Kristen Williamson and the team at Streetlight Press have published my poem “Survivor” in the February issue. You can read it here.
Tag Archives: Women
Rising
Monday Morning Musings:
“You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
From Maya Angelou, “Still I Rise”
Full poem here.
I.
I rise before the sun,
a woman’s work is never done,
or so the saying goes–
but often yet denied a place
debased, erased
from education, business, science, and the arts
kept apart, or not allowed to start
never mind, we’ve given birth to the human race
created beauty and gone to space,
although harassed and worse,
some want progress gained to be reversed
(believing in mythical pasts and Eve’s curse)
but we move onward, oppose coercion
and being brutalized and minimized–
we advertise and mobilize–
trying not to polarize–
OK, perhaps a bit we moralize
but feeling like we’re pressurized
we rise
again, we rise
I march (again)
with a friend
she was my daughters’ teacher
(way back when)
and we talk and cheer
reaching for something dear—
hope, instead of fear—
this is not a fight only for straight, white women,
rights are for all regardless of skin tone or orientation in
who they love
(is love is love is love is love)
yet why do some believe that to have what they desire
means others’ dreams should then expire?
They’d build a bonfire of the vanities
produce dark cavities,
gaping holes in knowledge—truth and beauty gone—insanities—
while the Doomsday Clock shows we more than ever jeopardize
life as we know it
(afraid to admit this)
we reach for the prize
rising still
again, we rise. . .
A woman handed out these pins on our Patco train.
and from the crowd celebrating Womanhood
I wander north–as I said I would
to celebrate two women and art on a smaller scale
because loves trumps hate, and it prevails
II.
I learned my mom wanted a career in fashion design,
or so she says now, perhaps then she was resigned,
as she went to secretarial school, learning typing and shorthand.
but then war came, with its demands
she willingly bucked the rivets and worked in shifts
then married, raised children—but art uplifts
and it was there for her, when she had time
perhaps no longer in her prime
days, to months, to years, the lows and highs
her parents, my father, her brother died
though weakened,
yet still she’d rise
Her cousin, like a sister, began a Yiddish club
a language almost gone, but rising up
through songs they sing and memories
of parents or grandparents’ spoken tongue
(curses uttered, lullabies sung)
I ask about the story I heard
that my grandmother had a lovely voice
and that she was often the choice
at family gatherings
asked to sing with Abraham Hankins, the artist cousin, famous
(shameless, we name him thus)
she says he studied music first, but his voice was almost done
(because of mustard gas during WWI)
she says–
he learned to paint in the hospital—“art therapy isn’t new”
but an online biography reports the opposite is true
born in Gomel, then sent to Philadelphia to live with his cousins
(I know he lived with my mom’s family, but there were dozens)
talented, he studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts,
then enlisted and wounded
the experts concluded
singing would expand his lungs, damaged from the war’s ravages
it turned out that he excelled in this field, too,
studied in Paris, this is true,
but though music called in tenor voice,
ultimately, he made a choice–
following when his heart said, “art.”
My cousin tells me about his studio
with many windows, but little else
and of the patron who, well-pleased
sent him frozen vegetables–beans, corn, and peas—
along with a freezer to store them in
vegetables at least to eat
not a starving artist, painting in the street
I am impressed by the work, cousins and mother’s
as well as those of many others
I love color, but I can’t draw—
no talent there at all–
maybe it skipped on to my daughter,
as her poster art I’ve carried twice to help me energize
Rising through the shadows
as we gather to rise
when again, we rise
While the art show reception is going on,
my husband puts together with care
for my mother, a new armchair,
kindly doing his share
for the woman who gave his wife life
so she can more easily rise–
it’s more difficult for her now
but she finds a way somehow
to paint and laugh and still to rise
as women have done throughout the ages
with baby steps, on platforms, and in stages
to rise
again
to rise
Through the Ages, She is Blamed: Yeats Challenge, Day 29
This is for Jane’s Month with Yeats Poetry Challenge.
“Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?”—W.B. Yeats
Through the Ages, She Is Blamed
They laid the conflicts at her door–
her hair unbound, or what she wore—
they blamed their deeds on her physique
oh, they have brawn, but they are weak,
when they confine her to a guarded room,
do they fear her fruitful womb,
and do they grope her milk-filled breasts
and say it is their god’s request?
and they blame her body for tempting them,
as they rip her dress from neck to hem,
they will not let her flee–nor be–
scared if she gains knowledge, scared if she is free,
those named and nameless who do not see
it is they, not she, who commit the atrocities.
“I am woman hear me roar.” I hope I can end the challenge tomorrow on a more pleasant note, but considering all that’s going on in the world and the fact that I’m working my way through my copyedited Encyclopedia of Rape and Sexual Violence. . .well, we will see. 🙂
The Selkie’s Lament: Haibun
In the wild water I thrive. I remember this. When I rise from the cold deep, the waves rock and cradle me. At dawn, the grey northern sea turns to fire. When darkness comes, the moon silvers the water, and I watch the stars twinkle and drift across the sky. I didn’t know how happy I was then, watching the days pass in light and shadow across the ocean. My brothers, sisters, and I danced our sleek bodies amidst the waves, laughing and singing our ancient songs. But I had glimpsed you from afar, and I was curious. When the summer sun lingered long and languid, I swam to the shallows, then walked ashore, my human form dripping dulse and smelling of brine. Love, I thought, but possession I became. And now— my true skin gone–I am marooned here, grounded, the sea forsworn forever more. And yet still it calls to me—come! Oh, my brothers and sisters–do you know my sadness? Do you hear my cries?
