Women's History Month

 

March is Women's History Month, so I thought I'd share a select few poems written by women about women. I've kept the last several posts simple and stress-free, which has allowed me to continue with this blog. Balancing demands and life require cutting back a bit. The direction is going forward, and not in reverse (thank goodness!) with respect to the next book, but I'm taking my time with it. In addition to painting with acrylics, I've revisited using watercolors and remember how much I loved it. Slowing the pace with everything is needed. 

As always, thanks for checking in and reading what I share.

A Suggested Campaign Song

Alice Duer Miller - 1874-1942

(“No brass bands. No speeches. Instead a still, silent, effective influence.”—Anti-suffrage speech.)

We are waging—can you doubt it?
   A campaign so calm and still
No one knows a thing about it
   And we hope they never will.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   And we hope they never will.

We are ladylike and quiet,
   Here a whisper—there a hint;
Never speeches, bands or riot,
   Nothing suitable for print.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   For we never speak for print.

Sometimes in profound seclusion,
   In some far (but homelike) spot,
We will make a dark allusion:
   “We’re opposed to you-know-what.”
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
For we call it “You-Know-What.”

Alice Paul

Katharine Rolston Fisher - 1871-1949

I watched a river of women,
Rippling purple, white and golden,
Stream toward the National Capitol.

Along its border,
Like a purple flower floating,
Moved a young woman, worn, wraithlike.
All eyes alight, keenly observing the marchers.
Out there on the curb, she looked so little, so lonely,
Few appeared even to see her;
No one saluted her.

Yet commander was she of the column, its leader;
She was the spring whence arose that irresistible river of women
Streaming steadily towards the National Capitol.

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl (443)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— 

Life's little duties do—precisely— 

As the very least  

Were infinite—to me— 

    

I put new Blossoms in the Glass— 

And throw the old—away— 

I push a petal from my gown  

That anchored there—I weigh  

The time 'twill be till six o'clock  

I have so much to do— 

And yet—Existence—some way back— 

Stopped—struck—my ticking—through— 

We cannot put Ourself away  

As a completed Man  

Or Woman—When the Errand's done  

We came to Flesh—upon— 

There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought— 

Of Action—sicker far— 

To simulate—is stinging work— 

To cover what we are  

From Science—and from Surgery— 

Too Telescopic Eyes  

To bear on us unshaded— 

For their—sake—not for Ours— 

Twould start them— 

We—could tremble— 

But since we got a Bomb— 

And held it in our Bosom— 

Nay—Hold it—it is calm— 

    

Therefore—we do life's labor— 

Though life's Reward—be done— 

With scrupulous exactness— 

To hold our Senses—on—

Oughta Be a Woman

June Jordan - 1936-2002

Washing the floors to send you to college
Staying at home so you can feel safe
What do you think is the soul of her knowledge
What do you think that makes her feel safe

Biting her lips and lowering her eyes
To make sure there's food on the table
What do you think would be her surprise
If the world was as willing as she's able

Hugging herself in an old kitchen chair
She listens to your hurt and your rage
What do you think she knows of despair
What is the aching of age

The fathers, the children, the brothers
Turn to her and everybody white turns to her
What about her turning around
Alone in the everyday light

There oughta be a woman can break
Down, sit down, break down, sit down
Like everybody else call it quits on Mondays
Blues on Tuesdays, sleep until Sunday
Down, sit down, break down, sit down

A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Courage that cries out at night
A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Bravery kept outa sight
A way outa no way is too much to ask
Too much of a task for any one woman

And a favorite, which I shared here in 2016:

After A While (Comes the Dawn)

By Veronica Shoffstall 

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open,

With the grace of a woman,
Not the grief of a child

And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine
Burns if you get too much

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

And you learn that you really can endure…
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth,
and you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.

Happy January

Work in Progress

We made it.  The year that started the pandemic in this country is behind us, in the rearview mirror and over our shoulder.  We don't have to look back or around, just forward we go with hope for better things and some kind of normalcy.  The new year doesn't mean, however, that we get careless. There are record numbers with the virus and it's important we still wear our masks, practice social distancing and stay at home as much as possible.  I look forward to getting the vaccine.

This month marks the 9th anniversary of this blog. Thank you to the readers who keep it going, who regularly visit the site and read what I share.  I'm amazed there's so much interest, and it's very encouraging for me to continue with it. If you read something here that you like, I would love to hear your thoughts on it.  Just reach out via the email address at the right on the home page.

I've updated a few links, too, deleted some old ones, and provided a list of the short stories and poetry links that are found here within the last nine years. Just scroll down on the home page until you see the list on the right. I think there are just under twenty short stories that I've published on this blog. 

Finally, book research and outlining continues, and I think I'm about ready to start the next one. I've also been painting a bit (acrylics on canvas). I'm sharing a photo of my latest work in progress.  I call her Emerging Face, but I think her official name will change once I'm finished.  Once again, I'll share my website if you're interested in looking at my work a little bit more:  www.veronicabatterson.com.

Thanks, again, and best wishes for a happy, and better new year!

Her Story

This month marks the centennial anniversary of the 19th Amendment being ratified, giving women the right to vote in the United States. I'm working on a blog post about this and hope to share it in a couple of days. The following is a poem I wrote recently. The words came to me quickly and it reads like song lyrics I think. The photo is a painting in progress, too. While I still have quite a bit more to do it, any amount of painting I can do is something I'm proud of due to some history I've shared here in past posts. Acrylic on canvas. As always, thanks for reading. Also, as always, copyright applies.


