Electra – Blog 6

My moment of reckoning approaches

My fate draws nearer and nearer to me each day

I am overwhelmed by it, obsessed with it

It is all I can think about

For years I have waited

Waited patiently in my fathers house

The house of my father, that is without a father

Without a mother too

Each day I sit at the table where he was slain

Slain by my mother in front of my eyes

And I wait in anticipation

In elation for the day that my destiny will finally be fulfilled

For the day when retribution will at last balance the scales

When I will be able to finally let go of this

When I will be able to finally morn for the father I have lost

And the mother chose also to be lost

Each day I wake to the desire to vengeance

And each night I fall asleep with that desire yet to be fulfilled

My hunger consumes me

Has consumed me forever

Yet here I am being held in the arms of the spirits

I can feel the weight of the axe in my hand

I have enacted this every night in my bed

And they will not let me complete the act

This has been my life

My whole life

This vengeance

This blood

What is there without it?

Who am I with out this?

Where do I belong?

Where do I turn to?

Suddenly I am overwhelmed

They, these spirits have broken me

Broken me to the core

And everything messily comes spilling out

I am uncontained

The grief the pain is uncontainable

And they comfort me

hold me like a child

They have brought me to forgiveness

Not like leading a lamb to a calm stream

Rather like fighting a terrifying dragon

A monster from within

It is not as they say

A sudden weight lifted

It is painful

It is a battle that rages on inside forever

Klytemnestra, the Jewess. Blog 6

I was young once too.

Evenings in the spring my mother would wash my small feet with a cloth and a bowl of warm water. I would sit on my bed and watch her and once she finished, tickling my smallest toe, I would climb into the clean linen sheets that were washed every Monday.

My mother was taken from her land too.

Caught by murderous puritanical ideaologies she was plucked from her family and flung here across sea and land. Eventually she met a man here, and together they begot me, the woman who stands before you now.

And I was told stories.

Of how my mother had been shamed, and of how her (and my) family had died; their ashes now mixed into the fields of Poland. Of the evil acts commited by the blind and murderous men seeking to form their ideaologies into tangible gold. Of what my place would be in this cycle of revenge.

So look at me.

I am a complex being. Now we are unfolding my present before you, like the persian carpet my mother kept in the hallway outside my room. I am the perpetrator in this present. But my story stretches farther back than any living-room carpet. My story reaches deeper than the roots of the Eucalyptus tree’s outside our house.

I cannot explain to you this circle. I can only stand here before your axe, my hands raised in the air, praying that someday you will whisper your children stories of forgiveness, instead of revenge.

I was young once, too.

blog 6 – Sara Jacobs

I don’t remember.

I don’t remember her name, it just isn’t there.

I don’t remember her name.

My mind shapes

around her frail form

traces her as she lies

in the unforgiving sand.

I cannot myself, understand.

Understand.

I don’t remember.

My eyes, they see The tradition, the veil

of her scarf.

No protection.  She is dead.

She is dead and all that remains in our eyes is her

scarf.

I don’t remember.

Are we connected?

but I won’t share these.

The eyes, the quiet strain

of a scarf.

Am I understanding?

Am I understanding?

What is her name?

She is dead.

Azra’s Mother -blog 6

My baby

I have been pained

first to bear you from my womb

now to caress your broken flesh

how merciful is Allah

you have been freed

You dance through sparkling streams

light shines from your face

you have been freed

No longer bound to this curse

shedding the body you once knew

you have been freed

Azra’s Mother

They threw the stones.

Rocks of Tradition, flung in careless ritual.

They flew through the sky

intent on their target,

unforgiving.

Now I kneel in the sand,

no longer a cradling comfort,

but a harsh, abrasive platform.

It leaves a distinct impression on your

brutally interrupted flesh–

burning and burrowing, one grain at a time.

 

I could not cry as I watched

your body crumble

piece by piece,

melting to the ground.

The scorching rays of the sun

pierced my back,

Yet I remain frozen

in place– in tongue.

