pussypress-blog

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Coming Up For Air

the last time we met, my fingers found their way to your back, to reform its structure because words like darts, had latched onto the vertebrae to break apart the symmetry of spirit, and had lingered in memories of love that had soured, because you never learnt how to pick up the pieces of guilt and wash them in suds of new beginnings.   because   you carried them with you everywhere you went, in the hope that nobody would come close enough to see how deep into your bones the words had been embedded and surely, if someone got a hint of it, you would run again, and in the process, lose more fragments of yourself.   but   your heart cannot take it any longer, so rest now. let me recalibrate the words into poignant pieces of dialogue that you and i share on weekends when everything seems to stand still, and unsurprisingly, we don’t even come up for air.  

Priyanka Menon

[pussypress-blog]

Meeting a Pilot

this heart we have is made up of tiny p              a                 r                   t                     i                       c                          l                            e                              s that suffer from escapist tendencies. and just when you feel you’re done for a while – giving pieces of yourself to others – along comes a pilot, on a plane made from the walls of his heart that have collapsed free from his chest; his dreams are the thrust lever that when he pushes, you can feel your face thrust against the wind that now gushes out of your fingertips as they rush across your keyboard,                                     navigating …         Priyanka Menon

[pussypress-blog]

A political act

tree bathing is a political act, observing leaves is a political act reading haiku on single stem blooms is a political act laughing freely is a political act, blushing is a political act particularly when it shows vulnerability balancing a single crystal of salt on the tip of your tongue is a political act, as is enjoying the soft metal shuck of turning a key in a lock, liking birds is a political act touching your own nipple with your little finger is a political act, imagining acorns

Ella Chappell

[pussypress-blog]

Dangerous Women

i’m going to come clean and tell you what i am. free. and clean, i might add-   because i grew up in a place that was marked with dangerous women prowling the streets at night, armed with whips   and fire spilling from their guts onto black tar and concrete sidewalks that   widened    with    every    single    stride they     took,      until      all     i        could       see when       i         looked         out         of          my        window were          endless          roads          waiting            to          feel the        treads           of             my            feet            as           I         take    over from                                                      these                                             women.   i report to work tonight!       Priyanka Menon

[pussypress-blog]

Olivia Gatwood’s New American Best Friend reviewed by Daisy Thomas

In her debut poetry collection, “New American Best Friend”, Olivia Gatwood is uncompromising. This book is a witty, tender and shameless tribute to girlhood, to female friendships and rivalry, to sexual awakenings and to tough women. An empowering mix of celebratory joy, heavy honesty, backhanded humour, tender confessions, a handful of odes (“Ode to the Word Pussy”, “Ode to my Period Underwear”, “Ode to My Bitch Face”) and serious attention to craft, Gatwood offers poems that you'll be chanting in your head for days.

You might recognise Gatwood already for her spoken word performances. There are over 300,000 views on YouTube for her epic piece “Manic Pixie Dream Girl Says”, an honest and hilarious unpackaging of the female archetype ('I’m gonna paint a picture of a bird on your beige wall / without your permission and you're gonna love it’, 'But this isn't about me, this is about you / and your cubicle job, your white bedroom / your white Honda, your white mother.’) If you haven't, watch it here.

The book opens with the anecdotal, almost confessional “Jordan Convinced Me That Pads Are Disgusting” where the speaker recounts their first time using a tampon, guided by their worldly friend, 'Jordan, Blood Scholar, in a turquoise bikini / saying, Now you're ready to swim.’ She explores early experiences of gender performance in “The First Shave” which explores the speaker's first time shaving her legs at age nine, juxtaposing it with chemotherapy induced hair loss. The poem opens with the breezy millennial-esque first stanza ‘I am nine. / We are bored / and Karen is dying’ and continues:

[...] fuzz on my scabbed calf a field of erect, yellow poppies & we have been alive as girls long enough to know to scowl at this reveal & what better time than now to practice removal.

Gatwood also calls into question sexuality heteronormativity in “Like Us” where the speaker begins with a story of her first kiss that she has “rehearsed [...] during imagined interviews / in the shower”:

[...] it was 2004 and his name was Noah, my best friend since grade school, we wanted the first kiss to be a safe bet, the kind we could feel good about telling our kids but didn't end in heartbreak or sex. I liked this small pill of a story, how it made my life bite-sized and interesting but still, there was always Margot

Gatwood is a passionate educator of sexual health (find her articles on Bustle), she also runs writing, performance and community building workshops, encouraging students to have conversations about consent, gendered violence and toxic relationships. As the focus of the collection shifts to adolescence Gatwood’s poems become more self-assured, almost combative ('a boy said he liked my hair the other way so i shaved my head instead of my pussy’) and she hones in on the gendered violence that so many women's lives are laced with (‘you have grown accustomed to all of the ways / you can make the pain intangible. unrecognizable’) that will instill a feeling of solidarity between her and many women readers.

These are poems that demand to be shared. Gatwood showcases the intricacies of growing up as a girl, unpacking the triumphs, contradictions and violences the patriarchy and resisting misogyny and reclaims ownership over her body and experiences. She is the older feminist sister you wish you had growing up.

BUY HERE

[pussypress-blog]

his mood swings...

his mood swings  like children  on the playground. except there’s no laughter to spread around. 

Codee

[pussypress-blog]

Closure

It’s time to forget you.  Forget how between the grasses we would catch each others’ eyes Mimicking rituals of wildlife surrounding us.  We would bury our laughter in feathers  As the glass specks of dust escaped our lips. You would rest against me, yet the unease would be almost a breeze between us. If you took a perfect situation and lay it next to it would be apparent that something was, is, will be… amiss. Where my tresses once fell, golden strands lie instead.  Your bed, once filled  with the fibres of our insides Is now laced with the scent of another.  You are all but faded memories and discarded receipts Worlds away, nothing but a ‘seen’ on a screen. You said goodbye to me, but I did not return the farewell. The miss now with you lets her head fall in that gap in your chest cavity and the space between your knees, and that’s fine. It’s nothing more than that. I honestly wish you happiness and luck, for I’ve found mine in the specks of dust Which gather in the air and shimmer now, Rather than the sharp pebbles they formed before The air between him and me is warm and thick, not separated by anxiety and feelings of confusion, And all is well, it feels. So, goodbye I guess. There’s no more love or sorry left, no more to cry but yet… I will always wonder why you left.

Hannah Ward

[pussypress-blog]

Legs

i’ve walked distances that cannot be measured in metres other than in the milestones on my body. They look like tiny bite marks left behind by time; my skin seared from burns induced by walking into fires of my doing (without regret).   i’ve jumped over hurdles embedded in the minds of those around who’ve looked at me only to see what lies between my legs; and so when i jumped, they looked up to see i was made of bone, muscle and spirit that folded into layers of woman, that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t unravel.   now, i’m running alongside bolts of thunder; my legs clock up metres that if i sit to count i’d run out of topographies and skin to cover.

Priyanka Menon

[pussypress-blog]

he is the only one...

he is the only one  who can pull poetry for me  and leave me  spread out  on this white canvas  dripping with  his words my words our words

begging him to not let these words dry, but keep them  on his lips.

and then spill me again

Codee

[pussypress-blog]

March Roundup: Women’s History Month

Earlier this month we celebrated International Women’s Day. Girls, you were out in force making one another proud. Women in Seoul protested against workplace harassment, women in Poland fought for their rights to their body, women across the globe participated in a workforce strike, ‘A Day Without a Woman’ (click to read about the time 90% of Iceland did the same). For those unable to get out and rally, voices were heard across social media by sharing love and admiration for women of past and present. This year’s International Women’s Day was loud. Let’s hope the message was clear.

It was great to see so many companies getting involved and celebrating Women’s History Month. One American bookseller turned their shop upside down, or should I say back to front, for the occasion. Loganberry Books in Ohio, US, turned the spines of male-authored fiction away to illustrate the gender gap. The results were powerful - needless to say there was a considerably higher proportion of books shelved backwards than there were the right way round. A case in point for the male dominated book industry. The intent behind having Pussy Press as an exclusively female-authored site is to address and resolve this issue. Loganberry’s demonstration was featured on Elle, Huffington Post, and The Guardian. It seems that people are beginning to recognise the issue.

I am currently reading Roxanne Gay’s Bad Feminist, a collection of personal essays exploring intersectional feminist issues. It is a very good read and covers a lot of ground. She reveals the funny anecdotes, bitter memories, and well-executed thoughts that make her the woman she is today, as well as evaluating in depth why we still need feminism today. I can’t recommend it enough. It’s a good one to dip in and out of if you don’t have time to read it all the way through. One of her chapters is particularly relevant to the publishing discussion, ‘Beyond the Measure of Men’. I wish I could copy and paste the entire thing here because to synopsise would do injustice… you really should go and read the whole thing. In the meantime, here is an extract which struck a chord with me, as a young woman who wants to work in the publishing industry, and affirms my reasoning behind Pussy Press:

“Stop making excuses. Stop saying women run publishing. Stop justifying the lack of parity in prominent publications that have the resources to address gender inequity. Stop parroting the weak notion that you’re simply publishing the best writing, regardless. There is ample evidence of the excellence of women writers. Publish more women writers. If women aren’t submitting to your publication or press, ask yourself why, deal with the answers even if those answers make you uncomfortable, and then reach out to women writers. If women don’t respond to your solicitations, go find other women. Keep doing that, issue after issue. Read more widely. Create more inclusive measures of excellence. Ensure that books by men and women are being reviewed in equal numbers. Nominate more deserving women for the important awards. Deal with your resentment. Deal with your biases. Vigorously resist the urge to dismiss the gender problem. Make the effort and make the effort and make the effort until you no longer need to, until we don’t need to keep having this conversation.”

