111 Gender and feminism poems

I think she wanted to explain the silence hidden within her voice— blue egg in the nettles. She wrote something on a rock, used the rock to bash in the skull of an injured deer. Bloodied swan-neck arms. She slinks into her own viscera, a baby fox backing into its trunkhole. The wordbone's connected to the gutbone. Meanwhile, her desire for nobody now bucks like a rabbit under her ground.

My eyes are polished smooth by sight, they clot like crystals in storm glass, like my sister brewing beakers of toxin. If we had seen what had been done, what the helicopter pilot did in our name, what the special ops team did in our name, what they did with their hands in our name. What if it were my sister, what if it were her, what? If we had seen with our own smooth eyes. Mark the diacritical, my lovely: we’re all wearing our knee-high boots, every last one of us, we live in a booted nation. A nation girded and gunning. This moment, this is precisely all, watching takes work, sight takes hours, takes my eyeglasses, every last one of them, as if they were yours. You can see there’s a sigh in our sight. What if it were my sister? What if it were, what. What we saw ground into our eyes with the photos, with the newspaper reports. What would I say, what can I say if, what would I say if it were my sister, my own? With my own beakers of toxin, my own boots, my own hands in my own name?

I have scrawled audible lifelines along the edges of the lint trap, dropping the ball of towel fuzz in the blue bin lined with a thirteen-gallon bag. My sons' wardrobes lounge on their bedroom floors, then sidle down to the basement, where I look forward to the warmth of their waistbands when I pluck them from the dryer. Sometimes I wonder why my husband worries about debt and I wish he wouldn't. Sometimes I wonder how high the alfalfa will grow. Sometimes I wonder if the dog will throw up in the night. Like my mother, I'm learning not to tamper with anger. It appears as reliably as the washing machine thumps and threatens to lurch across the floor away from the electrical outlet. Nothing's worth getting worked up about, except for death. And when I think of the people I have lost, I wish them back into their button-down shirts, their raspberry tights.

Here is the House to hold me — cradle of all the race; Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear — Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place; Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here? Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night; Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight; Duty older than Adam — Duty that saw Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw. Food and the serving of food — that is my daylong care; What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear; Soiling and cleaning of things — that is my task in the main — Soil them and clean them and soil them — soil them and clean them again. To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know; To plan like a Chinese puzzle — fitting and changing so; To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways; For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise. My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard, Useful, commonplace, private — simply a small back-yard; And I the Mother of Nations! — Blind their struggle and vain! — I cover the earth with my children — each with a housewife's brain.

