#deborah a miranda

[lavendernhoney]

I just finished a really interesting ATLA fic so OF COURSE this poem screamed ZUKO to me

I’ve been reading this amazing book by Deborah A. Miranda. It’s generally about the history of California Indians from when they were missionized by Spain to current day- and the inter generational violence they still suffer that stems from what colonizers did to them.

One of my favorite things about ATLA is the various ways they depict intergenerational violence- from a familial to world wide scale- not an easy thing to depict so effectively in children’s media, so it’s unsurprising one of Deborah’s poems would make me think of it.

Anyway I highly recommend this book (Bad Indians by Deborah A. Miranda) it’s taken me a few months to get through because it’s HEAVY but it’s wonderfully written and part of the history of America they really gloss over in our schools.

[byronicist]

"I came into this world already scarred by loss on both sides of my family. My Indigenous side; my European side. My father and my mother were the kind of damaged people who should never have had children. But of course, they had me, and so my first language was loss."

Deborah Miranda, When Coyote Knocks on the Door (2021)

[apoemaday]

The Zen of La Llorona

by Deborah Miranda

La Llorona rises over my town– a solitary curve, sharpened by someone else’s fury. I read a small gray Zen book Everyone loses everything. Lovers, families, friends, possessions, egos– we keep nothing of this world, not even our bodies. It’s as if you’d lost your favorite teacup, you see. No amount of searching, weeping or wailing will bring it back. If you want a drink, use a different container. Write a long series of passionate poems about your cup. Hell, write a whole book. Obsession is the mother of creation. But as you compose, sip from the new mug. It will become your mug of choice. You’ll lose that one, too. And so on. In theory, anyway, we outlast dispossession: Ceramic mugs, hearts, continents. Outside, La Llorona’s knife slices the indigo heart of silence. Nonsense, she howls. There’s always something left to lose.

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

Black Australian Women in Entertainment

Aisha Dee | Alice Hunter

Charmaine Bingwa

Deborah Mailman | Deni Gordon

Emelia Burns/Emilia Burns An ongoing struggle with her name. I still haven't found any confirmation from her of which way it is actually spelled.

Madeleiene Madden | Marcia Hines | Miranda Tapsell | Molly Fatnowna

Paula Arundell

Sara Zwangobani | Sophie Wilde

Talijah Blackman-Corowa

Zahra Newman

[warningsine]

[gamingladies]

The Ladies of Chicken Police

[thegayfangrrl]

[spoke9]

Advice from La Llorona | Deborah A. Miranda

-Ohlone-Costanoan Esselen poet —a found poem Each grief has its unique side. Choose the one that appeals to you. Go gently. Your body needs energy to repair the amputation. Humor phantom pain. Your brain cells are soaked with salt; connections fail unexpectedly and often. Ask for help. Accept help. Read your grief like the daily newspaper: headlines may have information you need. Scream.…

[livisalibi]

(via Introverted Collection by livisalibi)

Fonte:

redbubble.com

[la-petite-tannante]

Unhinged. 🖤

[iconsrealityx]

icons a fazenda 14.

like se gostar ou pegar!

[byronicist]

"Sometimes you lose something so big, so immeasurable, that bearing your grief requires an act just as complicated and unfathomable as that loss."

Deborah Miranda, When Coyote Knocks on the Door (2021)

[amaised44]

[honeysound]

[ Transcript:

Our Lady of Perpetual Loss

By Deborah A. Miranda

Maybe all losses before this one are practice:

maybe all grief that comes after her death seems tame.

I wish I knew how to make dying simple,

wish our mother’s last week were not constructed

of clear plastic tubing, IVs, oxygen hiss,

cough medicine, morphine patches, radiation tattoos,

the useless burn on her chest.

I’m still the incurable optimist, she whispers,

you’re still the eternal pessimist.

My sister sleeps on a sofa; our brother, exhausted,

rolls up in a blanket on the hard floor.

Curled in a rented white bed, our mother’s body

races to catch up with her driven, nomadic soul.

Those nights alone, foster care, empty beer bottles

taught us she was always already vanishing. ]

[warningsine]

[leatherlesbianstuff]

Love Poem to a Butch Woman (2005) By Deborah A. Miranda This is how it is with me: so strong, I want to draw the egg from your womb and nourish it in my own. I want to mother your child made only of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed from any man. I want to re-fashion the matrix of creation, make a human being from the human love that passes between our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is: when you emerge from the bedroom in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back over forearms, scented with cologne from an amber bottle—I want to open my heart, the brightest aching slit of my soul, receive your pearl. I watch your hands, wait for the sign that means you’ll touch me, open me, fill me; wait for that moment when your desire leaps inside me.