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Protest Poetry - Granny’s First Gift
Hi I’m Lilith. I am new to Atheist Nexus and this group.
I am a member of a new group called the A.I.M (The anti-injustice movement) on Nexus. We held our first ever protest poetry event recently and I thought I would post one of the poems I preformed. I was hoping for some comments and feedback. I was also wondering if anyone had any tips about lay out and presentation. I would like to say thank you to Dallas Gaytheist for the invite to this group.
Granny’s First Gift
My Granny’s first gift
was to knit me a shawl.
Like a shroud
she bound me up
real tight.
Like a present
dressed in pure white.
To be given over to him
so he could forgive me
my first mortal sin.
Coming to earth
clothed in nothing
but my own silken skin.
Saturated in the smell
of my ancestors sin.
She stood upon his alter
proudly on display
the day, that she gave me away.
To the almighty
and his earthly emissary.
To be washed clean
by the sign of his cross.
In the name of the father
his son
and the holy
fucking ghost.
The cold, drips
from his
fingertips
welcomed me
into this
exclusive family.
Where indoctrination
is a, lifetimes occupation.
Calling upon
his surrogate parents
to fulfil
their sacred role.
As I was sold
A sacrificial slave
for the price
of their salvation
from damnation
while the congregation
watch
Before rising
from their pews
to sing their praises to
my holy father
who is sucking it all in
as if he’d, just squeezed me
from his own
stretched and bloodied skin.
Taking a bow
for mankind
for Adam
and his mystically missing rib.
As my mothers role in creation
is taken.
By this robed
baby snatcher.
who likes them young
Spongey and innocent
Just waiting to be
filled up
by the word.
So as soon as I can walk
barely able to talk
just a curious little tot
scrambling for
coloured crayons
out the box
to scribble
between the lines
of a broken Jesus
hanging upon his cross
for me
and my future sin
which is curled up
inside my hymen
like the serpent
waiting to suck my victims in
tempting them to take
that first fleshy taste
Juices dribbling down our skin
until we are guilty and confessing.
While He
He’s getting off
on the thought
Of me
a miniature bride
kneeling upon his alter
and opening up my mouth
real wide
to take the body of Christ
washing it down
with his spilt blood
trickling
down my chin
while the congregation
watch
wet eyed at the sight
of these pretty little
girls dressed up in white.
All secretly wishing for that
special day
when daddy
will give them away.
Sold off
As veiled
virgin wives
to their husbands
and his rights
to a fuck
when he likes.
My life unfolds
before my eyes
ritualised.
Until I’m standing
upon his alter
swearing myself away
willingly
promising to be so
faithful and true
to this man
whose standing in for you.
As the congregation
proudly
watch
their creation
taking up her mystical vocation.
All winking and waiting
for that, final deed
the sowing of his seed.
and the pattering
of tiny, Christian feet.
My Grannies final gift
was to knit me
a christening shawl.
For me to bind
my unborn child.
It lays yellowing
wrapped in tissue paper
waiting for the day
when I’m finally
strong enough
to throw it away.
I am a member of a new group called the A.I.M (The anti-injustice movement) on Nexus. We held our first ever protest poetry event recently and I thought I would post one of the poems I preformed. I was hoping for some comments and feedback. I was also wondering if anyone had any tips about lay out and presentation. I would like to say thank you to Dallas Gaytheist for the invite to this group.
Granny’s First Gift
My Granny’s first gift
was to knit me a shawl.
Like a shroud
she bound me up
real tight.
Like a present
dressed in pure white.
To be given over to him
so he could forgive me
my first mortal sin.
Coming to earth
clothed in nothing
but my own silken skin.
Saturated in the smell
of my ancestors sin.
She stood upon his alter
proudly on display
the day, that she gave me away.
To the almighty
and his earthly emissary.
To be washed clean
by the sign of his cross.
In the name of the father
his son
and the holy
fucking ghost.
The cold, drips
from his
fingertips
welcomed me
into this
exclusive family.
Where indoctrination
is a, lifetimes occupation.
Calling upon
his surrogate parents
to fulfil
their sacred role.
As I was sold
A sacrificial slave
for the price
of their salvation
from damnation
while the congregation
watch
Before rising
from their pews
to sing their praises to
my holy father
who is sucking it all in
as if he’d, just squeezed me
from his own
stretched and bloodied skin.
Taking a bow
for mankind
for Adam
and his mystically missing rib.
As my mothers role in creation
is taken.
By this robed
baby snatcher.
who likes them young
Spongey and innocent
Just waiting to be
filled up
by the word.
