Domestic Violence Created by Poetess Queen Francine Nedd Nov 2006

Domestic Violence
Created by Poetess Queen Francine Nedd
Nov 2006

Oh God, hear my prayer, my voice, my cry, my plea,
from the grave for the suffering people
of violence still alive behind me,
For my eyes are now closed, and sewn very tight,
because the man I love decided to kill me one night.

It all started out gradual then progressed very slow,
the longer I stayed
the violence began just to grow and grow.

It started as insults verbal, lowering my self-esteem,
I’d wondered to myself how he could be so mean.
It escalated to harsh beatings, bruises, and broken bones, to a degree I would often sit in the dark afraid and alone.

Ashamed of my face disfigured to such a degree,
and he’d convinced me that my suffering and bruises
were all because of me.

Afraid to call my family or the police on the phone
he told me if I did, he’d break my face and collarbone.
For almost any reason he use to beat me,
to much damage to the womb and I lost two babies,
maybe three.

Fed up and convince he truly had no love for me
I planned my escape and my chance to be free.
I just said this is enough I can’t take it no more
and I grab my coat and headed to the door.
He grab me by the hair, said you think you leaving me,
and he began beating my face until I could not see.
I was leaving that was it, I’d made my decision,
and I struggled harder and harder to repair my vision.

I was unable to reach across him to the wall phone
I stole the chance and I kneed him in the groin.
As he toppled over and we hit hard against the floor
I struggled to rise and headed for the door.

Surprised he was even able to grab my leg’s
as I fell he gave me two sharp blows to my head.
My head became groggy and very light
as I continued my fight to save my life.
The man I‘d married, loved for many years
was sealing my death and ignoring my tears.

Yes, my husband and I had a terrible and final fight;
the last I remember was a twist of a knife.
My husband not only took my life and the life of himself
but our newborn baby due on the twelfth
I lay next to him before we both took our last breath,
he said, I told you that this marriage would be until death.

My bodies in this casket as my family say’s goodbye to me, I am a victim of a crime of domestic cruelty.
Maybe this prayer may save the next couple,
and I hope too God it’s true,
because problems of domestic violence
can lead to your deaths too.

Lord there is such a great need for a healing,
when people are reacting in violence
without thinking or feeling
Domestic violence is violent no matter how big or small, violence is violence let’s put and end to it all
If its man against woman, or woman against man,
stop closing your eyes saving lives is the new plan.

To be seeing and not telling or a continued
victim in silence,
the toll is rising, put and end to
Domestic Violence

NADIA by Veronica Marjon Van Bruggen

NADIA  

Nadia is a girl

She is a Yazidi girl

She is a very brave Yazidi girl

She is a very brave victimized Yazidi girl

She is a very brave victimized and orphaned Yazidi girl

She became enslaved

She was (legally !!!!) raped

She managed to escape and was a refugee

She had to endure all this, because she is an innocent Yazidi girl.

She now has an advocate

who is ashamed

and says so in an assembly of the UN

she is proud to present Nadia

as a survivor, 

a Yazidi leader

a Nobel Peace Prize nominee

a Goodwill Ambassador of the United Nations.

Her name is Nadia Murad.

Nadia  by Veronica Marjon Van Bruggen   Copyright   September 2016  

A TRIBUTE TO REBBETZIN ESTHER JUNGREIS

HINENI --- Here I Am by Celine Leduc edited by Norman Simon

“Here I am,” Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis would say she was a spiritual and mystical person calling people back to Judaism, touching soul with her unconditional love.  She has passed away, has left this world, but she is still alive in my heart, in my soul. 

Condolences to her family, friends and followers. I would like to share with you how I met Rebbetzin Jungreis, the meaning of her blessing, and the impact she had on my life. I am not Jewish; however, my ancestors were Jewish before they converted Christianity (Catholicism) over 500 years ago (1492). Due to the downfall of Andalusia (Spain), they chose life as Christians moved to Rouen, France, and then to Canada. 

THE TWO HOLOCAUSTS

She saw both the physical Holocaust of Jews that occurred in Germany, and the spiritual holocaust when she landed in New York as she saw that people had lost their Jewish spirituality. She had seen the physical horrors and death in a Concentration Camp.  She would say: “Hineni.” Here I am, to awaken the Jewish soul, the lost spirituality of Judaism.  She did bless and touch so many hearts to reawaken the spirit that would bring you HOME. 