The story of how she bowed to her brother. Who has whom as his. Did she bow to her brother. When she saw him. Any long story. Of how she bowed to her brother. Sometimes not. She bowed to her brother. Accidentally. When she saw him. Often as well. As not. She did not. Bow to her brother. When she. Saw him. This could happen. Without. Him. Everybody finds in it a sentence that pleases them. This is the story included in. How she bowed to her brother. Could another brother have a grand daughter. No. But. He could have a grandson. This has nothing to do with the other brother of whom it is said that we read she bowed to her brother. There could be a union between reading and learning. And now everybody. Reads. She bowed. To her brother. And no one. Thinks. Thinks that it is clearly. Startling. She started. By not bowing. To her brother. And this was not the beginning. She has forgotten. How she bowed. To her brother. And. In mentioning. She did mention. That this was. A recollection. For fortunately. In detail. Details were given. Made an expression. Of recollection. Does whether. They gather. That they heard. Whether. They bowed. To each other. Or not. If in. They made it. Doubtful. Or double. Of their holding it. A momentary after. That she was never. Readily made rather. That they were. Whether. She asked her. Was she doing anything. Either. In all this there lay. No description. And so. Whether. They could come to be nearly. More. Than more. Or rather. Did she. Bow to her brother. PART II They were a few. And they knew. Not that. She had bowed. To her brother. There were not. A few. Who knew. That she. Had. Bowed to her brother. Because if they knew. They would say. That a few. Knew. That she. Had bowed to her brother. But necessarily. Not a few. Knew. They did. Not know. Because they. Were not there. There are not a few. Who are there. Because. Nobody. Was there. Nor did. She know. That she was there. To help to share. And they can. Be there. To tell. Them. So. That. They know. She bowed. To her brother. More. There. Than. There. III It might be easily pointed out. By the chance. Of a. Wish. No wish. He might. Not wish. Not to. Be easily. Pointed out. By no. Wish. Which they. Might easily. Not be pointed. Out. As. A and not. The wish. It is not. To be. Pointed out. That. There. Is. No wish. Not. A wish. She bowed to her brother. Was not easily. Pointed out. And. No wish. Which it. And easily. Pointed out. And. No. Wish. She and. No wish. Which  is. Not easily pointed out. And. So which. They. And. No wish. Which. And not. Easily pointed out. She bowed to her brother. And no wish. And no wish. And not. Easily pointed out. And no. Wish. For them. Which. To wish. Not. Which. Easily. Pointed out. And. No wish. Which. She. No wish. Easily pointed out. Which. She easily pointed out. Which. She bowed to her brother. And. Which. If she had been likely to restate that doors which relate an advantage to their advancing. And not at all. As a coincidence. She bowed to her brother. This was a chance. That might have happened. Minutely. To interrupt a white dog. Who can occasionally. In instance No once counts alike She bowed to her brother. For. And. Counts alike. She bowed. To her brother. Could be lost. By their leaving. It as lost. By. The time. In which. They feel. They will. It is. Indebted. That able. Presence. As very much. And idle. If she were walking along. She would be. She would not. Bow to her brother. If she were  riding. Along. She would. Be. She would. Be. Not as bowing. To her. Brother. As she rode along. Easily. By driving. As she rode. Along. She. Bowed. To her brother. It is. True. As. She drove. Along. She. Bowed. To her brother. Just like that. She bowed. To her brother. They were. There. That is to say. They were. Passing there. They were passing there. But not. On that day. And with this. To say. It was said. She bowed. To her brother. Which was. A fact. If she bowed. To her brother. Which was. A fact. That is. If she bowed. Which. If she bowed. Which she did. She bowed to her brother. Which she did. She bowed to her brother. Or rather. Which she did. She bowed to her brother. Or rather which she did she bowed to her brother. She could think. Of how she was. Not better. Than when. They could say. Not. How do you do. To-day. Because. It is an accident. In suddenness. When there is. No stress. On their. Address. They do not address you. By saying. Rather. That they went by. And came again. Not. As. Or. Why. It is. What is. Even. Not always occurred. Just by the time. That it. Can happen. To be curious. She bowed. To her brother. And why. Again. In there. Should have been. Not more. Than. That. Which. She bowed. To her brother. By which. It is. In tendency. To more. By which. It is. In tendency to not. Have had. She in the. Three. She bowed. To her brother. Would it be. In a way. Not they. Would. Not. They. Be in a way that is. To say. She. Is to say. Did. She bow. To her brother. In. Which way. Did. She come to say. It was. That way. She bowed to her brother. If it was. Separately. Not. To separate. Separately. No one. Is there. But there. Was it. With them. As perhaps. Portions. For there. Which. In which. She bowed to her brother. Not. After. In intention. The same. As mention. She did not mention. Nor was there. Intention. That she. Bowed to her brother. She bowed to her brother.

Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak of our own doubts, while dubiously we mother man in his doubt! And if at Mill Valley perched in the trees the sweet rain drifting through western air a white sweating bull of a poet told us our cunts are ugly—why didn't we admit we have thought so too? (And what shame? They are not for the eye!) No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy, caves of the Moon ...          And when a dark humming fills us, a coldness towards life, we are too much women to own to such unwomanliness. Whorishly with the psychopomp we play and plead—and say nothing of this later.             And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair.

