This was inspired by and and written shortly after a conversation with a great friend of mine about what it's like being a woman in New York and elsewhere. It was a bit disconcerting to hear some of the things they still have to endure in everyday life for simply being women. I wish this to be a reminder to those that need it.
The Martian Ode
Astronaut teacher lawyer doctor chef President plumber hawk-eyed ass-kicking machine gunner. With some child bearing hips.
Mother daughter wife sister. Girlfriend, why is it a wonder when you are more? Yes woman, be tall—let me hear your roar. You are a lioness deserving your own pride. A maned man at your side is a mere cat when your strengths collide.
Woman, what is you? See, words fail when trying to capture your virtue. And too often they're launched like stones to hurt you.
Lady, you are one in a grove of trees fruiting life. Robed in this grace, you rove in disgrace, displaced from your roots to split your limbs in twos.
You are power contained. Restrained and retrained to be mundane. You are a runaway train on a track as slick as oil in the rain. We've the world to gain if you had more than filthy plates and shirt stains over which to reign.
Queen, daily are you thrown from your throne. Dejected and judged by a court of jesters. Ever triumphant, you're crowned with poise and a cape made of prints trails the ground behind you as you walk. You wield your words as a sceptre, commanding all the decrepit denizens to recognize a goddess and respect her.
How many words written, wars fought, notes stricken, and rocks wrought to form in tribute to you, the matron of our existence?
Lovely, strong, and fearsome—there is danger in the magic of you. There is a curse that besets you with with every enchantment. Mighty men crack and fall at your feet and you are left with the yolk of their inflamed passions, lust-laced tongues, and crumbling bastions. And as with all things, you wear it well.
We need a shift in attitude, you warrant far more than another lazy platitude. It’s about time you are shown your deserved gratitude in magnitudes for bearing the burdens that you do.
Maybe we should try on your trials for a while. And while we couldn't handle it with the style you've got in piles, still we can learn to not be vials of vile will—we'll keep a store of smiles spreading from aisle to aisle, there'd be no stopping the spill.
One day soon we'll learn to control our swoon. Objectively seen, you won't be seen as an object but a being. Those who'll object will be subject to eagles at their spleen for trying to give fire to the ideals against which we'll lean.
Perhaps then our gifted rib will cease to be a thorn in your side. Eve, you rose our capacity to be more than the beasts with which we roamed. You provide a cause for us to be better, to be larger than our nature; no longer will we be little and so daft as to belittle our balancing half.
Let’s celebrate you—not with sleazy come-ons and slack-jawed gawking but with honest appreciation and genuine respect.
Precious delicate dainty. Those are words for flowers. You, are woman. You are divine, your every being is of the most magnificent design. Any attempt at defining you just seems like a tired trope or an exhausted line. Venus, you are powerful beyond words and measure, our greatest treasure, is you.