Judith-poem inspired by Virginia Woolf

The following poem is based on Virginia Woolf’s “Shakespeare’s Sister”, a thought experiment from her book A Room of One’s Own.

they would’ve taunted her voice

pressing it down to a whisper 

a measly murmur under her breath

and they would’ve mocked her movement 

until her spine bent down over the desk 

disciplined into obedience 

the only pattern permitted, a stitch through cloth

the only genesis sanctioned, flesh and cotton entwined

and even her body’s labour

the only thing worth offering 

is half man 

half the silence that moulded her

and that, only if she was permitted to exist at all.

her pen —bright ember, sharp,

and never hers to begin with 

buried in the cobwebbed corner 

of her father’s busy study 

her art dulled beneath domestic dust 

her voice drowned in male applause

her mind strangled, unread, 

discarded before it could draw a breath

a cathedral unentered

masterpieces left to rot

and surely she would’ve shouted. 

she would have clawed at doors 

shattering windows towards the sky

her skin torn, her dress reddened with will

and still, her cries would fall upon deaf ears 

and the world will turn away 

because a bodiced body 

was never meant to birth creation

and such soft eyes 

and a mouth meant for yielding 

could never be esteemed

and she’ll die silently. 

a flower neglected amongst the tall weeds

beauty crumpled into a forgotten shadow 

her words scattered like ash

and swept under the rug 

while others take the stage

the dignity 

and the life

that should’ve been hers

that should’ve echoed her name like a hymn

and even in death, she is dispossessed

because when have you ever read about Shakespeare’s sister in your schoolbooks?