111 Gender and feminism poems

I was born as a woman, I talk you to death, or else your ear off, or else you to sleep. What do I have, all the time in the world, and a voice that swings brass back and forth, you can hear it, and a focal point where my face should be. What do I have, I have absolute power, and what I want is your money, your drool, and your mind, and the sense of myself as a snake, and a garter in the grass. Every bone in the snake is the hipbone, every part of the snake is the hips. The first sound I make is silence, then sssssshhh, the first word I say is listen. Sheep shearers and accountants hypnotize the hardest, and lookout sailors who watch the sea, and the boys who cut and cut and cut and cut and cut the grass. The writers who write page-turners, and the writers who repeat themselves. The diamond-cutter kneels down before me and asks me to hypnotize him, and I glisten at him and glisten hard, and listen to me and listen, I tell him. Count your age backward, I tell him. Become aware of your breathing, and aware of mine which will go on longer. Believe you are a baby till I tell you otherwise, then believe you’re a man till I tell you you’re dirt. When a gunshot rings out you’ll lie down like you’re dead. When you hear, “He is breathing,” you’ll stand up again. The best dog of the language is Yes and protects you. The best black-and-white dog of the language is Yes and goes wherever you go, and you go where I say, you go anywhere. Why do I do it is easy, I am working my way through school. Give me the money for Modernism, and give me the money for what comes next. When you wake to the fact that you have a body, you will wake to the fact that not for long. When you wake you will come when you read the word hard, or hard to understand me, or impenetrable poetry. When you put down the book you will come when you hear the words put down the book, you will come when you hear.

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. The heart of a woman falls back with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

Sylvia Plath is setting my hair on rollers made from orange-juice cans. The hairdo is shaped like a pyre. My locks are improbably long. A pyramid of lemons somehow balances on the rickety table where we sit, in the rented kitchen which smells of singed naps and bergamot. Sylvia Plath is surprisingly adept at rolling my unruly hair. She knows to pull it tight. Few words. Her flat, American belly, her breasts in a twin sweater set, stack of typed poems on her desk, envelopes stamped to go by the door, a freshly baked poppyseed cake, kitchen safety matches, black-eyed Susans in a cobalt jelly jar. She speaks a word, “immolate,” then a single sentence of prophecy. The hairdo done, the nursery tidy, the floor swept clean of burnt hair and bumblebee husks.

Woman was made to serve and obey man, Man must obey God. Wife: man can command. A natural order, God's ordained plan; A woman must bow down to her husband. England needs an heir so I must marry But yet I prevaricate and tarry.

I was a man and I was trying to save a woman in danger. I picked her up in my arms and flew. Flying like a frog swimming in air I ditched our nameless pursuer and landed. There was a guy waiting for us who looked like a king. Caught. Now I have to accept the punishment for saving the woman. First, we have to take a shower. The effect is to loosen the skin from the muscle until it peels off. The woman picks up the pieces of my skin and holds them in her hands and says:I will love each of these as I loved you. And I thought: This is what is called Fetish. And suddenly it came to me that the origin of the word is fe- as in female, soft, loving, silken — plus -tissue. Like tissues flying. Voicing particles waking in waves over a living body of water loose at last

i wish them cramps. i wish them a strange town and the last tampon. i wish them no 7-11. i wish them one week early and wearing a white skirt. i wish them one week late. later i wish them hot flashes and clots like you wouldn't believe. let the flashes come when they meet someone special. let the clots come when they want to. let them think they have accepted arrogance in the universe, then bring them to gynecologists not unlike themselves.

It is her right, to bind with warmest ties, The lordly spirit of aspiring man, Making his home an earthly paradise, Rich in all joys allotted to life’s span; Twining around each fibre of his heart, With all the gentle influence of love’s might, Seeking no joy wherein he has no part – This is undoubtedly – a woman’s right! It is her right to teach the infant mind, Training it ever upward in its course, To root out evil passions that would bind The upward current of his reason’s force; To lead the erring spirit gently back, When it has sunk in gloom of deepest night; To point the shining path of virtue’s track, And urge him forward. This is woman’s right. It is her right to soothe the couch of pain; There her pure mission upon earth to prove, To calm with gentle care the frenzied brain, And keep her vigil there of holiest love; To watch untiring by the lonely bed, Through the bright day, and in the solemn night, ’Til health ensues, or the loved form is laid To rest for ever. This is woman’s right. She is a flower that blossoms best, unseen, Sheltered within the precincts of her home; There, should no dark’ning storm-cloud intervene, There, the loud-strife of worldlings never come. Let her not scorn to act a woman’s part, Nor strive to cope with manhood in its might, But lay this maxim closely to her heart – That that which God ordains is surely right.

Womanhood, wanton, ye want: Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless; Plenty of ill, of goodness scant, Ye rail at riot, reckless: To praise your port it is needless; For all your draff yet and your dregs, As well borne as ye full oft time begs. Why so coy and full of scorn? Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say; My new furrèd gown, when it is worn… Put up your purse, ye shall not pay! By crede, I trust to see the day, As proud a pea-hen as ye spread, Of me and other ye may have need! Though angelic be your smiling, Yet is your tongue an adder’s tail, Full like a scorpion stinging All those by whom ye have avail. Good mistress Anne, there ye do shail: What prate ye, pretty pigesnye? I trust to ’quite you ere I die! Your key is meet for every lock, Your key is common and hangeth out; Your key is ready, we need not knock, Nor stand long wresting there about; Of your door-gate ye have no doubt: But one thing is, that ye be lewd: Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd! To mistress Anne, that farly sweet, That wones at The Key in Thames Street.

The dissonance of women. The shrill frilly silly drippy prissy pouty fuss of us. And all the while science was the music of our minds. Our sexual identities glittery as tinsel, we fretted about god's difficulties with intimacy, waiting for day's luster to fade so we could slip into something less venerated. Like sea anemones at high tide our minds snatched at whatever rushed by. Hush, hush, my love. These things happened a long time ago. You needn't be afraid of them, now.

Women                                 Or they should be                              should be pedestals                              little horses moving                                 those wooden pedestals                              sweet moving                                 oldfashioned to the                                    painted motions                                 rocking of men                                  horses the gladdest things in the toyroom The                                       feelingly pegs                                     and then of their                                 unfeelingly ears                                     To be so familiar                            joyfully and dear                               ridden to the trusting                      rockingly fists                                    ridden until To be chafed                        the restored egos dismount and the legs stride away Immobile                            willing sweetlipped                         to be set sturdy                                 into motion and smiling                         Women women                                 should be should always                        pedestals be waiting                              to men