It’s hard to breathe
when immersed
in this scent.
It’s a man’s scent.
A patriarch’s scent.
The Patriarch’s scent.
So man-scented
the question must be asked:
were there any women living
wherever this paper was printed?
If there were
they aren’t present in this smell.
Maybe
they were busy
holding up that world
so a man could write this. Maybe
they were busy dying
holding up that world
while thinking of new ones.
That was a hint of them
just now —
fouled wood smoke
and a whisper,
burn them,
like the crackling of pyres.
Dark Matter 
April 8th, 2015 at 2:44 am
Alas, perhaps you did not search deeply enough. We were there, often with a nom de plume as men would not accept our work otherwise! It was hard for Acton Bell and others in their time so imagine the time before them?
Great poem Tony!
April 8th, 2015 at 8:22 am
And how many women were sheltered behind that famously great name, “Anonymous?” Thanks.
April 8th, 2015 at 11:34 am
Merci beaucoup monsieur et bisous!