I want to thank Roxanne Gay for laying it out in black and white, thank the growing number of Pussy Press contributors as we get closer to a more equal playground, and thank the readers for acknowledging and appreciating women writers.

On the 21st, it was lovely to see the hashtag #WorldPoetryDay trending and people sharing their favourite words. Really happy to see lots of Rupi Kaur being spread online. The day was created back in 1999 to stop the death of poetry, and Kaur really has done a good job of making poetry cool through her short poems with beautiful illustrations. She is not afraid to tackle issues surrounding body autonomy head on and is all about female empowerment. The date was also a good time to remember the late Maya Angelou, whose work many people shared. To female poets of yesterday, today, and tomorrow, we rise with you. As Women’s History Month draws to a close, let us remind ourselves of how far we have come. Now, as April rolls in, let’s look forward to where we’re going.

Sarah Wright

[pussypress-blog]

Webs

We weave miniscule Pieces of ourselves Into the people we adore. We take them in We push them out We pull them back Yearning, earning, learning. Going deeper, running away, crawling back With tear-stained cheeks just wanting One more hug, kiss, or chance To tangle ourselves into the webs we Weave Just a string or a strand. Is all we need.

Caroline White

[pussypress-blog]

For My Father

This one goes out to all the pot plants I killed, and the one I killed deliberately. To the hunk I pass every Thursday by the dry-cleaners, the pencil lead in my sister’s arm and the voice on the tannoy at Surrey Quays station. This is for the lady who came to fumigate my flat but also Kim and Kanye’s babies. To the emergency credit on the gas meter and in memory of my Tamagotchi. For the loofah I never had, all unadopted cats, and people who won’t step on pavement cracks. But mostly, to the mustachioed man who took my stabilisers and nightmares away, your deep pockets, chats, and cups of tea that in everyday I swim.

Sarah Wright

[pussypress-blog]

last night...

last night i slept  cradled in the moon. and when the  sun kissed me awake i snuck back to my room.

-see you soon

Codee

[pussypress-blog]

I believe...

I believe in smiling No matter how bad it hurts inside always projecting love onto others even when our hearts are breaking- That’s where strength originates. I believe in laughing at everything - until tears, until breathing is almost impossible- because we never know when we will take our last breath. I believe in love And how it’s anything but perfect especially with its timing, intensity,  and ability to rejuvenate  youth, deep within. I believe that love draws us  to the people who need us most. I believe once we love ourselves  we can clearly see these  invisible strings That attach our hearts to each other.

Caroline White

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we touched down...

we touched down  and i saw the ground  it was grey  and dull, like dirty water 

I flooded at once and the floodwater ran,  carving its way through dust 

someone has left this place to rot 

I stayed in the shadows  but was still seen  by the moon and the sun,  they watched me  peel off my anxiety  and lay it down to decay,  like the rest of this place 

I would be reborn here 

someone told me not to trust the east wind,  so I flew west

Lila Brigit

[pussypress-blog]

Diving

The air is dry and desolate, we know we must jump in. We’ll feel the thrilling push and pull of surf and sea and swim. We’ll squint our eyes for saltiness, let sea breeze fill our nose. We’ll tip our feet and feel the rub of sand between our toes. We're twisting, turning, diving down, But what if we drown?

Fearless and fearful, we've almost drowned before, But that was in a different sea, upon a different shore. And we still know the feeling that the drowning gave us then, The fizz and push, then fatal hush, before we found the air again. The water was the only sound, But what if we had drowned?

For what you are or who you've been the sea it does not care, It doesn't seem to choose between the fickle and the fair. Some take a beating from the tide while some rest on it peacefully. Whether you sink or if you ride, the sea it has no memory. Each sparkling wave with ivory crown, is deadly, what if we drown?

So here we stand upon hot sand, The sea - it seems so clear. And we will rust, dry into dust If we keep standing here. So swim we must, were forced to trust This blue no man can master. And as our limbs coarse through the sway, our hearts start beating faster. We wrestle the ripple, lay caution down, We swim, as though we could not drown.

Paddling, panting, catching breath We dive like we are dodging death.

Susie Newton

[pussypress-blog]

Cavity

Oozing, red, cavity The bathroom was still Apart from a tap Which leaked water In slow drips Down the white tile.   She yawned A string of saliva Dangled from her lips As the night gurgled. Her skin stank of a wetness Which could not evaporate.   Rust stained her fingers As she tightened the tap The mirror glistened As pink juice dribbled down The chin of dawn Illuminating the nipples of her mother Who lay, emaciated and dry In the tub.     Gaping and lost She pursed her lips The bathroom was still Apart from a tap Which leaked despair In slow drips Down the brown tile.

Brigitte de Valk