With half a movement I would have burst

open forever, unable to return.

So I remained

Silent.

Numb.

 

My muted voice

will be interpreted as obedience;

submission.

But I have no respect for Them.

There is no honor in this day.

Elektra

Mama yintopi le uyenzilo.
[Mama what have you done?]

The black wood splintered your hand;
Glint of blade reflects in your eyes.

Mama, what have you done?

Murderous revenge nestles in your soul,
Pounds in your chest, echoing
your terrible deed.
Pounds, pounds, pounds! SILENCE.

Mama, what have you done?

Trickle of scarlet streams
down your arms.
My father’s life succumbed
to your evil.

Undo what has been done, Mama!
Done is not done.
Life is not for the taking.

My father is gone.
Uyandibono Tata?
[Daddy, can you see me?]

No! No! No!

Lost at your hand; your hand
forever tainted.
Heart blackened by fiery rage.

Mama, what have you done?

Ayesha. Blog 6

I will wear my scarf.
I will cover my hair. Does my hair make me any less Muslim?
Black, non straight, Black, curly hair.

I am still a Muslim.

My skin color.
Black, non white, Black, non eastern.

I am still a Muslim.

I can hide my hair but not my skin.
My skin color, my hair texture, my use of the scarf does not decode my faith.

But.

I am judged, catergorized, and faced with the daily pain of being questioned.
But I have learned to show my hair in the face of questioning eyes.
Show my skin color in the look of outcasting glances.

I am Black.
I am Muslim.

I am Ayesha.

Through the Eyes of Ayesha from At Her Feet

You say you don’t know why I am angry
see erratic hair symptomatic of my anger
as if I hunger, as if frazzled heads are hungry
for visible connection to Arab sands,
like straight hair spells holy land,
blessed heads, perfection; you miss my direction,
my fight. See, I wrap my head in sun color, rust-hue
not for you, I am blend and truth: red ancestor,
yellow trend, respecting religion, Marxist vision,
reverence for man and woman,
I am heaven as hybrid and these coils of hair,
they pad my scarf with substance,
they fill
me in.
(There is no God but God, but oh his many perfect names.)
The reason for my anger: for my sister, voiceless under veil,
how you won’t cry out for her, you don’t?
I call (hear my screech) in streets and malls,
lest my silence compound violence,
why we must speak. We could drown out pale reporter, together,
he who would paint all veils the same,
deny Allah’s children our variegated ways,
our ability to among ourselves critique.
Call me angry, if you will, but I say thirsty,
for mine is global vision,
Islam my global religion,
and I scream through this veil to remind you
that the fabric I wear is permeable.

Agamemnon

The blood red earth weighs
heavily upon me.
Blood red earth
stained still darker with my blood, unceremoniously
molded into a sacred mound,
African dirt, earth of my ancestors,
shaped by the stained hands of my judge
stained by my lifeblood
cursed hands of my wife.

In a trance
Klytemnestra, thirsty for justice, struck
once, twice,
thrice,
and her pain was avenged.
And now upon the freshly shaped earth
Electra flings down her youthful frame, convulsing
with sobs, but deprived
by her mother, violently flung back
once, twice,
thrice,
and Klytemnestra shrieks “avert your eyes!”
Don’t look, Elektra, lest fury consume you.
But you come as once you came
safe in my arms, cradled now
upon my red grave.

Will you, my daughter, avenge me?
In my blood you are baptized into hate,
fueling the fires of cyclical revenge
whose ashes would bury us all.

Blog 6-Azra

Angry rocks thrown from every direction.
I lay on the ground with no defense
encircled by vicious men.
Their only purpose is to teach me a lesson.
But it will never be applied,
I will be dead soon,
crushed from the constant rain of rocks.

Rocks are stealing my voice,
thieves to my words,
thieves to my life.
Words, power, potential cut short.
A message to other women:
shrivel, shrink, reduce, grow small, quiet.
Do not be seen or heard.

What am I missing?
What could I have done?
What would my life have been?
Answers unknown
Questions abandoned.