Tears under moon-glow
fall, drift, mingle with the sea
carried with the tides
Guillermo Gómez Gil, “Moonrise,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
This is a haibun for Colleen Chesebro’s Weekly Poetry Challenge. The prompt words were happy and sad. Sometimes my inner romantic pours out in a brain-tide. 😉
Dazzled
Monday Morning Musings:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — (1263)
“Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —“
–Emily Dickinson
A brilliant she is born
here, there, in the past, now
she lived, flowered—perhaps
a rose with thorns—
or a pale bud that only blooms unseen,
but the fever, the desire to create
to know
to explore
is not enough,
confined by men,
labeled
(only a woman)
put in a box
(too weak)
on a shelf
(an ornament)
in a cage
(shackled and punished)
Don’t think too hard, they say to her
your insides will be twisted,
you’ll go mad,
but she rises, resists
her voice rings out
and we wake
***
We see a new movie about Emily Dickinson
I learn afterward that
before she confined herself to life to Amherst,
to her home, garden, and poetry
she traveled a bit,
to Boston,
and to Philadelphia
walked the streets we’ve walked
I imagine her ghost lingering still
though the streets are paved and surrounded by new buildings,
she published only a few poems during her life
though she wrote thousands
she admired the Brontës,
women who had their work published
(though first under pseudonyms )
they loved their homes and families,
neither Emily married
(wives did not have time to write)
What was her truth
and what is truth
and does it slant,
or do we slant it?
Are facts facts
or alternate facts,
difficult, didactic, diffused
gradually, dazzlingly, deliciously
revealed?
We see a performance of Gypsy
I remember watching the movie on TV
with a bit of a crush on Natalie Wood–
the way girls admire older teenage girls–
we’re entertained
we let them entertain us
and make us smile.
the orchestra sweeps us along with Mama Rose,
the ultimate stage mother,
annoying, unyielding, and yet we feel sorry for her
as she seeks the American dream for her children
during the Great Depression
and watch, listen to the music and words of Laurents, Styne, and Sondheim,
the great American musical
I think the real Gypsy Rose Lee must have dazzled
but not all at once–
or rather showing only some, not all–
hinting–
so that men would not be blinded,
but rather left with wanting more
as she entertained them and made them smile.
After the performance
on this Memorial Day weekend
the sky suddenly clears
slowly,
dazzling gradually
delaying the delectable,
revealing the late spring night of beauty
and we sit, eat, drink
and watch the people walk by
listen to their conversations
wonder about their plans
the young woman leaning on the car taking a selfie
the man with his children waiting for their table,
the trio at the table next to us, discussing diets,
a couple strolls by, the woman says,
“But he’s no longer addicted.”
my husband and I agree that’s good,
even if it seems unlikely.
I think about Memorial Day
the day to honor and remember the military fallen,
the long weekend celebrated with parades, barbecue grills,
and trips “down the shore”
Isn’t it strange?
though perhaps not,
to celebrate life, instead of death
and isn’t that what they fought for–
so that we could sit and eat with our families in peace
so that all can receive educations, and not just those who can afford private schools
so all will be able to sort fact from fiction
so that all men and women, all genders, all races, and religions
can live in freedom
isn’t that why they fought
so that I can write these words
and you can read them?
my truth,
slanted like the sunglow as evening falls
blinding, dazzling
truth
revealed gradually
coming full circle
Today is Memorial Day here in the US. I am mindful and thankful for all the men and women who served and sacrificed their lives, even if I have not supported the wars and conflicts in which they fought.
We saw A Quiet Passion and Gypsy. We ate at Cuba Libre.
I dreamt poetry last night, but sadly I will not have much time to write it this week. As some of you know, I am reading, writing, and editing articles on rape, and my manuscript deadline is. . .um, gulp. . .this week. So. . .I may not be so active in Blogland for the next week or so. Then again, I do need to take a break occasionally. 😉
Women: Past, Present, Future
He never saw her / A hidden figure
though there she was / in plain sight
his property, to do his bidding / a body, with a brain though
she smiled meekly, got his coffee before he asked / she could outthink him any day
he glared when she dared to speak or dream / she wanted to learn all she could
he told her to sit down and be quiet / so she persisted
he put his hands up her skirt and laughed / and she tried to resist
he beat her / she fought back when she could
he told her he was in charge / she tried to change the system
men were always at the top / she educated her daughters and her sons
the world depended on it / they had to be bold for change
A cleave poem for International Women’s Day 2017. The theme for 2017 is “be bold for change.” A cleave poem is three poems in one–left side, right side, and the full lines.
Today’s Google Doodle was a slide show featuring women of diverse backgrounds.
