Before the reader embarks on reading these poems, the editors stress that some content may be found disturbing, troubling or even distressing. Sexual violence is an emotive subject, and some writing about rape is as exploitative as the crime itself. Such writing in the context of politics, the media or literature can constitute a “double violation” for the rape survivor who lives the experience for a second time: the experience of “triggering”. Encounters with sexual violence as a subject for literature demand caution, care and respect, but an interrogation of “rape myths” is necessary. The poems selected break the silence of the status-quo, which defines sexual violence as a freak event rather than part of a dominative “rape culture”. This protest is the beginning of a conversation that seeks recuperation, healing and redress.
Please note that submissions are closed.
The introduction to our protest can be read here.
Please refer to our list of International Resources for Rape Support here.
Jane Lewty
Don’t know if it’s just the myth made, but sure there was stars
(just inner gazework perhaps) Later got up, wiped off as if we’d simply stopped in a layby on the way to somewhere Across the park, yes blood, there was null sky
null sky with its contiguous hate, your hate In years, heard something like I know my
redeemer bless this disquiet it’ll make you, or like to think heard
thank you
oh thank you you’re an easy undeadlocked code when/if asked about.
How To Prevent Rape
Pamela Newham
She is ninety four.
Lives with her grandchild in a shack in Mmakau
but no one is home when he breaks the chains
that keep shut her front door.
Three hours pass before he leaves.
In Setswana she tells a reporter from TV news,
“A person who can do this
does not deserve to live.
He has destroyed everything.”
The police in North West Province say
elderly women are to be issued
with whistles and pepper spray.
Her Dress Said Yes
Cassandra Jane Parkin
So, there was this party
With, you know, like
Beer
And coke
And it was all kinds of a mess
She was with her girlfriends
I was with the guys
And then –
Her dress
Said yes.
She was all, like, sleeping
I thought I’d wake her with a kiss
(Because the whole night was
just like that, and besides
She’d been looking at me earlier
and I thought I couldn’t miss).
And, okay, I’ll confess –
At first it was hard to guess
Because I was messed up
and she was messed up
and then –
Her dress
Said yes.
Her dress,
That flirty little dirty little
scarlet velvet number
And her red shiny fuck-me shoes.
Oh jeez, her shoes
Her shoes had the power, man
The power
To choose.
Well yeah, maybe, man, I don’t know –
Maybe there was a moment when she said no
But it could also have been oh
(I mean, I’m not boasting, but oh would have been, like,
contextually appropriate
you know what I’m saying?)
But how could anyone hear
Over my ahs and my oohs
And over the sound of those shoes?
Those fuck-me shoes,
and that dress?
That dress!
It was one big old screaming yes.
And yeah, looking at it with a fresh eye –
Well sure, man, I’m not gonna lie,
There were three of us and all –
And we went to town
We had ourselves a ball
But we’re not – I mean, I’m not –
I mean, look, I’m a nice guy, you know?
I don’t need to – I’m not –
she should be grateful – and –
look, it was just –
It was her dress!
Her dress!
Her dress!
It screamed YES!
Oh come on, man! How was I supposed to guess
That you’d take the word of some
passed-out chick all in a mess
Over the clear testimony
Of a pair of shiny fuck-me shoes
And a flirty little, skirty little,
low down and dirty little
red velvet dress?
the shoes she was raped in
Sarah Hesketh
two odd cuts of meat
on the counter top:
do you want them? he says
his fingers pushing through the plastic bag
ten soft teeth
oh yes, she says
signing for them then forcing
the burn of memory to her heel
what colour were they? red of course
that’s what everyone will suppose anyway
© Sally Clark, ‘Size Zero or How To Disappear’
It Takes a Few Days
Amy MacLennan
She shops. Blue bands
to tie her hair back.
Nail clippers, sweatshirts,
socks. Two bars of Ivory.
The housework. She scrubs
with dutch cleanser,
no gloves. The bathtub almost
radiant. Even the drain.
A guy strips the board
from her window, replaces
it with glass so pure
everything can be seen.
She double checks her spelling
in the emails she answers.
Shared, not shard. Care, not came.
She’s always had trouble with beautiful.
© mai
Recurring Nightmares
Sarah James
No! Nein! Non! Nie! No!
All the (wrong) places, times, scenes
where limbs are forced at angles,
fear rammed down a face, a throat,
any bleeding hole, any bleeding excuse.
No! Nein! Non! Nie! No!
All the (wrong) places, times, scenes
where it is your lover, daughter,
sister, mother, Nan whose voice
is nothing, nichts, rien, nic, nada.
No! Nein! Non! Nie! No!
All the (wrong) places, times, scenes
where blame is a short skirt, the jaunt
to her walk, that smile in her eyes
placed back in her hands, tattered.
No! Nein! Non! Nie! No!
All the (wrong) places, times, scenes
where we have to watch this violence
repeat again and again, limbs pinned,
voices killed in our throats –
NO! NEIN! NON! NIE! NO!
© Tom de Freston, ‘The Blue Lady and Him’
Going down there
Phillippa Yaa de Villiers
This is a letter scratched out by candlelight:
I leave it for all those who are also
confined, painfully pressed, split open.
Those who hold themselves tightly in their hands
so that they will not spill over
and drain away.
Fear eats hope like the night eats the day
leaving only crumbs of stars. Too far away
to be of any help.
I was raped at six, 11, at 13, at 17 and 19
I didn’t know I was violated because
where I came from
love was forced and
sometimes hurt.
The frail meat of humankind
can’t withstand extremes. We construct ourselves
around ourselves, making of our lives
a shelter.
When you build a house,
you place the window carefully;
when you grow out of a wound,
you see life through
a survivor’s eyes.
Rapes were my bread: I eat I understand.
Then later; I understand, I eat.
The marks on my house/body/shell are
the keloid memories of
African warriors: scars
deliberately inflicted, a sign of identity.
I read them like Braille.
When they found me I was filthy,
wild and mute. They asked me: what
happened? Compassion unlocked
the cage of memory, and words fell out of me
like the crumbs in Gretel’s dark forest,
pebbles of hope,
words
became light
showing me
how to get home.
I am healed now.
But I no longer
look the same.
© Cassandra Gordon-Harris, ‘Fragile Treasures’
I don’t know
Phillippa Yaa de Villiers
I don’t know
I’m not sure
I don’t know if
I was raped or not.
The uncle who held my hand and
wiped the ice-cream off
my black patent leather shoes
and then surprisingly stuck his tongue
between my teeth;
I’m not sure.
He bought me another ice-cream.
The time I got my new orange hot pants
with the yellow patent leather belt
and paraded in front him and he smiled and
told me I was beautiful and asked me when
I was turning twelve
and I laughed and said only after I’ve turned eleven.
Clamped in his caress, his eyes searching mine
asking Is that nice, baby, is that nice?
It was sore but he seemed to need me to say yes,
so I did, but it was sore, so I don’t know
if it was my fault or not
because I lied.
He always told me I was beautiful.
I’m not sure if I was raped or not
I wanted a massage, his hands are really strong
and he’s used to my body
he’s taken care of me before.
You can say one thing or 55 things:
I said thank you
because he was giving me so much.
I was really stuck with nowhere to live
he gave me more than I was asking for
I did really only want a place to sleep
and a massage
but I don’t know if I was raped because
that short word
is so much a piece of darkness
stuffed into a screaming mouth
I don’t know
I‘m not sure
He was my uncle
He gave me a massage
He was helping me out
© Malgorzata Lazarek
Undone
Kaddy Benyon
We had to run for the bus after confession,
where waiting for Mother’s silence
I’d made imaginary idols of saints, illuminated
by twenty votives I paid for with flickers
of prayer. We’d no time for my litany
of lies and spite and rage so the priest winked
and told me Next time. I reached for Mother’s
hand, already crammed with beads
clacking together: a metronome for OCD.
Her illness worshipped muttering; stations
of the cross mostly, but then anything
with a repeating pattern, lost in a hail of Marys.
She let me sit by the window, while, head
bowed she vowed to settle breaths above
the throb and grind of engine. Her hands knitted
together then apart, twisting and fidgeting inside
deliberate sleeves. She looked as odd
as the panting man in the soiled mac, uncurtaining
bushes when we stopped at lights. He grinned
up at me, presenting his puffy, purpley
grub. I covered up my eyes and whispered:
How soon is next time Mummy? Mum?
Published in Milk Fever (Salt Publishing, 2012).
Reproduced with the author’s permission.
© Lorraine Adams
Bogeyman
Joanne Limburg
Out of eleven o’clock murk,
a voice:
Got the time, love?
Oh no.
I haven’t got the time.
Not for you.
I’ve been warned about you,
Mr Got the time?
Mr Got a light?