I heard her speak in Montreal a few years ago as she was promoting her latest book.  In her speech, she spoke of her experience in a Concentration Camp.   A heckler had started saying, “How can you believe in God after such horror?”  I was sitting in the audience and my spirit was moved, so I told  the man off and told him to listen with his heart and stay quiet before Rebbetzin Jungreis had a chance to answer.  Hence started a wonderful friendship.  After the conference, I bought her book which she signed and gave me a blessing and thanked me.   I was touched.

The next day, we went out visiting Montreal and we talked about life.  I told her I felt ashamed and felt so bad as I had made so many mistakes in my life.  She asked me, “Do you know the story of my ancestor, David? He made so many mistakes. You can read about them in the Torah.”  I knew the story of David, knew intellectually about how he was forgiven; but she gave me a new way of seeing things from the spiritual lens. He made mistakes, but also mended his ways.  He asked for forgiveness and was forgiven because his heart was pure and his mistakes were part of his learning path.  The lesson of David is all about life’s challenges, how we handle them, what lessons we learn, and how we can correct some others. We can also be part of the lesson to think and grow spiritually. 

JEWISH SOUL

She knew I was not Jewish as I had told her.  After I had been with her for more than a week spiritually, I had a spiritual awakening. She would sit with me/ She was a palpable vision her spirit was there at breakfast and we would chat, spirit-to-spirit.  She loved stories about cats and wrote about one the cat that was at the King David Hotel in Tel Aviv and got adopted by a woman. She told the cat that she would be back as she had to go to Jerusalem or Haifa for the day.  She put a ribbon or collar around the neck of the kitten, gave him enough food, and left.  Once she arrived at her destination she was amazed and surprised to see her kitten waiting for her.  How did the cat get there before she had? It was the same kitten with the same collar and markings he answered to is name.  I know this story is real as she did sit and have breakfast with me spiritually. Yes I could feel her love and kindness and oneness with the universe and her blessing. 

She went back to New York and gave me her contact information. I would call her on a regular basis and listen to her radio broadcasts.  One day I called and spoke with her about the fact my family on both sides had once been Jewish, in Andalusia which became Spain.  Jews and Muslims were friends then and worked together for the betterment of society.  She asked me, “How did you find out you had Jewish ancestry?”  I told her it was because of prejudice. My aunts were always telling me to stop being so Jewish when I questioned too much.  It was because of the family secret: an egg pie that had originated in Andalusia and was a family secret. It was about my family name, Leduc which was a derogatory name given to Jewish converts. It meant that we thought we were royalty, something my aunts would remind me of, until I read “Les Juifs” by Roger Peyrefitte, and discovered my family name was there.  My aunt, the historian of the family and a nun, refused to believe me, in 1967. In the late 1990s just a few years before her death and after she had gone to a family gathering of all the Leduc’s in Rouen, she could not find any tombstone prior to the 1500 bearing the name Leduc.  I mention to my aunt I had proof our family name was Duce or e-Duce in Toledo, and she said, “We were like Jesus, a Jew.” After I met the Rebbetzin, someone told me we had come from Toledo which confirmed my lineage and what Peyrefitte had theorized.  My mother’s family name was Foisy, also Freedman in English. The family was also from Andalusia and had been named after a river, another clue to their Jewish origins.  She told me that in order for me to be recognized as a Jew, I would have to convert and she suggested I do a DNA test to show that many Jews were converts or that their identity was hidden and their origins were denied as being Jewish in the family tree. 

