As I mentioned in the previous post, I was really excited to have
the opportunity to work on a creative project for my English M107A, Women's
Literature course. This is not the entire assignment because some of the poems
were already included in posts prior to this one, but here are a few that were
inspired directly from the texts we studied in class. What I wanted to do was
adapt the format and style of writing from the authors we discussed, but still
give each poem my voice and my story. So in order to show you the
comparisons and contrasts, I've included the original works we went over in
class as well as my renditions. The title is adopted from my poem
"Society" mentioned in my last blog post, "When it rains, it
pours." Enjoy!
In Celebration of My Uterus
By Anne Sexton
Everyone
in me is a bird.
I
am beating all my wings.
They
wanted to cut you out
but
they will not.
They
said you were immeasurably empty
but
you are not.
They
said you were sick unto dying
but
they were wrong.
You
are singing like a school girl.
You
are not torn.
Sweet
weight,
in
celebration of the woman I am
and
of the soul of the woman I am
and
of the central creature and its delight
I
sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello,
spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten,
cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello
to the soil of the fields.
Welcome,
roots.
Each
cell has a life.
There
is enough here to please a nation.
It
is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any
person, any commonwealth would say of it,
“It
is good this year that we may plant again
and
think forward to a harvest.
A
blight had been forecast and has been cast out.”
Many
women are singing together of this:
one
is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one
is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one
is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one
is at the toll gate collecting,
one
is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one
is straddling a cello in Russia,
one
is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one
is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one
is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one
is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one
is wiping the ass of her child,
one
is staring out the window of a train
in
the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere
and some are everywhere and all
seem
to be singing, although some can not
sing
a note.
Sweet
weight,
in
celebration of the woman I am
let
me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let
me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let
me carry bowls for the offering
(if
that is my part).
Let
me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let
me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let
me suck on the stems of flowers
(if
that is my part).
Let
me make certain tribal figures
(if
that is my part).
For
this thing the body needs
let
me sing
for
the supper,
for
the kissing,
for
the correct
yes.
In Celebration of My Mind
(My rendition)
Everything
in me is a word
and I
am singing loud.
They
wanted to lobotomize you,
magnetize
you,
shock
you with 450 volts,
but
they will not.
They
said that you’d turn out impaired,
but
you are not.
They
said that you were schizo,
but
they were wrong.
You
are as sharp as a machete
You
are not defective.
Sweet
waves and impulses,
in
celebration of the intellect I am
and of
the human I am
and of
the spirit and heart I have
I sing
for you. I dare to be different.
Hello
imagination. Hello unseen world.
Information
center that does compute
Hello
to the formation of dreams.
Welcome
thoughts and consciousness.
Each
neuron has a mission.
There
is enough to rule the world.
It is
enough to maintain sanity
and
teach logic and reason
to a
school of children knee deep in fantasy and pretense
Any
educator, any professor would say of it
“It is
essential that we establish discipline
and
follow rules and structure, but question what may seem unfair.”
Many
others are realizing this:
one is
in a hospital having an epiphany,
one is
at the doctor learning her diagnosis,
one is
at a conference panel sharing her story with listeners,
one is
at the therapist regaining strength from her struggles,
one is
in a jail cell, receiving help for the first time
one is
at home playing with her children
one is
talking to herself to make sense of it all
one is
in the middle of going off on a fellow employee
one is
on the phone with the operator of a hotline
one is
throwing the razor blades away
one is
walking away from the bar
one is
taking her medication before bed while writing this account
in the
middle of LA and one is
anywhere
and some are everywhere and all
seem
to be rationalizing, although they
were
called insane.
Sweet
waves and impulses,
in
celebration of the intellect I am
let me
write a thousand poems
let me
remember times good and bad
let me
put up banners for the festival
(if
that is my part).
Let me
study the atmosphere
let me
examine the tissues of our skin
let me
smell the fragrance of flowers
(if
that is my part).
Let me
decorate the altar
(if
that is my part).
For
this thing the body needs
let me
sing
for
the evening,
for
the kissing,
for
the capable
yes.
La Migra
By Pat Mora
I
Let's
play La Migra
I'll
be the Border Patrol.
You be
the Mexican maid.
I get
the badge and sunglasses.
You
can hide and run,
but
you can't get away
because
I have a jeep.
I can
take you wherever
I
want, but don't ask
questions
because
I
don't speak Spanish.
