This is a poem I conceived/began writing on International Women's Day 3 years ago. I wanted to get across the kind of shit women have to put up with on a regular basis, the kind of things lots of men can't fully "feel", like the crazy yet everyday fact of not being able to go down many streets at night without fearing harassment or attack, or the sheer, relentless volume of sexual remarks in the workplace and other venues. It's from my poetry collection Breeding Monsters, which is about fear in a wider sense. I guess the act of writing the poem and reading about women's experiences as part of research for it opened my eyes a bit.
Sexual harassment really is a relentless thing, and every "small" act adds to the insidious whole. I think a lot of guys know that without fully getting it, as they can't experience it for themselves, but I hoped this poem could open a few eyes. Please share if you think you know some people who might be enlightened by it in some way, and happy International Women's Day everyone.
Caroline (Duet for the Modern City)
I know the mood of diamond streets,
frosted like a toothy crust.
My cotton thighs lift and drop.
Jogging keeps me warm, at least.
And yeah, I’m lonely: though people pass
with private myths, they matter no bit to me,
so let me hear your voice, sweet city.
Guide me through the intimate night:
Careful out there – it’s a cold sea,
a murky fog of possibility.
Winter’s breath has paid its rent.
You don’t want to fall on your ass.
Ah, I knew you were there with me.
It’s hard to be sure when I can’t see you,
apart from your concrete under my feet,
your dazzling lights and gypsy shadows.
Don’t let me slip, okay?
It’s not frost that wants to take you
and drag you down an alley.
There’s people around – they’d hear me scream –
like the Queen of Smoke,
sitting there on her battered bench.
She sucks the life from a cigarette,
one leg nodding like a broken clock.
The Clown of Romance, she marches past,
never neat, her bag so big
she must have rouge to burn her cheeks.
Tone it down, sister!
Don’t you want to unravel your streak
of first dates and bedroom tears?
She can’t hear you.
I don’t care.
I hate this, waiting for the green man
to grant me the privilege of crossing the road.
My calves dance a shallow shuffle,
toned and thin.
Not as thin as they could be, kid.
I’ve often wanted to run those roads,
where industry grunts in eight-hour shifts.
I swear, I can even smell
the bitter metal of corrugated roofs,
the loneliness of glass and mortar,
overalls and stillborn dreams.
At least, in the country, there’s less who dream.
Wait, wait. Don’t run that way.
Haven’t you learned that on certain streets,
you’re just a moving pile of meat,
for the kind of man who views women as prey?
I’ve seen men jog down there.
Someday, maybe, I’ll do the same,
my body buzzing with feminine fear
and, if I’m in the mood to admit it,
a kind of sad shame.
You saw that glance,
the stubbled man.
Yeah, Greasy George, with his sallow skin,
ponytail so petite
it makes me think of my first goldfish –
dead within a day.
You half-expected to feel his hand
touch you as you passed.
I’m used to it, y’know what I mean?
In bars, mostly.
But even by day,
eyes like hands scratching my skin.
I’ve fought them off since I was a child.
You’ve seen it all – I know you have –
my warm welcome to womanhood,
sexualised by the shape of my chest,
as if a stare could thaw my clothes.
One day, though, there’ll be no glances.
I know.
What then?
And what about the boys you teach?
I hear them in my sleep:
“C’mere, Miss, can ya show me this?”
Another shouts, “Show us your tits”.
What can you expect in a school full of boys?
I wish I could teach them other things,
like how to respect,
how to grow up
with some kind of grace.
But that’s not on the curriculum.
And yet you’ve noticed how handsome they are,
some of them, in their final year,
pretty as the first streaks of dawn.
I think I feel a blister coming on.
It’s never happened here before,
and this is the route I’ve always run.
Routine is your poison, my friend.
I always said I’d never succumb
to the same old things,
like bank statements and easy dinners.
My mother told me money’s an egg,
good to taste, harmful in excess.
The years slipped by, didn’t they?
Like a small administration fee.
Stop! Stop! Don’t go that way.
I’ve told you there’s danger in dark streets.
To some, you’re just a pile of meat –
the kind of man who views women as prey.
I’m sick of this!
All my fear,
someday, I swear, I’ll wrap it into a ball
and fling it far, till it sinks in the river.
And maybe I’ll follow it down there, too.
I thought you weren’t afraid.
All women are scared.
Sometimes, we lie
to make things smaller,
so small we barely notice they’re there.
Why do you think I run so much?
Maybe I’m fleeing.
From what?
You know.
From the fright of a cold November night
some time ago?
I wasn’t sure, blamed myself
for the Morse code of slow eyes,
measured the mood of my skirt in the mirror,
and wondered if it spoke for me.
But that was in another town.
I first ran in fields, behind our home.
Nothing to fear there.
And I won’t let violence govern me now.
Men can’t ever know how it feels
to be told where to go.
They’re free to roam,
while women are dogs held on a leash.
We see invisible gates on streets,
warning signs to keep us weak.
If the same gates fenced us all,
how do you think men would feel?
They have no idea.
They never will.
I can feel my heart,
a deeper beat,
swallowing blood,
spitting it out.
Not far now till I feel the heat
of a warm shower.
Maybe I’ll take a different street.
Caroline! Don’t turn that way!
I’m sorry I can’t redeem those streets
where women are scared, just piles of meat
to certain men who take them for prey.
It’s dark, so dark,
but why would I care?
Another night, another street.
Farewell, my friend,
till we meet again.
Caroline! Listen!
Try to clear
those busy thoughts crowding your head.