I am the Woman, ark of the law and its breaker, Who chastened her steps and taught her knees to be meek, Bridled and bitted her heart and humbled her cheek, Parcelled her will, and cried "Take more!" to the taker, Shunned what they told her to shun, sought what they bade her seek, Locked up her mouth from scornful speaking: now it is open to speak. I am she that is terribly fashioned, the creature Wrought in God's perilous mood, in His unsafe hour. The morning star was mute, beholding my feature, Seeing the rapture I was, the shame, and the power, Scared at my manifold meaning; he heard me call "O fairest among ten thousand, acceptable brother!" And he answered not, for doubt; till he saw me crawl And whisper down to the secret worm, "O mother, Be not wroth in the ancient house; thy daughter forgets not at all!" I am the Woman, flëer away, Soft withdrawer back from the maddened mate, Lurer inward and down to the gates of day And crier there in the gate, "What shall I give for thee, wild one, say! The long, slow rapture and patient anguish of life, Or art thou minded a swifter way? Ask if thou canst, the gold, but oh if thou must, Good is the shining dross, lovely the dust! Look at me, I am the Woman, harlot and heavenly wife; Tell me thy price, be unashamed; I will assuredly pay!" I am also the Mother: of two that I bore I comfort and feed the slayer, feed and comfort the slain. Did they number my daughters and sons? I am mother of more! Many a head they marked not, here in my bosom has lain, Babbling with unborn lips in a tongue to be, Far, incredible matters, all familiar to me. Still would the man come whispering, "Wife!" but many a time my breast Took him not as a husband: I soothed him and laid him to rest Even as the babe of my body, and knew him for such. My mouth is open to speak, that was dumb too much! I say to you I am the Mother; and under the sword Which flamed each way to harry us forth from the Lord, I saw Him young at the portal, weeping and staying the rod, And I, even I was His mother, and I yearned as the mother of God. I am also the Spirit. The Sisters laughed When I sat with them dumb in the portals, over my lamp, Half asleep in the doors: for my gown was raught Off at the shoulder to shield from the wind and the rain The wick I tended against the mysterious hour When the Silent City of Being should ring with song, As the Lord came in with Life to the marriage bower. "Look!" laughed the elder Sisters; and crimson with shame I hid my breast away from the rosy flame. "Ah!" cried the leaning Sisters, pointing, doing me wrong, "Do you see?" laughed the wanton Sisters, "She will get her lover ere long!" And it was but a little while till unto my need He was given indeed, And we walked where waxing world after world went by; And I said to my lover, "Let us begone, "Oh, let us begone, and try "Which of them all the fairest to dwell in is, "Which is the place for us, our desirable clime!" But he said, "They are only the huts and the little villages, Pleasant to go and lodge in rudely over the vintage—time!" Scornfully spake he, being unwise, Being flushed at heart because of our walking together. But I was mute with passionate prophecies; My heart went veiled and faint in the golden weather, While universe drifted by after still universe. Then I cried, "Alas, we must hasten and lodge therein, One after one, and in every star that they shed! A dark and a weary thing is come on our head— To search obedience out in the bosom of sin, To listen deep for love when thunders the curse; For O my love, behold where the Lord hath planted In every star in the midst His dangerous Tree! Still I must pluck thereof and bring unto thee, Saying, "The coolness for which all night we have panted; Taste of the goodly thing, I have tasted first!" Bringing us noway coolness, but burning thirst, Giving us noway peace, but implacable strife, Loosing upon us the wounding joy and the wasting sorrow of life! I am the Woman, ark of the Law and sacred arm to upbear it, Heathen trumpet to overthrow and idolatrous sword to shear it: Yea, she whose arm was round the neck of the morning star at song, Is she who kneeleth now in the dust and cries at the secret door, "Open to me, 0 sleeping mother! The gate is heavy and strong. "Open to me, I am come at last; be wroth with thy child no more. "Let me lie down with thee there in the dark, and be slothful with thee as before!"

I sit and sew—a useless task it seems, My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams— The panoply of war, the martial tred of men, Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death, Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath— But—I must sit and sew. I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire— That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things Once men. My soul in pity flings Appealing cries, yearning only to go There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe— But—I must sit and sew. The little useless seam, the idle patch; Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch, When there they lie in sodden mud and rain, Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain? You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream That beckons me—this pretty futile seam, It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?

Near Ekuvukeni, in Natal, South Africa, a woman carries water on her head. After a year of drought, when one child in three is at risk of death, she returns from a distant well, carrying water on her head. The pumpkins are gone, the tomatoes withered, yet the woman carries water on her head. The cattle kraals are empty, the goats gaunt— no milk now for children, but she is carrying water on her head. The engineers have reversed the river: those with power can keep their power, but one woman is carrying water on her head. In the homelands, where the dusty crowds watch the empty roads for water trucks, one woman trusts herself with treasure, and carries water on her head. The sun does not dissuade her, not the dried earth that blows against her, as she carries the water on her head. In a huge and dirty pail, with an idle handle, resting on a narrow can, this woman is carrying water on her head. This woman, who girds her neck with safety pins, this one who carries water on her head, trusts her own head to bring to her people what they need now between life and death: She is carrying them water on her head.

Evolution settles for a while on various stable balances. One is that some of the girls like cute boys and some like ugly older men and sometimes women. The difference between them is the ones who like older men were felt up by their fathers or uncles or older brothers, or if he didn't touch you, still you lived in his cauldron of curses and urges which could be just as worse. They grow already old, angry, and wise, they get rich, get mean, get theirs. The untouched/uncursed others are happy never needing to do much, and never do much more than good. They envy their mean, rich, talented, drunk sisters. Good girls drink milk and make milk and know they've missed out and know they're better off. They might dance and design but won't rip out lungs for a flag. Bad ones write books and slash red paint on canvas; they've rage to vent, they've fault lines and will rip a toga off a Caesar and stab a goat for the ether. It's as simple as that. Either, deep in the dark of your history, someone showed you that you could be used as a cash machine, as a popcorn popper, as a rocket launch, as a coin-slot jackpot spunker, or they didn't and you grew up unused and clueless. Either you got a clue and spiked lunch or you got zilch but no punch. And you never knew. It's exactly not anyone's fault. If it happened and you don't like older men that's just because you like them so much you won't let yourself have one. If you did everyone would see. Then they would know what happened a long time ago, with you and with that original him, whose eyes you've been avoiding for decades gone forgotten. That's why you date men smaller than you or not at all. Or maybe you've turned into a man. It isn't anyone's fault, it is just human and it is what happens. Or doesn't happen. That's that. Any questions? If you see a girl dressed to say No one tells me what to do, you know someone once told her what to do.