Skip to content

Sooz Belnavis: The Red Line

April 3, 2010

Whilst on a shoot with a friend, I heard this poem from Sooz Belnavis and I thought it was beautiful. So I’m sharing it.


The red line that birthed me,
That named me,
Flowered from me.
That punctuated line
That scrolls through my life like a scar.  

The red line that draws
Girlhood charms and the arms
Of a man
Old enough to be my father.  

The line that is crossed with fleshy sword
And is breached, too,
By my own son
As he pushes through me,
We screaming
In unison,
Into the world.

The line that is written in tomes,
That I am unclean and separated,
Then joined and retied for the next month
And proffered,
As a ribbon of chastity,
Through my daughter.

The line that I race to,
Through childhood and towards freedom.
A Freedom?
When swatting,
I am poked by a deft finger,
To see the line has not yet been broken.
The line that traces our wedding bed.
The line I curse,
They curse,
When it comes and yields no child.

The line I beg for when my body is weak and
Exhausted from bearing too many children.

The line that trickles through my life,
Which sometimes
Swells like an ocean of misery
And a longing to end
Here and now.

The line flushing crimson to the floor,
Another dead child.

The line I stand before my tormentors that brands me barren.


The line that fed me and birthed me.
I swam through fragrant blood, slippy,
Oiling my way into the outside. 
A renting and tearing renders me whole. 
I bear the scar,
A line from navel to cunt. 

The line that draws me into complexities,
Of a world of avoidances and do nots’.
The line that defines a hollow child,
I must fill in with supermarket glossies and
Predictable stereotypes.

I want to be strong
And do boyish things,

But the line tells me something different.
It speaks of a woman with children and a home.

I want to do girlish things,
But they tell me I am in a Mans’ world
And I must be strong. 

The line tells me something different,
It renders me incapable of sensible thought, of movement,
It draws me to my bed,
It draws me inside myself. 

They tell me I must be like a doll,
But I am strong,
But broken.
A line divides my heart and my intellect.

The line sometimes renders me insane.
I am a banshee, insatiable,
Screaming for everything and nothing. 
It renders me insensible,
I do not know who I am.

But the line tells me something different,
I war with it and it wins.
I am slut, a mother, a whore, a wife,
I am superwoman,
I give birth to the world,
I am responsible for everything.

My smell is infectious,
A red flower blooms in my groin.
Smell it, it is fragrant.

The line says something different,
You are stinking,
You are unclean.
Disinfect the area,
Swab it out.
You are a woman,
You must be clean.

The line tells me something different,
It fed the crops once,
Ebbs and flows with the moon,
Grows fertile as land. 

The line tells me something different,
It renders me no better than a cow,
My value dependant on my yield. 

The line tells me different.
When you are ripped,
Stinking and empty,
You will be spat on and left
In your own mess.

My flower is fragrant…..Won’t you smell it ?
The line tells me something different.

No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: