111 Gender and feminism poems

Lordship is the same activity Whether performed by lord or lady. Or a lord who happens to be a lady, All the source and all the faults. A woman steadfast in looking is a callot, And any woman in the wrong place Or outside of her proper location Is, by definition, a foolish woman. The harlot is talkative and wandering By the way, not bearing to be quiet, Not able to abide still at home, Now abroad, now in the streets, Now lying in wait near the corners, Her hair straying out of its wimple. The collar of her shift and robe Pressed one upon the other. She goes to the green to see to her geese, And trips to wrestling matches and taverns. The said Margery left her home In the parish of Bishopshill, And went to a house, the which The witness does not remember, And stayed there from noon Of that day until the darkness of night. But a whip made of raw hippopotamus Hide, trimmed like a corkscrew, And anon the creature was stabled In her wits as well as ever she was biforn, And prayed her husband as so soon As he came to her that she might have The keys to her buttery To take her meat and drink. He should never have my good will For to make my sister for to sell Candle and mustard in Framlyngham, Or fill her shopping list with crossbows, Almonds, sugar and cloth. The captainess, the vowess, Must use herself to work readily As other gentilwomen doon, In the innermost part of her house, In a great chamber far from the road. So love your windows as little as you can, For we be, either of us, weary of other.

It is pretty to be sweet and full of pardon like a flower perfuming the hands that shred it, but all piety leads to a single point: the same paradise where dead lab rats go. If you live small you’ll be resurrected with the small, a whole planet of minor gods simpering in the weeds. I don’t know anyone who would kill anyone for me. As boys my brother and I would play love, me drawing stars on the soles of his feet, him tickling my back. Then we’d play harm, him cataloging my sins to the air, me throwing him into furniture. The algorithms for living have always been delicious and hollow, like a beetle husk in a spider’s paw. Hafez said fear is the cheapest room in a house, that we ought to live in better conditions. I would happily trade all my knowing for plusher carpet, higher ceilings. Some nights I force my brain to dream me Persian by listening to old home movies as I fall asleep. In the mornings I open my eyes and spoil the séance. Am I forfeiting my mystique? All bodies become sicker bodies. This is a kind of object permanence, a curse bent around our scalps resembling grace only at the tattered edges. It’s so unsettling to feel anything but good. I wish I was only as cruel as the first time I noticed I was cruel, waving my tiny shadow over a pond to scare the copper minnows. Rockabye, now I lay me down, et cetera. The world is what accumulates — the mouth full of meat, the earth full of meat. My grandfather taught his parrot the ninety-nine holy names of God. Al-Muzil: The Humiliator. Al-Waarith: The Heir. Once, after my grandfather had been dead for a year, I woke from a dream (I was a sultan guzzling flies from a crystal boot) with his walking cane deep in my mouth. I kept sucking until I fell back asleep. There are only two bones in the throat, and that’s if you count the clavicle. This seems unsafe, overdelicate, like I ought to ask for a third. As if anyone living would offer. Corporeal friends are spiritual enemies

a girl     buried to the chest in red earth         her wrists bound beneath the soil with twine    a crowd gathers to father her                 its infinite hands      curved loosely around a stone                   small enough that no single throw   is named as cause of death           no single hand       accountable to the blood the girl   undaughter         unnamed unfaced         undone from the lineage her photographs               pulled already from bookshelf   from walls    her father among the hands             his pebble streaked with quartz      the first to rise to carve the air & arc     toward the girl the rootless tree          faceless & erect & perhaps the stones             twisting like fireworks                        the girl their nucleus                   rise    & rise for a time                  opposite of rain opposite of  hail & perhaps the silence a beat too long                       & another another                    & then a rustling of  wings                        above the girl a flock                   thick mixed cloud of avifauna          partridge & nightjar & golden sparrow                  & avocet & lapwing               & every other sort of  plover        & ibis & heron & gulls though the sea    is far & to the north & the minutes pass & the girl is untouched & each bird in its beak        tongues a stone • [what if  i will not die] [what          will govern me then] [how         to govern me then] [what bounty           then            on my name] [what stone       what rope              what man will be my officer]

It's a weary life, it is, she said: Doubly blank in a woman's lot: I wish and I wish I were a man: Or, better then any being, were not: Were nothing at all in all the world, Not a body and not a soul: Not so much as a grain of dust Or a drop of water from pole to pole. Still the world would wag on the same, Still the seasons go and come: Blossoms bloom as in days of old, Cherries ripen and wild bees hum. None would miss me in all the world, How much less would care or weep: I should be nothing, while all the rest Would wake and weary and fall asleep.

