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Wedding Underwear for Mermaids [Linda Ann Strang] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Linda Ann Strang's first poetry collection skilfully.
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Wedding Underwear For Mermaids

This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. Sort order. Jun 27, Grady rated it it was amazing. Nor could there be a more fitting work of art than the one by Deborah Donelson that graces the cover. This lady minstrel form Africa sprinkles potions of beauty and of insight and of inner secrets and tenderness the way most lovers of gardens cast seeds: put these superbly crafted poems before the reader and the good harvest is assured.

Feminism is frowned upon by many people, including females, so admitting to being a feminist draws a lot of hostility and ridicule, as I know from bitter experience.

That's why it is crazy to be feminist in South Africa. It's been said that a South African woman has a better chance of being raped than she has of completing secondary school; and this isn't just some arbitrary information for me. I've witnessed the suffering of my neighbors and friends. One acquaintance was raped and strangled. Another was raped and stabbed in the throat - but she survived. Yes, South African society is characterized by crime and violence.

But the women here identify vigorously with their aggressors - and, quite frankly, I do too most of the time.

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So feminism for me is not so much about theories as it is about surviving another day and holding onto a bit of self-respect. When they went to the fairground together they looked into a magic mirror that showed their hearts: he had none, only bones bandaged in black lace; her heart was plump with gold stars like the Pleiades by candlelight. In spite of this insight, when he died she wept. All over the place.

5 things you need to do if you're wearing a mermaid-cut wedding dress - Wedded Wonderland

Now she's met a man with jazz and angel feathers in the Palm Sunday of his hands. When she sees him the Aretha red roses in her soul's renaissance sing torch songs. But she beats them down, as if roses were fire in the violins, embarrassed because they give her away.

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Surely the saints say: Love is! Like climbing flying stairs till you find yourself in clouds of feathers and saxophone music at the top - there your heart's so full of 'whats' that no-one can earth it. Forget the feather tax on your flight plan, baby. It's worth it. Or in a more somber whisper, she offers: GLISSADE She moves the children's clothes away form the balcony door and finds a measure of broad moonlight between the geraniums.

She wanted to be a ballerina before polio took over her limbs like a lover. She lifts her arms high and tilts her head, owns for one minute a square metre of Swan Lake; feels invisible wings brush across her face. My passport is a page torn from the sky. I sleep with my head under my wing, dreaming of homeland where chameleon people walk through the sugar can of sunlight, their tongues long enough to teach anyone.

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Their children are swallows in cradles. My parents were migrant labourers, attending the orchards of each other's hearts. Colours flowed through them as the held hands, lost in the pollen, their bed an equator, their tails entwined: black and white blue, black, black, black. They cling to the twig of their love.