111 Gender and feminism poems

To Men You put on an ornate ballgown You say “someone has to do it” You take me to where you work, The inside of a pyramid with chasms, Watching the complex train-track changes Products and objects make love to my father Two babies are born—Bruno and Daisy You take your shirt off looking boylike & lovely You get on the plane, both clown & wizard And then get off in a comedy of manners Our dates become a comedy of dinners Your name rhymes with clothes Your plane folds & flies away Without us, I’ll make the next one We are enclosed in spaceless epics by breathless bricks & still we’ll meet like runes or the leashes for hawks Let’s go! Can we stay? Go to sleep. A tree wouldn’t talk or weep if I-forget-what And you in the train’s opulent rooms Switch your cock to a baby and then say “Must there (not) be a law against this?” You add, “I have been thinking of you in my head” You wear green glitter on your shirt instead of A tie, that’s how I recognize you as you You are the prep cook the sous-chef you make Duplicating potato salad like the loaves & fishes You create gorgeous paper-like sculptures of foods We go down in the car through threatening snows To arrive in a second to eat in a renovated place You and I tell “what” we are at the end of a movie Our podium of soft loud feet flies by accident I take the train to your house to hear Shakespeare & Verdi Everyone applauds when you walk in. The director Holds up each actor & describes his physical being I talk to your father but only by telephone You have the royal blue 8 � x 11 notebook with the lock on it I want one but you say you cant get them anymore I walk twice through that city I’ve been in before All through its rooms, its streets and its Commons

That Halloween I wore your wedding dress, our children spooked & wouldn’t speak for days. I’d razored taut calves smooth, teased each blown tress, then—lipsticked, mascaraed, & self-amazed— shimmied like a starlet on the dance floor. I’d never felt so sensual before— Catholic schoolgirl & neighborhood whore. In bed, dolled up, undone, we fantasized: we clutched & fused, torn twins who’d been denied. You were my shy groom. Love, I was your bride.

There are many kinds of open. — Audre Lorde We are all ventricle, spine, lung, larynx, and gut. Clavicle and nape, what lies forked in an open palm; we are follicle and temple. We are ankle, arch, sole. Pore and rib, pelvis and root and tongue. We are wishbone and gland and molar and lobe. We are hippocampus and exposed nerve and cornea. Areola, pigment, melanin, and nails. Varicose. Cellulite. Divining rod. Sinew and tissue, saliva and silt. We are blood and salt, clay and aquifer. We are breath and flame and stratosphere. Palimpsest and bibelot and cloisonné fine lines. Marigold, hydrangea, and dimple. Nightlight, satellite, and stubble. We are pinnacle, plummet, dark circles, and dark matter. A constellation of freckles and specters and miracles and lashes. Both bent and erect, we are all give and give back. We are volta and girder. Make an incision in our nectary and Painted Ladies sail forth, riding the back of a warm wind, plumed with love and things like love. Crack us down to the marrow, and you may find us full of cicada husks and sand dollars and salted maple taffy weary of welding together our daydreams. All sweet tea, razor blades, carbon, and patchwork quilts of Good God! and Lord have mercy! Our hands remember how to turn the earth before we do. Our intestinal fortitude? Cumulonimbus streaked with saffron light. Our foundation? Not in our limbs or hips; this comes first as an amen, a hallelujah, a suckling, swaddled psalm sung at the cosmos’s breast. You want to know what women are made of? Open wide and find out.

Here in this truly no man’s land, all is fair as understood not in terms of Penelope’s false blondness but that which is right and healthy. Where we throw our big hairy legs and bottoms that make any Levi’s cry for air. Hairy too are the faces we acknowledge —some were born that way—or as signs of: the pills we took in, the wombs we threw out, and plain normal aging. Yet ancient graces walk elegantly tall or charmingly petite in celebration pinks and royal indigos . . . as though the earth itself was newly found, the air a discovery. We were not afraid of ideas. Not our own. Not those of others. Along those corridors and in those easy days’ assemblies, apologizing for our being was not on. We were Nobody’s wives or mistresses. No one called us “Mother”: and when some daughters present did, it was with the clearest mandate that they picked the fight where we brought it. We were only ourselves: each alone as when we were born, and shall be, when we died. But living and together, a true power thing that searches researches solving resolving . . . And as always sweetly hopeful as only women can be.