It seems I have always sat here watching men like you — who turn heads, whose gaze is always either a kiss or a slap or the whiplash of pure disregard. Why fret? All you’re doing is walking. You’re this year’s It, the one righteous integer of cool cruising down a great-lipped channel of hushed adoration, women turned girls again, brightening in spite of themselves. That brave, wilting smile — you don’t see it, do you? How she tells herself to move on; blinks until she can.

The streets ram themselves into coochies: sodden women with bamboo for backs & taffy for sex.Both sweet & sour. Star-cloaked women who don’t bend or break. Who catch Hondas right in they grills. Women with electric-pink hoofs that drag in the slow churn of the intersection. Clog the sidewalks. Metastasize along the corridor of Main Street. They have come to settle around the bend of this corner. Pose under carnival-like car lights at just nine-thirty. Note:It ain’t even prime time & they got all that good-good going on sale. The gully accordion, their arms sway in & out of tempo with traffic. They stagger in & out of the busted frame of Pop’s Grocery neon-blue open sign. Their smoke-thin throats glitter when they slip into the ringing center of the motel lobby. Strangled light bubbles & soaps along their jaws like melted crayons through the Plexiglas. A rush of shade strains against their nylon-clamped thighs, rides up their hips & dangles around their soft bellies as they saunter on in. They be harvested sounds for the replay later this evening. When they got to make it do what it do. When they got to cash they own checks. Trace dollar signs into ceilings — signals cut with their zirconia-encrusted toes. Giggle & grunt at all the right moments for the Best in Show.

A FORM, as any taper, fine ; A head like half-pint bason ; Where golden cords, and bands entwine, As rich as fleece of JASON. A pair of shoulders strong and wide, Like country clown enlisting ; Bare arms long dangling by the side, And shoes of ragged listing ! Cravats like towels, thick and broad, Long tippets made of bear-skin, Muffs that a RUSSIAN might applaud, And rouge to spoil a fair skin. Long petticoats to hide the feet, Silk hose with clocks of scarlet ; A load of perfume, sick'ning sweet, Bought of PARISIAN VARLET. A bush of hair, the brow to shade, Sometimes the eyes to cover ; A necklace that might be display'd By OTAHEITEAN lover ! A bowl of straw to deck the head, Like porringer unmeaning ; A bunch of POPPIES flaming red, With motly ribands streaming. Bare ears on either side the head, Like wood-wild savage SATYR ; Tinted with deep vermilion red, To shame the blush of nature. Red elbows, gauzy gloves, that add An icy cov'ring merely ; A wadded coat, the shape to pad, Like Dutch-women — or nearly. Such is CAPRICE ! but, lovely kind ! Oh ! let each mental feature Proclaim the labour of the mind , And leave your charms to NATURE.

December 26, 1974 Title IX of the 1972 Education Act is signed, providing for equal opportunity in athletics for girls as well as boys. The year was 1974 When Little Leaguers learned the score. President Ford took out his pen, And signed a law that said from then On women too would have the chance To wear the stripes and wear the pants. Now what you hear, as flags unfurl, Is "Atta boy!" and "Atta girl!"

