Kathleen Wakeham published a small book of poetry in 1974 entitled: These feelings of Love, Life and Loneliness, just some poems. It’s a beautiful collection of poems about being a woman, living, loving, and feeling both a part of the world and separate from it. One of her poems she has written about rape, an intense monologue of an experience of violence against a woman.
Her teeth knocked out, blood strewn around
the walls reek with pain,
while the floor is covered with tearful shredded garments
His calling was a leap of risk, from roof
to window pane through her
so a torrent of senselessness gushed.
Torn through slicing lips, gouging pits
plunging at lily bed roots
whose only self is to grow, give nutrients,
be caressed by nature’s rain drops.
Smashed beauty, brass knuckles into a fragile nose bridge
Crying, pleading, Why? Why?
But the lashing and the thrusting go on.
Only stopping after the last spill of sour creamed extermination
the stilhetto falls limp, the skull relaxes its hardened gourd.
But the blood, crying, sores, pain don’t ever seem to stop
Not stopping now or then or, it seems, ever.
Madmen and lunatics roam about
preying on the loving, the harmless
smashing glass into her vulva on a night of quietude.
Rampaging innocence, locking her mind in a padded cell
of fear, hurt, humiliation (no, you’re not a slut)
in the name of
the poor boy had a bad home and is misunderstood, forgive, understand, he’s aman and nature was only calling his natural need.
And her eyes are cloudy glass in a misty self
of voidful womanhood, talking with a tongueless mouth
and a slashed face of dazzlement — Why? Why?
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