AVOIDING A THIRD HOLOCAUST

Here I am and thanks to the Rebbetzin, I will write about the lesson I learned from our numerous talks. She never tired of my calling, always smiling, listening, and giving me a blessing.  The winds of another Holocaust is on the horizon. This time it involves racism and xenophobia in Europe with the hatred being focused on Muslims; yet Jews will be blamed for the religious war that is in the imagination of the elitists and intellectuals of Europe.  These intellectuals and haters are using religion as a weapon.  Up until colonization, Jews and Muslims lived side by side as descendants of Abraham according to the Torah, or Hebrew Bible. Isaac and Ishmael did make up, stopped the sibling rivalry, made peace, and lived side by side as the fathers of two great Nation.  Isaac and Ishmael are the antithesis of Cain who killed Abel. In Europe, due to perception and faulty teachings, they see it as a war of religion: they want Jews to forget that they were once cousins with Muslims. Today, some Jews and Muslims are very political, because of European politics. Politics and nationalism have to do with ideologies and not spirituality.  The political ideas of the “Final Solution” are still alive, and have been exported by Europeans to the Levant.  Israel is, thank God, the refuge of Jews. Yet those dark clouds in European politics are blinding, as they use religion as a weapon.  My ancestors lived in Andalusia. We lived freely under the Moors and prospered. Our lives were threatened by the forces of Isabella and Ferdinand. My ancestors did not want to die, so they converted by the sword and migrated to Rouen, France hence to Canada.  To avoid another Holocaust that will affect the lives of Muslims, Jews, Roma people, homosexuals and those with a physical handicap, we need to unite and stop the advancing troops of hate.  Here, I am calling on all those spirits from Andalusia and all those who died in the Holocaust to come and stop the madness.  Let us awaken our spirit by uniting and telling hate mongers to stop, as they not only want to destroy Jews, but Israel and the whole of the Levant and North Africa because of their greed and lust for power.  They want to kill Jews, Muslims, Christians, Yezidi, all living beings and wipe out history.

Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis spoke of two holocausts: one physical and one spiritual. Jews were scapegoated in Europe many times. Now they are again becoming the target and being used to cause a rift with Muslims.  Yes, there is a war that is political and not religious going on. That war is being fueled by hate mongers who lust over land and oil. They favor one side as the victim and demonize the other. However, they hate both, believing one killed Jesus and the other is the devil incarnate. This is the elitist mindset.    I remember Andalusia and my love of life of being Jewish and my being friends with Muslims, and I remember the Holocaust.

Rebbetzin Jungreis spoke of unconditional love and lived it. She was open to everyone. She awoke the spirit in each of us regardless of our religious affiliations.  Here I am, Rebbetzin Jungreis. I am ready to do what needs to be done to stop the dark clouds of war to stop the hate…  No more holocausts.

The question on everyone's lips....

TWO HIJABI WOMEN AND THE REPORTERS by Celine Leduc August 24, 2016

inspired by Chana Miriam Opert

Journalists flocked the two HIJABI winners

The athletes who won MEDALS at the Rio Olympics

Cameras click --- They are PORTS HEROES!

The questions everyone want to know.

DO YOU WEAR BURKINI?

The burkini IS front page news

European men and women know

Burkini is a symbol of Islamic submission

These women are not FREE

WE LOVE WOMEN OUR WOMEN ARE FREE

Women WE LOVE it is for their own good

WE want them free YET what about Yezidi

You prove: Muslim men ARE evil barbarian men

YET you are deaf blind and mute re Yezidi

LOVE women you DO NOT

Nigeria pleads “Bring back our Girls”

You talk Burkini hijab niqab

You pity the poor oppressed Muslim women

Yet you bully them to submit to your will.

IS THAT LOVE (of women)?

You claim you want to free Muslim women

You forcibly enforce and impose your laws

Make it legal so I can bully legally

Do nothing too free those kidnapped

IS THAT FREEDOM?

Bring BACK OUR GIRLS in Nigeria

BRING BACK OUR YEZIDI GIRLS

STOP HUMAN TRAFFICKING OF WOMEN

Yet you ask SPORTS HEROS what’s on everyone’s mind and lips:

DO YOUR WEAR A BURKINI?

THE YEREVANIAN SKETCHES OF 2009 written by Diana Hambardzumyan and translated and edited as stated below

THE YEREVANIAN SKETCHES OF 2009

TRANSLATION BY ANUSH MKRTCHYAN

EDITED BY DR. ALFRED G. MUELLER II

The street caught its breath. The body of the boy sitting beneath the wall was tattered like a boneless corpse in a bloodthirsty predator’s jaw. But the boy, oblivious of his body, moved his wounded hands upward and murmured some obscure words.

When it was possible to make sense of what he was saying, we realized that it was the Lord’s Prayer pouring out of his bloodstained mouth onto his crossed legs. The street stopped dead. The boy looked hazily towards the people; in shame he rapidly dropped his hands and covered his face with his dirty fingers.

         The street shook its head, smacked its lips and went on to dine.

         I shuddered; we ought to feel ashamed instead of him. My heart ached, but in the everyday hustle and bustle I went home and frowned as though I had seen a nightmare. Finally, I came up with a decision and calmed down.

         The next day, I changed my route to expiate my sin; I had put iodine and bandages in my bag. Having taken some sweets, a shirt, pants and a half-sleeve vest, I made a neat package. I came to the street and struck with astonishment. The boy, now well-groomed, sat enthroned on a small carpet that was spread under the wall. There was an ice-cream in his hand, and he was licking it heartily.

         I couldn’t believe my eyes. Taking a couple of steps I saw a red banner on which the following was written in black letters, “Everyone to the elections.” There was a table full of sweets, with an obvious effort to satisfy the vagrant boy’s hungry eye. I saw that the boy had the same wounded face and the same grubby black hands that stood out vividly against the background of his snow-white shirt. 

         What a collage!

         Every time I try to offer my help, trapped in my naïve conscience, it appears I’ve been awfully mistaken. In broad daylight, the filth crawling under the snow-white shirt that is being smoothed and concealed is shoved in the street onto you taking great opportunity of the “Elections”. The most important thing is that the Lord's Prayer wasn’t poured in vain onto the boy’s crossed legs. I felt myself to be anachronistic, like a moral victory in the life of a contemporary Armenian.

         Recoiling, I hung my head in disgust and crossing the road, I threw the charitable package into the trash-bin. 

***

         It takes a half-hour to reach the downtown from our underdeveloped suburb if you take a minibus. If you walk, as once my writer friend was doing when he lacked 100 drams[1] of pocket money, it will take two-and-a-half hours to get there. And if you happen to afford the luxury and take a taxi, ten minutes later you’ll find yourself on North Avenue, where lazy oriental melody, rending from the tar[2], echoes in the depth of uninhabited super-European buildings.

         Yesterday when I was in a minibus on my way to the downtown I realized that the killer driver collecting 100 drams is ready to do away with a dozen people since he has no other place to perform his driving stunt. Suddenly he would accelerate at high speed. On each turn, the car would swing right and left, and the passengers jolted bundling on each other, and at the bus stops, with a weary smile, he would paternalistically announce, “Guys, let them get on.” Sitting on each other, smelling each other, having no other way out, people would hold onto whomever they could or onto whatever body part they could.

         Happily like this, we were driving from our underdeveloped suburb to the downtown when our familiar self-satisfied minibus driver accelerated and, with a crash, bumped into a car that had parked near the pavement, destroying the car’s lights and breaking the right door window into pieces.

Imagine what would happen if our eccentric driver were in charge of another steering wheel, of a spaceship’s, a city’s, or a country’s.

         But wait, this is not the end yet. With the experienced manner of concealing his guilt, our outrageous driver, cursing strongly, came down from his throne and stormed at the driver of the damaged car. “You are to blame, brother; the passengers will unanimously attest to it…No? You say no? Wait…Don’t you know what is in store for you? I’ll just make one call, and they’ll come and take you, twist your arms … just wait and see! Folks get out, I am not driving”

            The driver was smiling complacently and confidently. He was savoring his victory. The people got off the minibus silently, with their mouths shut with heroic effort of concealing their fright, anger, and disgust. Being among these people, I didn’t know whether to cry or to be happy with the minibus driver’s divine gift, with our bad luck that every day with 100 drams we employ a “killer” and wait for our glorious demise.

***

            With the first beams of the sunrise, Nunufar as usual set off to the Malatia bazaar, pulling her cart on rocky shortcut road. From the wholesale market she would buy several kilos of cheap onions, potatoes, carrots, beets, and cabbage, some bunches of basil and fennel. She would take the same rocky road back, put the vegetables in front of her house, and sell those for 10 to 20 drams more per kilo to earn living for her family.

            On her way to the bazaar, the sun was piercing, and the birds were flying in circles touching the windows of the fifth floor. Nunufar was unhappy as there was no wind: the laundry wouldn’t dry and would get wet in the rain. Squinting her eyes, she indignantly looked at the clouds building in the sky and yawned, rubbing her darkened face with her even darker hands. Then she remembered that in the notebook of debts some twenty people owed her more than hundred thousand drams, but one could never take even a penny from them. “And now how can one live?”

Nunufar sighed and with a great effort pushed the cart out of the stone pile. In her mind, she calculated how much income she would have if she bought a sack of potatoes for 60 drams and sold for 80. She wanted to buy some stuff to send to her son in the army. Then she would add some money to arrange her daughter’s dowry and, if she had enough, she would buy some medicine for her husband.