When the forsaken city starts to burn, after the men and children have fled, stand still, silent as prey, and slowly turn back. Behold the curse. Stay and mourn the collapsing doorways, the unbroken bread in the forsaken city starting to burn. Don’t flinch. Don’t join in. Resist the righteous scurry and instead stand still, silent as prey. Slowly turn your thoughts away from escape: the iron gates unlatched, the responsibilities shed. When the forsaken city starts to burn, surrender to your calling, show concern for those who remain. Come to a dead standstill. Silent as prey, slowly turn into something essential. Learn the names of the fallen. Refuse to run ahead when the forsaken city starts to burn. Stand still and silent. Pray. Return.

But of course these poems are about men, which we become by defining how we are not women and so becoming a shadow devouring the light to find the limits which is what Richard Pryor would have told Joan of Arc in a joke funnier for being sexist “It’s a man thang.” And of course there is God and its problematic relationship to light not to mention the question of permission Who builds the box, the shape? It makes sense that Jesus, the new man 2,000 years ago was a carpenter. You need that craft, the precision of measurement angles of angels who incidentally are never women. Just ask the Romans, who called them Angelo, Angelus never Angela— that lie was coined by a dissident nun hiding her feminism under the cover of rapture but is it enough to announce yourself? To beat your chest in contrition calling Mea culpa! Mea culpa? Guilt can never be enough Mere intent—where is its purpose? Yet there are no answers there are only lines that disappear into horizons that girder us with safety just as there is no way to end this poem.

with relation to lives as women do now on screen in swimsuits or lacking (spread) cuts explanatory meta sequence to explain despite however obvious development at times as women may choose to take on new life subtracts interactions with circumstances unscripted: saussure’s course in linguistics (1916) emma goldman arrested for lecturing on birth control (1916) margaret sanger opens first U.S. birth control clinic (1916) the grocery store with relation to nielsen family air time women who say “I want” to that man with relation to hugh grant, middle-america and anything exotic episodes that develop character still rely upon episodic sequence films contain characters with real names bearing in mind demographic trends as like patterns of speech endorse seemingly radical character britain initiates daylight savings time (1916) watching the late show there are women who present answers to questions absurdly wrong what can be true when asked not to act like oneself