Her Story 

By Veronica Randolph Batterson 
©Veronica Randolph Batterson 2020

Driving down that dirt road 
Taking her back…to football games, high school dances 
In her memories 
Tried to fit in, now she feels so old. 

Where’d time go? 
Scraped knees, mud pies and fireflies
Learning to drive 
How is she ancient…wasn’t it yesterday when she turned eighteen? 

He said he missed her, she said it was a rebound 
He said he loved her, she said find another 
He said it meant nothing…she said it meant everything 
It meant everything. 

Riding bicycles in the rain 
Running through puddles 
He shared his umbrella and said be mine 
She said that’s fine…it was so fine. 

It’s her story but his is different 
She showed him…told him 
He didn’t see it or hear her 
He never did…no, he never would. 

He said he missed her, she said it was a rebound 
He said he loved her, she said find another 
He said it meant nothing…she said it meant everything 
It meant everything. 

She’s 21, and 39, and just turned 50 
Makes no difference when his story is the same 
And her story is full of pain…again 
All because of his story…always his story. 

Blue jeans and cowboy boots 
Sitting on the front porch 
His eyes wandered to the nearest scent while she talked to him 
Testing the waters and jumping the fence…while she waited…always waiting. 

He said he missed her, she said it was a rebound 
He said he loved her, she said find another 
He said it meant nothing…she said it meant everything 
It meant everything. 

Those magical nights under the stars 
Stolen kisses and hidden smiles 
She cooked his dinners and laughed at his jokes 
Even when they weren’t funny. 

Then he left and never said goodbye 
She packed up too and moved away 
He went through that revolving door…and didn’t believe in karma 
She wondered if he did now. 

He said he missed her, she said it was a rebound 
He said he loved her, she said find another 
He said it meant nothing…she said it meant everything 
It meant everything. 

It’s her story…but his is different 
She showed him…told him 
He didn’t see it or hear her 
He never did…no, he never would.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson 2020

Madame X

A photograph of the original

John Singer Sargent, born to American parents in Florence, Italy (1856), was considered the leading portrait painter of his era.  In 1884, he exhibited in Paris what would eventually be considered a masterpiece; at the time, Paris society hated the painting and his reputation suffered.  He fled to London. 

Sargent named the portrait "Madame X" and the only thing that exists of the original as it hung in the Paris salon is a photograph.  The artist repainted the original (with right shoulder strap in place), which now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

The painting was viewed as scandalous, but seems very mild compared to today's standards for modesty and indecency.  I've written a flash fiction piece based on this...a very short story that I, too, call Madame X.  Thanks for reading, and if you're interested in more short stories, I've shared a few on this blog.  Just check out the links to the right.  As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).

Madame X

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau.  Elle est un opportuniste. 

He fidgeted with his hands, pulling at the collar of his shirt as if doing so would loosen the tightness around his neck.  The room was warm and sweat formed at his hairline, the rivulets running down his face and into his eyes.  He patted his forehead with a handkerchief and thought he would be ill.  Soon there would be an audience.

Madame Pierre Gautreau, the artist’s dream, agreed to his request; she consented to sit for him.  A vision.  And he had painted her as such.   Sensual, regal, beautiful and unusual, her powdered skin and its lavender hue stood pasty and stark against the black dress.  The velvet bodice cut low over her breasts and held in place with two slim, jeweled straps.  He had been nervous at first.  Reflecting, perhaps that had lent to his displeasure and uncertainty of the painting.

Monsieur Sargent?  Will this work?

With her left hand she had gripped the velvet skirt while clutching the edge of a side table with the right one.  Her patrician profile exuded nobility; she was untouchable.  In an instant, it happened.  The slightest movement that changed everything.  The jeweled shoulder strap dropped suggestively from her right shoulder.  How do I look?  The little slip was painted into the portrait. 

Salle 31. 1884.

He waited for the unveiling as Paris society ambled into the salon, unforgiving and judgmental.  Champagne flowed amidst fluttery ladies on the arms of stodgy gentlemen.  A violinist performed but he could barely hear the music, so loud was the beat of his own heart.   He thought of leaving.  There his Madame X stood at eye level.  The Gautreau that everyone flocked to view.

John Singer Sargent.

The artist who painted a scandalous portrait of a difficile woman; it hadn’t been as he had hoped.  He knew the outcome of his folly and Amélie had known what she was doing, toying with him.  Feigning innocence.  Indolent.  How foolish he had been for following instincts instead of reason.  Now he would pay with his reputation.

Arriviste.  Ceci est scandaleux!

The gasps caught his attention.  Vulgaire.  Choquant.  Indécent.  The whispers grew as one voice, loud, biting and cruel.  They shouted his recklessness and relished his mistake, declaring the end for him in Paris while clucking at his foolishness.  L’artiste a échoué!  There was spiteful glee in his failure.  He was humiliated.  Some were repulsed by the pallor of her skin; most were shocked by the revealing décolletage.  Trop sensuelle.

He had exhibited at the Palais de Industrie for six years and was the preferred portrait artist of Paris.  The mocking confirmed it was over.   How could this happen, such fickleness?   Dejected, he felt he must retrieve the portrait before the Gautreau family obtained and destroyed it.  Then he would flee to London.  

Au revoir, Monsieur Sargent. 

He left.  Bitter, disappointed and angry.  To start over.  Optimiste.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson