My own soft raging poems

Here are a few of my own poems, written in moments of nostalgia, sadness, and anger.

-Tamara Pearson

A well-contained crossness

she was so silenced
her broken glass rage
was sand
sitting as little hills
in the landscapes of her feet
she stayed a mother and wife
well after the man and children were gone
unable to pronounce
her needs
No one, no place, ever asked her
What do you need
and that was the chemical reaction
that turned a person into
no sound

she demanded respect from him so many times
and did not get it
that eventually she stopped
her back snapped
and she stayed in bed
bled into buckets
bit her own teeth
and found everything

She is barely
She is faint
like the softest wind
She won’t yell
But sometimes
She marches
and reveals
a well-contained crossness


The forced disappearance of trees,
the deforestation of peoples,
the unfetted warming of poetry,
the mass production of personality,
the many ways we remember what matters most,
only to forget again and stumble about among the shops
with a grand notion that we are exceptions to the addiction


What I like about the struggle for justice,
and for a more reasonable world
Is that it is always there, everywhere
In every country I’ve visited or lived in
I’ve found it.
Sometimes, it was meeting in secret places with code names
Sometimes the struggle was floundering, trying to find its footing
Sometimes it was an awoken city of people out in the streets
Screaming with rage
Celebrating new found power
Other times, it was a quiet recognition of problems
Or graffiti
Or poems, or songs
But it has always been there, from Venezuela, to Bolivia, Pakistan, Zimbabwe, Mexico, India, Ecuador, Iran, South Africa, Australia and more.
There are always at least a few people resisting
Trying to live beyond their individual lives and into history, into a conscious formation of a better humanity
Those of us who question, who resist, who organise, who imagine, who study social change and learn every day, who build new and healthier collective relationships,
who fail over and over and over but know that we only lose if we stop
We are never, ever completely going away.

Art by Bridget Bate Tichenor

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