Nothing so true as what you once let fall, "Most Women have no Characters at all." Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair. How many pictures of one nymph we view, All how unlike each other, all how true! Arcadia's Countess, here, in ermin'd pride, Is, there, Pastora by a fountain side. Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, And there, a naked Leda with a Swan. Let then the Fair one beautifully cry, In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye, Or dress'd in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, With simp'ring angels, palms, and harps divine; Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grows romantic, I must paint it. Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air; Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. Rufa, whose eye quick-glancing o'er the park, Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark, Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke, As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock; Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task, With Sappho fragrant at an ev'ning Masque: So morning insects that in muck begun, Shine, buzz, and flyblow in the setting sun. How soft is Silia! fearful to offend; The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend: To her, Calista prov'd her conduct nice, And good Simplicius asks of her advice. Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink, But spare your censure; Silia does not drink. All eyes may see from what the change arose, All eyes may see—a pimple on her nose. Papillia, wedded to her doating spark, Sighs for the shades—"How charming is a park!" A park is purchas'd, but the fair he sees All bath'd in tears—"Oh, odious, odious trees!" Ladies, like variegated tulips, show, 'Tis to their changes that their charms they owe; Their happy spots the nice admirer take, Fine by defect, and delicately weak. 'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd, Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm'd; Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes, Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad; Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create, As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate. Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash, would hardly stew a child; Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's pray'r, And paid a tradesman once to make him stare, Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim, And made a widow happy, for a whim. Why then declare good nature is her scorn, When 'tis by that alone she can be borne? Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name? A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres. Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns; And atheism and religion take their turns; A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart. See Sin in State, majestically drunk; Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk; Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride. What then? let blood and body bear the fault, Her head's untouch'd, that noble seat of thought: Such this day's doctrine—in another fit She sins with poets through pure love of wit. What has not fir'd her bosom or her brain? Caesar and Tallboy, Charles and Charlema'ne. As Helluo, late dictator of the feast, The nose of hautgout, and the tip of taste, Critiqu'd your wine, and analys'd your meat, Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat; So Philomede, lect'ring all mankind On the soft passion, and the taste refin'd, Th' address, the delicacy—stoops at once, And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce. Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray, To Toast our wants and wishes, is her way; Nor asks of God, but of her stars to give The mighty blessing, "while we live, to live." Then all for death, that opiate of the soul! Lucretia's dagger, Rosamonda's bowl. Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please; With too much spirit to be e'er at ease; With too much quickness ever to be taught; With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live. Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's mate, No ass so meek, no ass so obstinate: Or her, that owns her faults, but never mends, Because she's honest, and the best of friends: Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, For ever in a passion, or a prayer: Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace) Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no such place!" Or who in sweet vicissitude appears Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears, The daily anodyne, and nightly draught, To kill those foes to fair ones, time and thought. Woman and fool are two hard things to hit, For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. But what are these to great Atossa's mind? Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind! Who, with herself, or others, from her birth Finds all her life one warfare upon earth: Shines, in exposing knaves, and painting fools, Yet is, whate'er she hates and ridicules. No thought advances, but her eddy brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again. Full sixty years the world has been her trade, The wisest fool much time has ever made. From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratified except her rage. So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure miss'd her, and the scandal hit. Who breaks with her,-provokes revenge from Hell, But he's a bolder man who dares be well. Her every turn with violence pursu'd, Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude. To that each passion turns, or soon or late; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: Superiors? death! and equals? what a curse! But an inferior not dependant? worse. Offend her, and she knows not to forgive; Oblige her, and she'll hate you while you live: But die, and she'll adore you—Then the Bust And Temple rise—then fall again to dust. Last night, her Lord was all that's good and great; A knave this morning, and his will a cheat. Strange! by the means defeated of the ends, By spirit robb'd of pow'r, by warmth of friends, By wealth of follow'rs! without one distress Sick of herself through very selfishness! Atossa, curs'd with ev'ry granted pray'r, Childless with all her children, wants an heir. To heirs unknown descends th' unguarded store, Or wanders, heav'n-directed, to the poor. Pictures like these, dear Madam, to design, Asks no firm hand, and no unerring line; Some wand'ring touch or some reflected light, Some flying stroke alone can hit 'em right: For how should equal colours do the knack? Chameleons who can paint in white and black? "Yet Chloe sure was form'd without a spot"— Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot. "With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?"