"Valentine" by Tzivia Gover
[From My Lover Is A Woman, ed. Lesléa Newman, pp. 85]
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@femmociraptor
"Valentine" by Tzivia Gover
[From My Lover Is A Woman, ed. Lesléa Newman, pp. 85]

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Ouray, Colorado |Â Photographer:Â Nathan Anderson (edited by phantastrophe)
straight woman voice: femme means woman in french tho
Excerpt from Pronouns, Politics, And Femme Practice: An Interview With Minnie Bruce Pratt
[From Femme: Feminists, Lesbians, & Bad Girls, ed. Laura Harris and Elizabeth Crocker, pp. 197]
"SWEET(S)" by Julia Willis
[From My Lover Is A Woman, ed. Lesléa Newman, pp. 257]

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“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”
— bell hooks All About Love - New Visions (via cancerninja)
Art by Sasha Vinogradova
"In the most basic terms, Butch-Femme means a way of looking, loving, and living that can be expressed by individuals, couples, or a community. In the past, the Butch has been labeled too simplistically the masculine partner and the Femme her feminine counterpart. This labeling forgets two women who have developed their styles for specific erotic, emotional, and social reasons. Butch-Femme relationships, as I experienced them, were complex erotic and social statements, not phony heterosexual replicas. They were filled with a deeply lesbian language of stance, dress, gesture, love, courage, and autonomy. In the 1950s particularly, Butch-Femme couples were the front line warriors against sexual bigotry."
— Joan Nestle, "The Femme Question"
Kris | Femme Lesbian | 52 years old
[Business Owner/Consultant, Grandmother, Mother, Activist, Friend, Sage, Sarcastic Observer of The World | Seattle, Washington]
"I wish people knew, understood, that it’s not about playing a role—one of us is the man and one of us is the woman. The butch/femme dynamic is about so much more than that and most people, many lesbians included, never bother to ask or learn.Â
 I wish the heteronormative culture had the ability to expand beyond itself and understand that being femme and lesbian doesn’t mean you are confused and that being masculine of center doesn’t mean she wishes she were a man. That fact that I am a lesbian is a critical part of my identity and I don’t want, and don’t accept, anyone saying “it doesn’t matter, I just see you as a person”. I get the idea behind it but that makes me invisible.  It does matter, it matters to me and influences my life and choices in everything I do. I want straight people to get that. Beyond that, I wish the politically correct lesbians, the “sporty” dykes, the “I don’t want a label” lesbians would simply be respectful that my identity, my gender even, is a Femme Lesbian. And Butches need to understand it’s not a competition about who it’s harder for. We’re Gay, it’s hard for all of us sometimes."
[From the Butch/Femme Photo Project]
yall on here: kljfhlskdjghslkjg us gays are useless! lol we cant do anything right ugdigxixhlcohc cant cook, cant drive, cant read, CANT count. we just out here being big gay disasters! asdfghjgfdkjfk we’re all just a bunch of big clueless dumbasses :) <3
me:Â
Stop doing your oppressor's job for them.

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Taking misogynistic stereotypes for feminine women and repackaging them as just cute things that Femmes do is both sexist and homophobic.
There is nothing inherent about being Femme which prevents me from understanding how to operate power tools, build furniture, fix a car, or do any other traditionally "masculine" activities. What a shitty thing to imply, even in jest. Do better, folks. This is tiring.
Our community should not just replicate tired old stereotypes and drape them in a rainbow flag. Ask more of yourselves and each other.
Be the hairy, man-hating lesbian they tried to scare the gay out of you with.
“Man is defined as a human being and a woman as a female - whenever she behaves as a human being she is said to imitate the male.”
— Simone de Beauvoir (January 9, 1908 – April 14, 1986), was a French existentialist philosopher, public intellectual, political activist, feminist theorist and social theorist.Â
The SunflowersÂ
by Mary Oliver
...
Come with me
into the field of sunflowers.
Their faces are burnished disks,
their dry spinesÂ
creak like ship masts,
their green leaves,
so heavy and many,
fill all day with the stickyÂ
sugars of the sun.
Come with me
to visit the sunflowers,
they are shyÂ
but want to be friends;
they have wonderful stories
of when they were young -
the important weather,Â
the wandering crows.
Don't be afraid
to ask them questions!
Their bright faces,Â
which follow the sun,
will listen, and all
those rows of seeds -
each one a new life!Â
hope for a deeper acquaintance;
each of them, though it stands
in a crowd of many,
like a separate universe,Â
is lonely, the long work
of turning their lives
into a celebration
is not easy. Come
and let us talk with those modest faces,
the simple garments of leaves,
the coarse roots in the earth
so uprightly burning.

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Mary Oliver reading her poem Wild Geese.
For more than forty years, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver lived on Cape Cod with the love of her life, the remarkable photographer Molly Malone Cook.
When Cook died in 2005 at the age of eighty, Oliver looked for a light, however faint, to shine through the thickness of bereavement. She spent a year making her way through thousands of her spouse’s photographs and unprinted negatives, which Oliver then enveloped in her own reflections to bring to life Our World - part memoir, part deeply moving eulogy to a departed soulmate, part celebration of their love for one another through their individual creative loves. Embraced in Oliver’s poetry and prose, Cook’s photographs reveal the intimate thread that brought these two extraordinary women together — a shared sense of deep aliveness and attention to the world, a devotion to making life’s invisibles visible, and above all a profound kindness to everything that exists, within and without.
Oliver ends Our World with The Whistler, a poem on never fully knowing even those nearest to us — a beautiful testament to what another wise woman once wrote: “You can never know anyone as completely as you want. But that’s okay, love is better.”
THE WHISTLER
All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sounds war- bled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.
Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling.
I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and an- kle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with for thirty years?
This clear, dark, lovely whistler?
From Mary’s FB:
To Mary’s beloved readers, we’re very sorry to share this sad news:
Mary Oliver, beloved poet and bard of the natural world, died on January 17 at home in Hobe Sound, Florida. She was 83.
Oliver published her first book, No Voyage, in London in 1963, at the age of twenty-eight. The author of more than 20 collections, she was cherished by readers, and was the recipient of numerous awards, including the 1984 Pulitzer Prize for American Primitive, and the 1992 National Book Award for New and Selected Poems, Volume One. She led workshops and held residencies at various colleges and universities, including Bennington College, where she held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching until 2001. It was her work as an educator that encouraged her to write the guide to verse, A Poetry Handbook (1994), and she went on to publish many works of prose, including the New York Times bestselling essay collection, Upstream (2016). For her final work, Oliver created a personal lifetime collection, selecting poems from throughout her more than fifty-year career. Devotions was published by Penguin Press in 2017.
Her poetry developed in close communion with the landscapes she knew best, the rivers and creeks of her native Ohio, and, after 1964, the ponds, beech forests, and coastline of her chosen hometown, Provincetown. She spent her final years in Florida, a relocation that brought with it the appearance of mangroves. “I could not be a poet without the natural world,” she wrote. “Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple.” In the words of the late Lucille Clifton, “She uses the natural world to illuminate the whole world.”
In her attention to the smallest of creatures, and the most fleeting of moments, Oliver’s work reveals the human experience at its most expansive and eternal. She lived poetry as a faith and her singular, clear-eyed understanding of verse’s vitality of purpose began in childhood, and continued all her life. “For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.