            Nunufar’s palm itched. “Today I’ll get money,” she thought. The wrinkles of her forehead smoothened, and she emerged from the alleys and byways onto the main street. Suddenly the wind began to blow. Nunufar’s long hair tangled and covered her eyes; the wind waved her skirt and heaved it about. Nunufar was bewildered: pushing the cart with one hand she pulled her skirt with the other, shook her head to remove her hair from the eyes. But the wind would attack and, tousling her mass of hair, would pull it over her eyes again. The sounds of car horns exploded in her ears, and she heard a woman scream nearby.

            The cart exploded into the air in a mess. Nunufar was stuck in the middle of the street traffic. The drivers were shouting, a couple of them cursed, a young woman stuck her head out of the car window to yell at her, “Hey, woman, are you tired of living? Look where you are heading for! Are you damned blind?” Finally, a boy came to her rescue, took Nunufar’s elbow and escorted her out of the turmoil of the street. People gathered around her. One of them brought a bottle of water and splashed it onto Nunufar’s face and neck. The other rubbed her hands, and another held her chin and propped the bottle to her mouth to take a sip. Little by little, Nunufar came to herself, and when she realized what had happened, tears went streaming down her sun-and-wind-beaten face.                                                                        2009

---

[1] Official currency of the Republic of Armenia.

[2] Armenian national string instrument.

A touching story of horror and of joy... it is about the Holocaust a MUST SEE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXGfngjmwLA

Here is the synopsis of her story in English as the video is in French listen to her voice to get and feel the emotion.  Her name is Francine Christophe she was 8 when she was taken to Bergen Belsen concentration camp she had to wear a yellow Star of David ...  The story is of hope and an act of kindness ...

She is stating she had to wear a Star of David at the age of 8 and was sent to Bergen Belsen camp. People brought few sweets her mom had some chocolate that was to b given to if she was in desperate need ... in the camp a woman had a child baby her mom asked her if she could give it to the newborn she said yes... 6 months later they were released and everyone grew up in various parts of France. The newborn never made a sound never cried until she was released she says that is the day she was born. One of her relatives asked her what would have happened if they had the help of psychiatrist or psychologist after the war, she did not know and she started a conference on the topic for those who had been in a camp. At the conference a young woman who lived in Marseilles comes to her and tells her she had a gift for her, she hands her a piece of chocolate with the words I was the baby in the camp the one whom you gave your chocolate to 

Original painting and art work by artist Vanda Princz it is copywriter

DREAM OF THE HOUSEMAID by Shirani Rajapakse

VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
​Shirani Rajapakse

Shirani Rajapakse

  Dream of the Housemaid

   Returning home on a stretcher, a
   plane ride to the desert many

months ago gone so wrong. You got much
more than you bargained for with a salary paid

in nails. Hard as hell. Forced inside, damming your
veins, piercing bones, rotting, festering. Tears

all dried up you came back
in pain. Dreams shattered, leaving them

scattered in the sands for scavengers to feast.
The oil merchant’s wife made sure of it. There was

something she didn’t like, or maybe he didn’t like
being rejected. Wasn’t used to it. They

held you down on a chair in the kitchen
writhing and howling in pain, nails

hammered in, one at a time. Your hands,
your feet as you cried out in vain.

Stuffed some down your throat until you were too full
of it all. The X-rays back home confirmed,

but oh the shame. No one believed. No one.
Your story was good, made the news

that night and the next day too. Everyone had
something to say. But no one believed. The press

was amused; you made it all up, someone
sniggered. Couldn’t handle the pressure, the agency

that sent you grumbled and ignored your plea.
Said you did it for a piece of fame; time in the spotlight.

But what a show. You got nothing, nothing. Alone on
a hospital bed swathed in bandages stuffed with

medication they stare and talk in whispers as you
recollect the journey to the Middle East, oasis

of the poor. You went to make money,
like everyone else in the village, build a house,

educate your three children waiting at home
with their grandmother. Your husband

a drunkard, he couldn’t keep a job, so you
took over. They had to live. But all you got were

nails beaten in like Jesus that day. Yet where’s
your cross? Where are your followers?