I can
touch you wherever
I want
but don't complain
too
much because I've got
boots
and kick--if I have to,
and I
have handcuffs.
Oh,
and a gun.
Get
ready, get set, run.
II
Let's
play La Migra
You be
the Border Patrol.
I'll
be the Mexican woman.
Your
jeep has a flat,
and
you have been spotted
by the
sun.
All
you have is heavy: hat,
glasses,
badge, shoes, gun.
I know
this desert,
where
to rest,
where
to drink.
Oh, I
am not alone.
You
hear us singing
and
laughing with the wind,
Agua
dulce brota aqui,
aqui,
aqui, but since you
can't
speak Spanish,
you do
not understand.
Get
ready.
Abusi sui minori
(My rendition)
I
Let’s
play abusi sui minori
I’ll
be the aggressive parent
You
be the innocent child.
I
have many years on you,
am
fully grown
and
have bigger hands and longer arms
with
more strength and muscle than you do
You
can hide and run
but
you can’t get away.
You
cannot question my authority
I
can punish you however I want
because
you are still a minor
and
have no rights under my custody.
I
can hit you wherever I want
but
don’t scream or cry too much
because
I have the articulation
to
change the story
when
the cops and social workers come.
Get
ready, get set, run.
II
Let’s
play abusi sui minori
You
be the aggressive parent.
I’ll
be the innocent child.
You
have been reported to the police,
are
ragged, set in your ways, and only getting older.
I
am youthful, full of energy, and resilient.
You
are unaware of your inner demons
I
am not.
You
do not know your own strength
I
do.
You
can’t see me,
I
am no longer physically in your presence
But
you can still hear me taunting you
non
mi può prendere
Get
ready.
The Window of the Woman Burning
by Marge Piercy
Woman
dancing with hair
on
fire, woman writhing in the
cone
of orange snakes, flowering
into
crackling lithe vines:
Woman
you
are not the bound witch
at
the stake, whose broiled alive
agonized
screams
thrust
from charred flesh
darkened
Europe in the nine millions.
Woman
you
are not the madonna impaled
whose
sacrifice of self leaves her
empty
and mad as wind,
or
whore crucified
studded
with nails.
Woman
you
are the demon of a fountain of energy
rushing
up from the coal hard
memories
in the ancient spine,
flickering
lights from the furnace in the solar
plexus,
lush scents from the reptilian brain,
river
that winds up the hypothalamus
with
its fibroids of pleasure and pain
twisted
and braided like rope,
firing
the lanterns of the forebrain
till
they glow blood red.
You
are the fire sprite
that
charges leaping thighs,
that
whips the supple back on its arc
as
deer leap through the ankles:
dance
of a woman strong
in
beauty that crouches
inside
like a cougar in the belly
not
in the eyes of others measuring.
You
are the icon of woman sexual
in
herself like a great forest tree
in
flower, liriodendron bearing sweet tulips,
cups
of joy and drunkenness.
You
drink strength from your dark fierce roots
and
you hang at the sun's own fiery breast
and
with the green cities of your boughs
you
shelter and celebrate
woman,
with the cauldrons of your energies
burning
red, burning green.
Window into a Prisoner of the Mind
(My rendition)
Patient
suffering in your
lonesome,
patient crouching up against the
padded
cell, twitching
with
tremors caused by the chemicals
isolated
from all of society;
ostracized
Patient
a
slave to your own thoughts and desires
that
no one else understands
mind
running rampant
non-stop
with
wicked voices eating away at your brain
Patient
you
are not mad
you
are not truly alone
you
will not rot away in quarantine.
Patient,
there
are others like you
there
is hope
though
they are suffering too
they
will be revived
and
not only survive,
but
thrive.
You
are a savant
you
are brilliant
though
your head is crowded with
heaps
of what’s nonsensical
flashbacks
that play on repeat
and
rewind over and over
coercing
you to ruminate
ever
distant torment
causing
you to remember at the same time you forget
forcing
you to assemble
and
constantly reset
that
possibility that you might be a hero
but
you just haven’t grasped it yet.
You
are the revolution
fitted
into the compartments of a single vessel
stirring
with velocity
within
the constraints of your specimen.
You
will come out of your haze
to
see better days
become
as free as a butterfly
to
graze the sky
and
fly away.
There’s a lot more deep stuff
about to come in the future posts, so stay tuned.
And
as always, Thanks for reading. =)