—She wants a heart. She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmov'd, As never yet to love, or to be lov'd. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Forbid it heav'n, a favour or a debt She e'er should cancel—but she may forget. Safe is your secret still in Chloe's ear; But none of Chloe's shall you ever hear. Of all her dears she never slander'd one, But cares not if a thousand are undone. Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead? She bids her footman put it in her head. Chloe is prudent—would you too be wise? Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. One certain portrait may (I grant) be seen, Which Heav'n has varnish'd out, and made a Queen : The same for ever! and describ'd by all With truth and goodness, as with crown and ball. Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. 'Tis well—but, artists! who can paint or write, To draw the naked is your true delight. That robe of quality so struts and swells, None see what parts of nature it conceals. Th' exactest traits of body or of mind, We owe to models of an humble kind. If Queensbury to strip there's no compelling, 'Tis from a handmaid we must take a Helen. From peer or bishop 'tis no easy thing To draw the man who loves his God, or King: Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail) From honest Mah'met, or plain Parson Hale. But grant, in public men sometimes are shown, A woman's seen in private life alone: Our bolder talents in full light display'd; Your virtues open fairest in the shade. Bred to disguise, in public 'tis you hide; There, none distinguish twixt your shame or pride, Weakness or delicacy; all so nice, That each may seem a virtue, or a vice. In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind; Those, only fix'd, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway. That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught Is still to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Experience, this; by man's oppression curs'd, They seek the second not to lose the first. Men, some to bus'ness, some to pleasure take; But ev'ry woman is at heart a rake: Men, some to quiet, some to public strife; But ev'ry Lady would be queen for life. Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens! Pow'r all their end, but beauty all the means. In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage, As leaves them scarce a subject in their age: For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam; No thought of peace or happiness at home. But wisdom's triumph is well-tim'd retreat, As hard a science to the fair as great! Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown, Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone, Worn out in public, weary ev'ry eye, Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die. Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue, Still out of reach, yet never out of view; Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, To covet flying, and regret when lost: At last, to follies youth could scarce defend, It grows their age's prudence to pretend; Asham'd to own they gave delight before, Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more: As hags hold sabbaths, less for joy than spite, So these their merry, miserable night; Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, And haunt the places where their honour died. See how the world its veterans rewards! A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end, Young without lovers, old without a friend, A fop their passion, but their prize a sot, Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot! Ah, Friend! to dazzle let the vain design, To raise the thought and touch the heart, be thine! That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring, Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing: So when the sun's broad beam has tir'd the sight, All mild ascends the moon's more sober light, Serene in virgin modesty she shines, And unobserv'd the glaring orb declines. Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray Can make tomorrow cheerful as today; She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; She, who ne'er answers till a husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, Yet has her humour most, when she obeys; Let fops or fortune fly which way they will; Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille; Spleen, vapours, or smallpox, above them all, And mistress of herself, though China fall. And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, Woman's at best a contradiction still. Heav'n, when it strives to polish all it can Its last best work, but forms a softer man; Picks from each sex, to make the fav'rite blest, Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest: Blends, in exception to all gen'ral rules, Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, Courage with softness, modesty with pride, Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new; Shakes all together, and produces—You. Be this a woman's fame: with this unblest, Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. This Phoebus promis'd (I forget the year) When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere; Ascendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care, Averted half your parents' simple pray'r, And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf Which buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself. The gen'rous God, who wit and gold refines, And ripens spirits as he ripens mines, Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it, To you gave sense, good humour, and a poet.

Quasi-scientific? Maybe. But think of beautician , a word that assumes loveliness is brought off by technology. She prefers cosmetologist — how it seems to have something to do with the stars. She believes she can see the future when she stares face-down at the globe of a stranger's scalp and adjusts the tilt of his head. At the Academy, she is learning about the tendencies of things to remain where they fall. She knows some tricks— spritz and gel, the so-called permanent wave. She wonders where they come from, this galaxy of dowdy customers. Some days her precision cuts hang like torn drapes on a dirty window. I see you've tried an asymmetrical look , her instructor might say, snipping corrections. At the Academy, asymmetrical is spelled with a D. She came here to verify what she always suspected: that straight hair must be curled, curly hair straightened, long hair cut, short hair extended. That what comes to us by fate is wrong.