So as soon as I can walk
barely able to talk
just a curious little tot
scrambling for
coloured crayons
out the box
to scribble
between the lines
of a broken Jesus
hanging upon his cross
for me
and my future sin
which is curled up
inside my hymen
like the serpent
waiting to suck my victims in
tempting them to take
that first fleshy taste
Juices dribbling down our skin
until we are guilty and confessing.
While He
He’s getting off
on the thought
Of me
a miniature bride
kneeling upon his alter
and opening up my mouth
real wide
to take the body of Christ
washing it down
with his spilt blood
trickling
down my chin
while the congregation
watch
wet eyed at the sight
of these pretty little
girls dressed up in white.
All secretly wishing for that
special day
when daddy
will give them away.
Sold off
As veiled
virgin wives
to their husbands
and his rights
to a fuck
when he likes.
My life unfolds
before my eyes
ritualised.
Until I’m standing
upon his alter
swearing myself away
willingly
promising to be so
faithful and true
to this man
whose standing in for you.
As the congregation
proudly
watch
their creation
taking up her mystical vocation.
All winking and waiting
for that, final deed
the sowing of his seed.
and the pattering
of tiny, Christian feet.
My Grannies final gift
was to knit me
a christening shawl.
For me to bind
my unborn child.
It lays yellowing
wrapped in tissue paper
waiting for the day
when I’m finally
strong enough
to throw it away.
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Ian Mason on -
Very strong, very emotional. I'm never sure about layout. Leave it a few weeks, look again and see what you think. It's good to hear about a group using poetry. Good luck.
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Permalink Reply by Lilith on -
Thanks Ian, I find it hard to translate how I Perform it on to the page! We are hopefully going to do another evening soon. We filmed the first one and I should be posting it when I manage to work out how to tranfer it from my old video camera to the computer. There was some fantastic poets preforming at the event and I think its a great medium for making people think.
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Permalink Reply by A Former Member on -
Lillith, thanks for joining us, and thanks for posting this poem. I'm leaving for vacation next week, and I'm way behind on things I need to do. I'll keep this email notice and get back to this just as soon as I can. Thanks again.
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Permalink Reply by A Former Member on
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That is fucking great Lillith. I can just hear you saying that. Are you familiar with Lydia Lunch's spoken word works?
MELTDOWN (From STINKFIST)
They outlawed everything that spelled pleasure.
Didn't want you to even think about it.
Wanted you to forget everything about how good it felt.
It was all so obvious why...too dangerous.
And what exactly was going to happen.
It was easy, so easy.
It wasn't met with much resistance.
Revolt didn't come til much, much later.
After the damage had already been done.
It all happened so quickly.
Or did it take forever?
I lost track of time
Got swallowed up in the Rush, the Push, the Panic, the Pain.
The Poison.
Dying and trying to stay alive.
I'm driving 365 MPH through a brick abutment.
The road to nowhere is covered with shit, with drunks, with drugs, with fuck.
It sucks.
I see a 452-mile long forest fire that your plane crashes into at 2
in the morning.
I laugh at shopping mall murders, abortion clinics, earthquakes and the plague.
I'm living in a nuthouse on the outskirts of a pig farm.
I was lying when I said I was lying.
I'm not easing into anything
I don't want to ease in.
I see bombs bursting in air, rifles ricocheting off the bellies of pregnant women, handicapped children poisoned on a school bus, crumbling cities polluted beyond recognition.
Carcinogenic hallucinations, terminations.
Where all the killers are heroes, I'm the Queen of cripples; one armed bandits, one eyed jacks and dead cats.
The ambulance comes crashing into my daydreams...
reminding me of the way it used to be
how good it used to feel
hacksaws jimmying for position
the crack of bat against bone
the smell of burning rubber
broken glass, mud slicks, slagheaps
blistering fevers
delirium
slot machines, submachine guns
The Circle of Abuse
I'm forced into it
I'm forced into it
a Real Live Mind Fuck
I need it
I need it
I want it
I'm trap inside the perfect torture chamber
Thrown into a mental institution for famous movie stars
dead by the '60's...
wish you were here
wish you were here
wish I was somewhere else
wish I was somewhere else
stupid people overpopulate this place
and the steel walls come crashing in. -
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Permalink Reply by Lilith on
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I really like it, I hadnt heard of her before. I love the rawness and the theme. I write a lot off stuff about the overstimulation of modern life being overwhelmed by it all, this captures that feeling well. I love the freedom of writing spoken word pieces. If you know of any more poets like this I would love to read more in a similar style.
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Permalink Reply by A Former Member on
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Off the top of my head, I don't know any. You can find some of her stuff on YouTube I think, though I've not watched any of it. She has a book of spoken word called Incriminating Evidence. All the stuff I used to have of her is on cassette tape, so its nothing I can upload for you to listen to. She's pretty angry. Here is her site: http://www.lydia-lunch.org/index.html
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