped
Of my very soul

Hot sun, bougainvillea, frangipani
Christophine, my one amie
Stripped away
My only confidante
Now free and faraway
Remember me

Christophine, you taught me well
Watch them
Know them
Learn
Then Act

The governesses come and go
He comes and goes
He does not know my strength
He does not know the lengths

To which I will go

Surrender, never.
My warder asleep
The house creaks
Waiting, holding its breath

I will see his face
No more
Hear his voice
No more
Nor will they

The candle casts shadows
The shadows leap
Higher and higher
Voices shouting
I laugh

Myrna Moore

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