Money gone, dignity in shreds you yearn to return
as unfulfilled dreams refuse to leave tugging

at your heart calling, calling
come finish what you started.
 ​
Read the poetry of Shirani Rajapakse
Read a profile of Shirani Rajapakse

from the webiste VERSEWRIGHTS  http://www.versewrights.com/

THE POWER OF A HUG by Celine Leduc

PERSONAL INFORMATION about my life and what has made me very happy and cry. I was brought up Catholic and I did not agree with a great deal of prejudiced peddled religiously and also politically by leaders by men. I never believed Jews killed Jesus or that Muslim were devils. Religious leaders wanted me to go to heaven and politicians wanted to go to war. My society the men lied to me big time and I wanted to know truth that included everyone.

I met women and became friends with Jewish who came from Egypt. The taught me that religion was NOT the problem it was politics and nationalism. I did my MA degree on Jewish women who came from Egypt and lived in Montreal adding a section about Egypt and their struggle.

To be fair and honest I met Muslim and Copt women who also came from Egypt, to get more information and be accurate in my depiction of society and the reality women of all three religions faced.

I did address the facts that Jews in Egypt were targeted by the leaders that Umm Khaltum did call for their death but also that there were friends and even some Jewish men and women did marry Muslims and Copt Christian. Truth was much more complex and much more intricate that I was told. Women all attended Catholic School in Alexandria (Jewish Christian and Muslim) The schools were run by nuns from France because of colonialism

Most Canadian or Quebec research had been done here by using books and travel logs written by men who had an agenda. They called themselves anthropologist and NEVER talked to the people of the area it was their narrow-minded opinion that was full of prejudice, arrogance and superiority. Women from Egypt talked about themselves and their life their friends their family that often included women or men of different religions or ethnicity. Their reality was quite different that what history or anthropological books were about ass they were based on voyage logs, travel guides, missionary diaries which were used to write books and not one of those academics asked the people. In the religion Dept. of Concordia we used books and oral history to write about a group any group.

People read my MA thesis and appreciated my work I was given the greatest of all honors AJOE Association des Juifs Originaires d'Egypte included me in their association not as a member only but on the board. Since a person had to be Jewish and from Egypt they gave me the nationality and the religion no rabbi needed to official the member voted me in unanimously. Same thing happened with some Egyptian who were Muslim they included me as both Egyptian and Muslim women did no conversion nor government involved. BTW Egyptians call or refer to me as the Blonde Egyptian (blondes are not dumb in Egypt they are cool intelligent people LOL). Because of Egyptian or of those born in Egypt (women and men) I am not only Catholic by birth but also Jewish and Muslim and Egyptian. One friend jokingly said if you are banned from one heaven you can come to Jewish or Muslim heaven because you are loved by us.

Yes, I did speak of the horror of nationalism and radicalization due to fanatics but also of the people. I love the people from Egypt and my heart is partly in Egypt and the other part in Canada.

This experience lead me to.First Nation people and I became friends with Mohawks of Kahnawake later with Ojibwa and Shalish and Cree many have adopted me unofficially as a friend because I used the same technique looking at the "Big Minds" and their lies and adding the voice of the people.

It all started because of a big hug a woman gave me, when I was ten years old, she was Black and I use to play with her son and was told by my father not to play with him. I was so angry at my father, found it unfair on his part. I went to my friend's mother and cried and ranted all she did was give me a hug and told me "I was right" she added that I needed to listen to my father however but I was RIGHT. A hug can change a life it did mine.

Two Poems on Womanhood by Shirani Rajapakse

March 29, 2016 | By Shirani Rajapakse

Poetry on womanhood by Sri Lankan poet Shirani Rajapakse as part of Rhythm Divine, Kolkata’s collaboration with 6th Woman Scream International Art and Poetry Festival 2016.

But a poetess could soar to places no teacher could go.

The Poetess

She called herself a
poetess because she liked
the sound of it. Much
better than calling herself
a teacher. So plain, so
common,
so like the girl next
door. But a poetess
could soar
to places no teacher
could go. So she
told all she met she was a
poetess. A teacher too, but
now a poetess. It
was like graduating
from one level to the
next. The simple folks didn’t
understand, they thought
she had done something
great. She walked with a
spring to her step. Her
expression serious. They turned
around as they saw her pass.
She felt such pride.
At last
to be known. Even if to
just a few. They did
not know she had
nothing to show.

(Republished from the author’s blog)

Woman of the House

His voice lifted her. She was
caught in the light of his eyes. His words
guided her on her way.
He moved his lips and her arms rose
to obey. She picked up the load
silently groaning at the weight. Too heavy
for a frail body like hers already
battered like an old ship in a stormy sea.