I You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife, And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid. This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake: The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head; The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South. Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad; And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin. Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown; Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray. One might suppose your life had passed Unvexed by any troubling blast. And such—for all that I foreknow— May be the truth! The deeper woe! A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird; But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech; In the white courts beyond the stars The noblest brow is seamed with scars; And they on earth who’ve wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host. Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o’er a golden bed, With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a noble use; Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear, And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak. You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope: The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother’s holy love; And always at thy soul’s demand A brother’s, sister’s heart and hand. Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home; And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends. What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss? And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face, And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again, And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray? At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace, Hath much to try a woman’s heart, And you but play a painful part. The world around, with little ruth, Still laughs at maids who have not youth, And, right or wrong, the old maid rests The victim of its paltry jests, And still is doomed to meet and bear Its pitying smile or furtive sneer. These are indeed but petty things, And yet they touch some hearts like stings. But I acquit you of the shame Of being unresisting game; For you are of such tempered clay As turns far stronger shafts away, And all that foes or fools could guide Would only curl that lip of pride. How then, O weary one! explain The sources of that hidden pain? Alas! you have divined at length How little you have used your strength, Which, with who knows what human good, Lies buried in that maidenhood, Where, as amid a field of flowers, You have but played with April showers. Ah! we would wish the world less fair, If spring alone adorned the year, And autumn came not with its fruit, And autumn hymns were ever mute. So I remark with small surprise That, as the unvarying season flies, From day to night and night to day, You sicken of your endless May. In this poor life we may not cross One virtuous instinct without loss, And the soul grows not to its height Till love calls forth its utmost might. Not blind to all you might have been, And with some consciousness of sin— Because with love you sometimes played, And choice, not fate, hath kept you maid— You feel that you must pass from earth But half-acquainted with its worth, And that within your heart are deeps In which a nobler woman sleeps; That not the maiden, but the wife Grasps the whole lesson of a life, While such as you but sit and dream Along the surface of its stream. And doubtless sometimes, all unsought, There comes upon your hour of thought, Despite the struggles of your will, A sense of something absent still; And then you cannot help but yearn To love and be beloved in turn, As they are loved, and love, who live As love were all that life could give; And in a transient clasp or kiss Crowd an eternity of bliss; They who of every mortal joy Taste always twice, nor feel them cloy, Or, if woes come, in Sorrow’s hour Are strengthened by a double power. * Here ends my feeble sketch of what Might, but will never be your lot; And I foresee how oft these rhymes Shall make you smile in after-times. If I have read your nature right, It only waits a spark of light; And when that comes, as come it must, It will not fall on arid dust, Nor yet on that which breaks to flame In the first blush of maiden shame; But on a heart which, even at rest, Is warmer than an April nest, Where, settling soft, that spark shall creep About as gently as a sleep; Still stealing on with pace so slow Yourself will scarcely feel the glow, Till after many and many a day, Although no gleam its course betray, It shall attain the inmost shrine, And wrap it in a fire divine! I know not when or whence indeed Shall fall and burst the burning seed, But oh! once kindled, it will blaze, I know, forever! By its rays You will perceive, with subtler eyes, The meaning in the earth and skies, Which, with their animated chain Of grass and flowers, and sun and rain, Of green below, and blue above, Are but a type of married love. You will perceive that in the breast The germs of many virtues rest, Which, ere they feel a lover’s breath, Lie in a temporary death; And till the heart is wooed and won It is an earth without a sun. II But now, stand forth as sweet as life! And let me paint you as a wife. I note some changes in your face, And in your mien a graver grace; Yet the calm forehead lightly bears Its weight of twice a score of years; And that one love which on this earth Can wake the heart to all its worth, And to their height can lift and bind The powers of soul, and sense, and mind, Hath not allowed a charm to fade— And the wife’s lovelier than the maid. An air of still, though bright repose Tells that a tender hand bestows All that a generous manhood may To make your life one bridal day, While the kind eyes betray no less, In their blue depths of tenderness, That you have learned the truths which lie Behind that holy mystery, Which, with its blisses and its woes, Nor man nor maiden ever knows. If now, as to the eyes of one Whose glance not even thought can shun, Your soul lay open to my view, I, looking all its nature through, Could see no incompleted part, For the whole woman warms your heart. I cannot tell how many dead You number in the cycles fled, And you but look the more serene For all the griefs you may have seen, As you had gathered from the dust The flowers of Peace, and Hope, and Trust. Your smile is even sweeter now Than when it lit your maiden brow, And that which wakes this gentler charm Coos at this moment on your arm. Your voice was always soft in youth, And had the very sound of truth, But never were its tones so mild Until you blessed your earliest child; And when to soothe some little wrong It melts into a mother’s song, The same strange sweetness which in years Long vanished filled the eyes with tears, And (even when mirthful) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays, Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still. I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot, Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest; I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great; But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content!

Somewhere out of antiquity someone work with me. When transferring a thought, the connectors and clauses recede: you get it. I got it — The rest of the language, beauty and play I am your master, the thought says — I disagree I’m thinking about the church where we held my brother’s funeral. He says, I was there: it hurt me; you cried too much; I don’t mind later. I just want to be with you, the thought says You mean thee thought or his thought? The rocks are like stars, gully full of stars. If I go with anyone anywhere, if they’d think sweetly to me. No one hears. Relax your shoulders. I’m singing to you over and over “to a new sex.” Sometimes it seems like there’s a lizard for each rock necklaces of lives, there’s room for an infinity of minds. Thoughts. Anywhere. Enter my head if you wish. No ends or purposes Prevailed fortunes. I have a destiny. My death will not complete it.

WHO MADE LOVE TO ME, IMAGIN’D MORE THAN WOMAN Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee, Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth: And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth. This last will justifie my soft complainte, While that may serve to lessen my constraint; And without Blushes I the Youth persue, When so much beauteous Woman is in view Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain, While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent, That we might Love, and yet be Innocent: For sure no Crime with thee we can commit; Or if we shou’d – thy Form excuses it. For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves. Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind, Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join’d; When e’er the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid, While we the noblest Passions do extend The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.