Mr Give us a smile
Mr Morning, beautiful sweetheart darlin’
Mr Measuring Eyes
Mr Wolf Whistle
Mr Honk Your Horn
Mr White Van Full of Hooting Apes
Mr Brainless Yob
Mr Sad Pissed-Up Fart
Mr Dirty Old Should Know Better
Mr Filthy Slimy Perv
Mr SEX FIEND
Mr RECENT SPATE OF ATTACKS
Mr MY FIVE HOUR ORDEAL
Mr LEFT ME FOR DEAD
Mr Don’t Cross the Park Alone
Mr Keep The Curtains Closed
Mr Never Sit Like That
Mr Your Knickers Are Showing Through
Mr Be Sensible, Mr Be Quiet
Mr Something To Cry About
Mr Smack You And Send You To Bed
Mr Chopper To Chop Off Your Head
Mr Hangman
Mr Judge
Mr Jailer
Mr Fear.
Published in Femenismo (Bloodaxe Books, 2000).
Reproduced with the author’s permission.
© René Bohnen
The Bicycle
Katrina Naomi
I was OK nothing had happened
nothing bad had happened
I couldn’t get up from the bench
couldn’t do up my dungarees
It was cold it was night
The man had gone and that was good
I was OK I could sit up
peel myself from the bench’s slats
which had pressed deep inside
It could have been worse
I was shaking it was night
The bicycle was too heavy
My dungarees kept slipping
buttons were missing
I had to get home
It was so hard to walk
My head hurt kept punching inside
my teeth couldn’t stop talking
It could have been worse
My jaw hurt and my breasts were raw
I couldn’t pick up the bicycle its spinning wheel
couldn’t walk with the bicycle
I had to get home to wash
sleep throw these clothes away
I was shaking I was cold
My dungarees wouldn’t do up
I would be alright it was just
this bicycle I needed
Published in Magma.
Reproduced with the author’s permission.
Hippocratic Oath
Christine Swint
Normal is a setting on a dryer, he said,
and should-hood is shit-hood, remember that.
Listen, you’re living in your head,
all filled up with that tripe you’ve read
about men in frock coats and silk cravats.
Normal is a setting on a dryer, he said.
Don’t take no for an answer in bed—
learn how to give and take a love pat.
You know, you’re living in your head.
Wear a dress that can raise the dead
the next time you come for our chat.
Normal is a setting on a dryer, he said,
so do what you want. Morality’s dead.
Look in the mirror. You’re getting fat.
If you’re not living in your head,
baby, my name isn’t Dr. W. Dubled.
Come sit next to Papa—this is where it’s at.
Normal is a setting on a dryer, he said.
Listen, you’re living in your head.
© Virginia Erdie, ‘Dora Exploited’ from ‘Not just an ICON …’
You Didn’t Rape Me
Michelle Gallen
properly. Afterwards I
stalked the streets wearing
short skirts, walked home down
alleys in lacey, low-cut tops,
and talked to strangers, drunk, alone.
Because you didn’t rape me,
not properly.
There was no police, no doctor,
no court case. No sterile swabs,
scraped samples or photographed bruises.
No counsellor. No compensation.
Because you didn’t rape me,
not properly.
There was no gun, no knife,
no broken bottle. No smashed bones,
torn skin or ripped, muddied clothes.
No bloodied face. No blackened eyes.
Because you didn’t rape me,
not properly.
There was only your slim fingers
on my wet mouth, your strong
brown arm on my trapped arms.
Your whispered yes Yes YES
to my stifled no No NO.
My muffled, swollen lips.
No. I agree.
You didn’t rape me.
Not properly.
Published in Mslexia.
Reproduced with the author’s permission.
© Ingrid Andersen
Object lesson
Ingrid Andersen
Black
Beside the laptop with the incomplete assignment,
a framed picture of her, smiling amongst friends
– all in black gowns – at the Residence Ball.
From this angle, she is not visible
behind the glass.
The others are below in the quad
on their way to class;
her hand is too heavy to wave.
They wouldn’t see her in here anyway.
Red
In her dustbin, still
the red plastic cup from punch
he brought to her room
after the Ball.
Before his crushing weight, the struggle, the choking, the tearing pain.
Before the silence.
White
They all know.
They also know she knows what happened
to the last girl who reported him:
slut-shamed, shunned, she
transferred out of College.
Football heroes don’t rape.
Her white sundress a flag, she mingles.
© Ingrid Andersen
Scarlet under the Moon
Maureen Jivani
As if such an act
constituted love:
(the hateful self
being the only thing
that stood
between dignity
and damage
in the deepening woods)
to present, an apology
of cherry-red gloves.
Peony Moon 