He told her it was so and she
did as he bid. He left her to her chores to
indulge in more important things. Later
in the evening he returned
to inspect and smiled
at her effort. She moved back into her shell.
Her day was done but rest was still
far away. The clock hadn’t
struck the hour. Her silent groans
unheard, swallowed,
hard and dry like old chapatti.

(First published in Spark, Mar 5, 2014, India)

This poem is the Sri Lankan poet Shirani Rajapakse’s contribution as part of the 6th Woman Scream International Art and Poetry Festival 2016, the Kolkata chapter of which is being held on March 26.

March 29, 2016 | By Shirani Rajapakse

http://learningandcreativity.com/three-poems-on-womanhood-by-shirani-rajapakse/

IS SOMETHING ROTTEN AT THE SAQ?

Would you like to embarrass Quebec, as Quebec so richly deserves?

Please take 10 seconds to write to the SAQ (link below).

Ask them why they do not post bilingual signs at their outlets in predominantly English areas! :o)

On the following SAQ contact form please choose SERVICE/COURTESY. Leave your phone number blank: https://www.saq.com/content/SAQ/en/a-propos/pour-nous-joindre.html

The only way that things in Quebec will ever improve is if Quebec is embarrassed into changing their xenophobic ways!

I sent:

Why doesn’t the SAQ post bilingual signs at SAQ outlets where non-Francophones are the majority or a significant minority?

Bilingual signs are legal in Quebec. If there were more bilingual signs, then everyone would increase their vocabulary. I look forward to receiving the SAQ’s reply. Until I receive word that the SAQ will be posting bilingual signs, I will be shopping at the LCBO outlets in Hawkesbury, Lancaster, Cassleman and Ottawa!

Thank you!

Please SHARE this post far and wide (links below). It is imperative that you stop shopping at the SAQ and encourage others to stop shopping there as well.

OBVIOUSLY this means not purchasing wine at supermarkets, Costco, etc in QUEBEC!

Buy your booze in Kahnawake

For tires save $$$ at Goodleaf’s in Kahnawake  https://www.facebook.com/Goodleafs-AUTO-TIRE-471690579563506/

PLEASE “FOLLOW” THE BLOG FOR UPDATES AND PLEASE SIGN OUR PETITION ONCE BUT SHARE OFTEN!  HTTP://PETITIONS.MOVEON.ORG/SIGN/IT-IS-TIME-TO-CLOSE-DOWN?SOURCE=C.EM&R_BY=13077821

Please note: We were planning to spend 2 weeks in The Gaspe this summer, but in view of how Quebec respects Anglophones we decided to spend the 2 weeks in Maine instead!

YEZIDI A FIRST HAND ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED ON AUGUST 3

Please click on the link to read a heart-wrenching story a first hand account from what a person survived Please read and do share this story

http://criesoftheyazidi.weebly.com/stories

A POEM TO COMMEMORATE THE SHOAH

Today is Holocaust remembrance day it reminds us of what hate and indifference can do to people. Soulmates are separated friendships broken people die because of hate ... DISOBEY REFUSE to HATE to be INDIFFERENT Close your ears to the propaganda and open you ears from your soul hear the Creator whisper disobey bad leaders .

I wrote this poem for two friends whose only crime was loving one another in a climate of hate where Jews were vilified by the Nazi and yet these two friends one Jewish on German never stopped loving one another, they were SOULMATES One was shot by borders guards trying to escape the other one died in in Concentration Camp 2 years later. She was trying to go home, to be with her soulmate, to be ONE to be WHOLE.

It is happening now in the Middle East because of Daesh it is happening again in Europe because of immigration and migration Jews, Muslims Roma are the target of hate GROUPS.

This poem is dedicated to all of those who love and remain faithful to the one love in their life regardless of ethnicity, background, religion or skin tone no matter if the leaders tell them to hate. Evil men say: her hate him they disobey and still love and go through adversity because they know the power of TRUE LOVE. They know themselves, their culture their flaws and their strengths they know that love the power of one of wholeness of being complete.

SOULMATES by Celine Leduc January 27 2016

One soul in one spirit
Two bodies are one.

Two hearts one love
The two are ONE

One love two thoughts
They are of one mind.

United by creation
Created out of earth

From dust they came
To dust they go

Two bodies one earth
One love one soul.