gender inequality poems

The Wife – A Poem by Richard Kalfus

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The two of us, my co-worker and I
busy at our computers.

John took out his cell.
“Have to call THE wife, won’t take long.”
“What? “You want to call THE wife?
My surprise meant nothing to him.
At 59, he was very much “old school.”
Was he or I the fool?

My young wife had she been there,
She would have told John calmly
that using the word, THE, today,
was indeed rare,
and pejorative.

It lowered her to a “possession.”—
an object “his” property.

John was baffled,” but, but,
I love my wife…
She is my whole life.

My own wife, having recently
returned from the “Women’s March”
could have explained it all.

Would John have understood?

Legislators v. Her | Alexandre Bartolo

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Nightcrawlers fill your tonsils, beaconing
false beetles towards eerie lepers. Fit

weary scarfs around legislators, disheartened
from feminists’ marches.

“Those fetal coincidental miscalculations!
Where was our pharmaceutical latex?”

“We didn’t laboriously get paid to endure
unshaven armpits!”

Parasites, elephants whose genes changed
by Linkage near to reincarnation engorge

laundry rooms, wombs and Her call to
living will.

Look across lucky neighborhoods where
daughters can afford crossing borders, eager

to adjure a Mount Venus’ climber,
executing their fathers’ shame.

Married at Fourteen | Sravani Singampalli

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I was just like any other child
Studying hard to reach my goal
I had a dream like any other child
Of becoming a teacher
In any one of the high schools
I loved to study
Enjoyed playing with my friends
I made merry all the time
Trying to learn new things
With all my mind
I was just like any other child
Until I became a ‘child bride’.
I was married at fourteen
I didn’t know anything
I became easy prey
To economic burden and family culture
In the face of poverty
And because of social insecurities
My parents wanted to get rid of me
Still I kept silent
As was expected from me
I cried very hard
To escape this brutal reality
I tried very hard
To come out of pessimism
I lost my wonderful childhood
To somebody I didn’t know at all.
I became pregnant
At such a tender age
It caused such pain
For I myself was a child
Doctors simply said that
Either I or my baby would survive
I was really helpless
But with god’s grace
I gave birth to my child.
Now I have only one dream
Of eradicating our poverty
And educating my child
So that she doesn’t suffer
Like I did
Just few months back
As a ‘child bride’.
—–
Sravani Singampalli is a 22 year old poet from india. She is presently pursuing a doctorate of pharmacy at JNTU Kakinada University in Andhra Pradesh, India.

The Beautiful Presidential Granddaughter | Karlo Sevilla

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Last September, she lit up social media with her fashionista photos:

Beautiful in black ensemble, grey Celine mini.
Beautiful in Gucci Ace embroidered sneakers.
Beautiful wearing Chanel quilted ballerina flats.

This December, Malacañang Palace is aglow with her pre-debut shoot:

Beautiful floating on the train of her red gown.
Beautiful in another of cream leaves.
Beautiful in a floral printed dress.

Come January, at her debut, I wonder if her grandfather will repeat the following:

“Those who were raped in the past, were really beautiful.
Worth going to jail for, worth dying for.”

More at https://twitter.com/KarloSevilla.

The Possibility | Alexandre Bartolo

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Imagine the sparkling possibility
that women could have a mammogram, or
a gynecologist test them for the possibility
of cervical cancer developed after a
an XY being has pressed them to do
anything without proper protection.
Imagine this possibility tripled,
without some man of faith blowing up a
women’s health clinic because they only perform abortions,
and the doctors mix the fetuses with cola and then we buy soda.
Imagine now the remote powerful possibility of
living without any human interfering in their
ability to choose.
Imagine, please, the possibility.

Innocent | Kara D. Spain

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Forced, against her will,
pregnancy was not her choice,
yet she loved her babe with a heavenly force
Upon giving birth, he was stolen away,
she never even had the chance to nurse that day
She ran behind him, with panic and fear,
knowing his end could be near
Now, what to do with all this milk?
Sold for profit; lies told to the people at the market
Her baby boy, never will she see
Now, her inner light, diminished in sadness and grief

More at https://lyrical-discovery.blogspot.com/.

Cold-Blooded | Ndifreke George

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The married men have killed the widow
A merciless beating to death
Deaf to her cry and plea
Her desire to be with her infant
And feed it to maturity
They dragged her along the tar
And tore her into shreds
Through the horde of voiceless masses.
Whose hearts had helped
Whose hearts had beaten them up
Whose hearts had raced after them
To deliver and set her free
Their hearts had treated her wounds
And nursed her to recovery
But their hands were chopped off
And helplessly they watched
Burying their faces in shame and pity
Their goodwill suffers limitations
Fear assumes the greatest prominence
So they watch her die
And suffer hunger from her absence

Our greedy and merciless leaders
Have killed justice
And have made a shameful show of the law
Which has gone unpunished.

Inquisitive Mind | Julia Hones

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Why do we talk about women’s rights?
When shall we consider them human rights?

Why do we put up with a man
who calls a woman “disgusting”
when she wants to extract from her body
the precious fluid that helps her baby think and thrive?

Albert Einstein said we should never stop asking questions,
but if he had been a woman,
her statement might have been trashed.

More at https://juliahoneswritinglife.blogspot.com.

The Great Indian Mourning | Sunil Sharma

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When little Rita died, her anemic Ma cried,
This eight-year-old was the quietest
Of the big quarreling brood.
Always caring for me and others,
Bringing leftovers from the families
Where the child ceaselessly worked long hours,
Her slender back broken by the labour of two adults,
Now she is no more, my precious child!
What will I do now?
Who else will do her chores?
She brought a few hundred rupees in our unlit hovel
We are poorer by those few hundreds.

Another rugged woman muttered,
Grieve not, sister Sita,
Your second daughter is finally free
From regular beatings by her drunk father,
And hunger and possible multiple rapes
By the rich slumlords and others in eternal wait.
The poor child is free at last!
And gone to heaven, we all hope so,
The poor are the favourite of God,
So the holy books say.
But we, the graying women
Are still hapless prey
To the male lust and power
That makes us cower,
In impoverished homes.

More at http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/.

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