Aloha everyone,
Here we have our newest submission by the talented Jane Beal. She shares three poems with us that touch on her experience of the struggles of growing up as a female within her familial structure. Thank you so much Jane for your wonderful words that cast a light onto the issues of gender expression within the family as well as the greater society.
Questions that arise for me when reading these poems are “in what ways does the labeling of gender constrict us into suffocating roles?” “How can we move past what we think we know about gender and the stereotypes that are placed within each gender role in our society so that the full expression of who we truly are can be shown?”
Here is a bit about Jane:
Jane Beal, PhD is a poet. She has created many collections of poetry, including _Sanctuary_ (Finishing Line Press, 2008), _Rising_ (Wipf and Stock, 2015) and _Song of the Selkie_ (Aubade Publishing, 2020) as well as three audio recording projects: “Songs from the Secret Life,” “Love-Song,” and “The Jazz Bird.” She also writes magical realist fiction, creative nonfiction, literary criticism, and music. She teaches at the University of La Verne in southern California. See http://janebeal.wordpress.com.
She says about her work:
“Of the many types of oppression in the world, oppressive gender dynamics within families can be the most devastating for the developing female person. When I read the poem, "My Real Battle Scars" by Sophie Szew on Ishvara's Wellness website, I was reminded of three poems of mine that explored related issues: "Working Construction," "Battlefield," and "I Dream of Horses." I hope these will speak to the very real issues of unwaged labor and psychological oppression that girls face growing up in their families today.”
She also says about being an artist, “I’m a poet. When I was fifteen, I got my first paying job as an optician, so I developed the habit of looking at things closely, through different lenses, and from different perspectives. I later became a teacher and a midwife. So I like to share what I’ve learned with others in ways that are creative and meaningful, and I know how to care for pregnant mothers and welcome babies with love (and stop hemorrhages and resuscitate newborns if I have to), which I’ve done in far-flung places like Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, Uganda, and the Philippines. I haven’t lost my faith in God despite everything I’ve seen – the opposite, rather – I am in awe of the Creator. I like zumba dancing and birdwatching. I love music. All of this (and more) goes into the poetry. I write poetry because I want to. Poetry bears witness to everything that matters in life.”
“Working Construction”
When I was a kid,
I stripped
a roof in the summer,
peeled up
a linoleum floor
with a blow-torch,
and hauled brick
across an open yard.
I would work
like a man
just to eat
almond chicken
chow mein
at China Station
for lunch
with my dad.
At the end
of the day,
I swept up sawdust
with a push broom,
though the wooden handle
was too long for me
to manage
easily.
I would wait
for my dad
to notice
what I did
and approve
of me,
his first-born
child.
But one day
when I was eleven,
I looked up and my dad
was gone –
his skill-saw still
turning in the garage
on nothing
but air.
“Battlefield”
My family life is like the Civil War.
Our Gettysburg comes every December.
I stand, a lone fife player, overlooking
a field of dead bodies.
Beside me, my brother, the little drummer boy,
holds his sticks still, unable to tap out the time.
Will one of the Confederate soldiers roll up
off the ground and wink at us like our father?
Will a Union nurse trudge toward us through this
muddy, bloody battlefield with a world-weary look on her face?
We cannot hallow, we cannot consecrate, this
ground: as the snow begins to fall, the cold
truth settles into our bones.
“I Dream of Horses”
At my old house, next to the horse-barn, under
the pepper tree, I saw my soul
standing shoeless in the flood.
The water was rising above my ankles
to wet the hem of my crimson dress.
I watched as all the neighbors tried to get out,
hauling what they could salvage
in cars about to become boats without rudders or anchors.
I wondered if Noche, with the white star
on her black forehead, and Spook, all pale
like a ghost in the night
could swim in the rip-tide river like sea-horses,
like mares without foals, like unicorns.
I wondered if I should climb the pepper tree or wait
for my horses, for manes like rough ropes gripped
in my fists, for the wild ride.
I looked out empty, full
of my loss, with no sugar cubes
or apple-cores or hand-fulls of grass –
nothing to give, nothing else to lose,
not even my shoes,
in the deep water,
where my soul was standing
still waiting to see if my horses
would come and rescue me
before I drowned.