The Balloon: Microfiction
Pierre Puvis de Chavannes [CeCILL (http://www.cecill.info/licences/Licence_CeCILL_V2-en.html) or CC BY-SA 2.0 fr (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/fr/deed.en)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
She had raged against the war, raged against the loss, and raged against fate. Her husband and her three sons had been killed; her grandchildren would never be born. Her city was destroyed, and there was no one left to rebuild it. Bodies lay in the streets, dead of starvation, disease, and hopelessness. Now the fire of her rage had died to embers. Over it, her sorrow had once simmered and stewed, but now, it too was gone. She was hollow, like a shell abandoned on the beach. She wondered if her body carried echoes of her life before–when she had dreams.
As she walked toward the ancient walls of her city, she noticed a balloon rising in the distant sky. A sign of hope or help? Too late, she thought. She wondered if she imagined it, as she watched the balloon ascend higher and higher, mocking her. She knew she would never rise; the only way for her was down. She hoped her flight would be graceful, like the balloon’s, a final bit of beauty amidst the tragedy of her life. She stood at the top of the city’s wall, spread her arms, and dived into the wind.
After
She floated, carried by wind currents, by angels’ breath. She floated like a leaf upon the water. She heard a sound, like echoing voices, and a door between worlds opened. There was her city spread beneath her, filled with joyous people, busy with the tasks of everyday life. In a blink, she stood now in the market square. Her eldest son saw her and greeted her with a smile. She noticed a balloon high above her. She dared to dream. Here and always.
This story was for Jane Dougherty’s Sunday strange microfiction challenge. The prompt was the painting above.
Chosen: Microfiction
Ilya Repin. “Choosing a Bride for the Grand Duke” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Once long ago, as the full moon glowed in the sky, a line of maidens stood in brilliantly colored gowns and feathered headdresses. They chattered and peeped like exotic birds, as they waited for the king to arrive to choose one of them to be his bride.
Katerina alone was silent; she comforted herself with the thought that she was unlikely to be chosen. She had nothing against the king in particular—he seemed pleasant enough. But marriage to him meant a life of seclusion in the women’s quarters, a gilded cage, a life spent producing babies and little else.
Katerina’s mother had convinced her father that reading was a skill that would allow Katerina to assist her future husband. So as she stood waiting in the Great Hall, Katerina read. When the trumpets sounded, announcing the King’s arrival, she quickly tucked her book inside one of her wide sleeves.
As the king strode down the line, each maiden curtsied before him. When he stood in front of Katerina, she bent low, and as the king took her hand, the book slipped from her sleeve and dropped to the ground. The onlookers gasped, but the king merely bent and picked up the book. Glancing at its title, he smiled, commenting that philosophy was an unusual choice for a woman. He handed the book back to Katerina and walked on. Throughout the night, the king talked to all of the women, but he kept returning to Katerina.
At dawn, the King announced he had chosen Katerina to be his queen. As a result, carrying books—even if they were not read–became a fad among unmarried women. Over time, Katerina adjusted to her role as queen and to life in a “gilded cage”—though she had to admit that it was a luxurious, gilded cage that many would envy. Using her position, she convinced the king to let her teach all the women at court to read. A generation later, all of girls in their country, as well as the boys, were permitted to go to school. Finally, after many decades, on another moonlit night, a woman became the leader of the nation. She was also named Katerina, after her distant ancestor, the queen who made books and reading fashionable.
This fairy tale was written when I was feeling hopeful. It is for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge—though I am again stretching the meaning of the term “micro.” There were two possible painting prompts, I chose the one above.
Penelope Waits: Magnetic Poetry
Hero fascinated by fighting,
she, sad quiet at home,
a heart full of love.
Goddess protect him—
light night-hours,
in morning,
a gentle promise,
she has hope.
The Oracle seems to be bringing me women in history. Last week was Joan of Arc; and this week, Penelope (the wife of Odysseus), though I would not imagine her so passive. I’ve added punctuation.
This is for Magnetic Poetry Saturday at Mr. Elusive Trope’s Specks and Fragments.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “Penelope,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “Penelope,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Rondelet: Poetry Challenge
Odilon Redon, La Voile jaune (The Yellow Sail). Image courtesy of the Indianapolis Museum of Art.
(1.) The Refugees
We ached for home,
starting our journey, looking back
we ached for home
though forced to flee, and forced to roam
in our red boat, we had to tack
the golden sail, the night loomed black
we ached for home
(2.) The Female Pirates
With sparkling jewels
We set sail upon the ocean
With sparking jewels
We challenged men, we broke the rules,
Made our plans, set them in motion
Women! We caused a commotion
With sparkling jewels
These two poems are in response to Jane Dougherty’s Poetry Challenge #37. For this challenge, we were to write a rondelet using the image above, Odilon Redon’s La Voile jaune (The Yellow Sail) and the word “journey.” This is a new form for me. Both of these poems are inspired by the picture, but only the first one uses the word “journey.” A rondelet is a 7-line poem (septet) with two rhymes and a repeated refrain. The refrain is 4 syllables; the other lines are 8 syllables. AbAabbA