There may be a man beyond that alley
with a long knife and a pile of rope,
waiting in hope for the sound of steps,
waiting for someone just like you.
From Breeding Monsters, available from Amazon:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Breeding-Monsters-Trevor-Conway/dp/1728926289
Sexual harassment really is a relentless thing, and every "small" act adds to the insidious whole. I think a lot of guys know that without fully getting it, as they can't experience it for themselves, but I hoped this poem could open a few eyes. Please share if you think you know some people who might be enlightened by it in some way, and happy International Women's Day everyone.
Caroline (Duet for the Modern City)
I know the mood of diamond streets,
frosted like a toothy crust.
My cotton thighs lift and drop.
Jogging keeps me warm, at least.
And yeah, I’m lonely: though people pass
with private myths, they matter no bit to me,
so let me hear your voice, sweet city.
Guide me through the intimate night:
Careful out there – it’s a cold sea,
a murky fog of possibility.
Winter’s breath has paid its rent.
You don’t want to fall on your ass.
Ah, I knew you were there with me.
It’s hard to be sure when I can’t see you,
apart from your concrete under my feet,
your dazzling lights and gypsy shadows.
Don’t let me slip, okay?
It’s not frost that wants to take you
and drag you down an alley.
There’s people around – they’d hear me scream –
like the Queen of Smoke,
sitting there on her battered bench.
She sucks the life from a cigarette,
one leg nodding like a broken clock.
The Clown of Romance, she marches past,
never neat, her bag so big
she must have rouge to burn her cheeks.
Tone it down, sister!
Don’t you want to unravel your streak
of first dates and bedroom tears?
She can’t hear you.
I don’t care.
I hate this, waiting for the green man
to grant me the privilege of crossing the road.
My calves dance a shallow shuffle,
toned and thin.
Not as thin as they could be, kid.
I’ve often wanted to run those roads,
where industry grunts in eight-hour shifts.
I swear, I can even smell
the bitter metal of corrugated roofs,
the loneliness of glass and mortar,
overalls and stillborn dreams.
At least, in the country, there’s less who dream.
Wait, wait. Don’t run that way.
Haven’t you learned that on certain streets,
you’re just a moving pile of meat,
for the kind of man who views women as prey?
I’ve seen men jog down there.
Someday, maybe, I’ll do the same,
my body buzzing with feminine fear
and, if I’m in the mood to admit it,
a kind of sad shame.
You saw that glance,
the stubbled man.
Yeah, Greasy George, with his sallow skin,
ponytail so petite
it makes me think of my first goldfish –
dead within a day.
You half-expected to feel his hand
touch you as you passed.
I’m used to it, y’know what I mean?
In bars, mostly.
But even by day,
eyes like hands scratching my skin.
I’ve fought them off since I was a child.
You’ve seen it all – I know you have –
my warm welcome to womanhood,
sexualised by the shape of my chest,
as if a stare could thaw my clothes.
One day, though, there’ll be no glances.
I know.
What then?
And what about the boys you teach?
I hear them in my sleep:
“C’mere, Miss, can ya show me this?”
Another shouts, “Show us your tits”.
What can you expect in a school full of boys?
I wish I could teach them other things,
like how to respect,
how to grow up
with some kind of grace.
But that’s not on the curriculum.
And yet you’ve noticed how handsome they are,
some of them, in their final year,
pretty as the first streaks of dawn.
I think I feel a blister coming on.
It’s never happened here before,
and this is the route I’ve always run.
Routine is your poison, my friend.
I always said I’d never succumb
to the same old things,
like bank statements and easy dinners.
My mother told me money’s an egg,
good to taste, harmful in excess.
The years slipped by, didn’t they?
Like a small administration fee.
Stop! Stop! Don’t go that way.
I’ve told you there’s danger in dark streets.
To some, you’re just a pile of meat –
the kind of man who views women as prey.
I’m sick of this!
All my fear,
someday, I swear, I’ll wrap it into a ball
and fling it far, till it sinks in the river.
And maybe I’ll follow it down there, too.
I thought you weren’t afraid.
All women are scared.
Sometimes, we lie
to make things smaller,
so small we barely notice they’re there.
Why do you think I run so much?
Maybe I’m fleeing.
From what?
You know.
From the fright of a cold November night
some time ago?
I wasn’t sure, blamed myself
for the Morse code of slow eyes,
measured the mood of my skirt in the mirror,
and wondered if it spoke for me.
But that was in another town.
I first ran in fields, behind our home.
Nothing to fear there.
And I won’t let violence govern me now.
Men can’t ever know how it feels
to be told where to go.
They’re free to roam,
while women are dogs held on a leash.
We see invisible gates on streets,
warning signs to keep us weak.
If the same gates fenced us all,
how do you think men would feel?
They have no idea.
They never will.
I can feel my heart,
a deeper beat,
swallowing blood,
spitting it out.
Not far now till I feel the heat
of a warm shower.
Maybe I’ll take a different street.
Caroline! Don’t turn that way!
I’m sorry I can’t redeem those streets
where women are scared, just piles of meat
to certain men who take them for prey.
It’s dark, so dark,
but why would I care?
Another night, another street.
Farewell, my friend,
till we meet again.
Caroline! Listen!
Try to clear
those busy thoughts crowding your head.
There may be a man beyond that alley
with a long knife and a pile of rope,
waiting in hope for the sound of steps,
waiting for someone just like you.
From Breeding Monsters, available from Amazon:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Breeding-Monsters-Trevor-Conway/dp/1728926289