Female Poets

Final Barrenness

Rana al-Tonsi
Egyptian
b. 1981

 

Sometimes
The sky doesn’t draw its drapes
As the first long, desolate night descends
We are third-class patients
Or, the less vulnerable
We are the victims of wisdom
The moment the window opens
And the air pushes its way through
Without appropriate exhalation
We know now
What the years have done to us
The bed that has been vacant for years
Of all the dead bodies and martyrs
Must finally be left barren
So it may stand tall
And watch its soul infinitely fall
Over strange arms.
All I smell
Is the stench of an iron
Abandoned on run down clothes
Until they caught fire
And a wet circle
And white teeth
Undoubtedly unsmiling
And dreams that die
When there are no longer balconies to leave from
And I have been writing poems for a while
I don’t exactly know
If this is my pain, or theirs.

Translation by Sara Elkamel

Jolademi

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 50th birthday.

Lola Shoneyin
Nigerian
b. 1974

 

He creeps into my bedroom
when the night is most alive.
Unafraid, he feels for the walls
that will bring him to my door.
It has been four years since I spat him
from a lip in my womb.
Yet every night, he crawls back in.

The first light pries through the curtains.
He kisses sleep from my eyes
and pinches my lips to seize my first words;
he wants them for himself.
I breathe in the smell of milk
that has never left his forehead.
God, if I could birth this boy again,
I would.

I watch him at breakfast.
His face is crushed like an eggshell.
For him, food is slow, fist-under-chin torture.
Mother, let this plate pass over me, he pleads.
At once, he attacks the sweet jar.
He’s a boy soldier.
His face is ever smeared
with chocolate paint.

I watch him from my window.
Bent over like a rainbow,
he scours the garden for things
his fingers are drawn to.
He seeks me bearing gifts:
hollow beetles, strange stones, flattened cans.
I push them back into his metallic hands.

At night, he pulls me down
on my knees and moistens my lips
with kisses.
Good Night, Mum, he says
and walks away
from me.
My insides flap about like a wet loincloth.
Come morning, come soon.

To Invite All Creatures to Praise God

Anne de Marquets
French
c. 1533 – 1588

 

O sky and earth, and you, furious seas,
O fields and meadows adorned with blooms and trees,
In short, all things in this great universe,
Praise him, the one whom I love—

He who defeated inglorious Death,
Destroyed sin, and toppled Satan,
Who died through so many martyrs,
To grant me most fortunate redemption.

O such a singular and perfect reward
From this great God who fashioned me so well,
And who will make me as I wish it!

Would I not be incredibly ungrateful,
If I didn’t treasure him above all others—
Such a lover, a master, and father?

Translation by Annick MacAskill

Vanishing Spring

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

Elisabeth Langgässer
German
1899 – 1950

 

Already now the white is spent
of field chickweed, and the froth
that shaped the violet larva tent
decays around the silent moth.
Dandelion snuffed its lamp,
corydalis seeded there,
nettle walked the hillside ramp,
swallow flights trace the air:
—Pale as on silk they write—
laud the ideal and take flight!
Suffer renewal and hurry
from the mere semblance to sense.
Fear not the busy worry
of cricket rasp. I abide
still over the grave of Osiris
but you are already hence
when with the swords of iris
spring’s passing pierces your side.
Ours the fragile silk weave
of earthly span. Take your leave!

Translation by Charlotte Melin

With Other Eyes

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 85th birthday.

Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke
Greek
1939 – 2020

 

The time came to see my life
with other eyes like a memory
left behind while searching for eternal emptiness,
frantic not to miss a sign I might interpret
from my dreams. Now I see reality
naked, without imaginary or real faces,
without love, life’s spring, youth,
without the enthusiasm for every little creative act.
If I take down all the decorations
from the old reality
will I get closer to the truth?
But how to conceive of truth
if it isn’t full of living air?
No answer there. I sink into the night
and try again.

Translation by Karen Van Dyck

Kinsfolk

We present this work in honor of the Canadian holiday, Family Day.

Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald
Canadian
1864 – 1922

 

Oh, fame may heap its measure,
  And hope its blossoms strew,
And proud ambition call us,
  And honour urge us through—
But kinsfolk, kinsfolk,
  My heart is all for you.

When stately halls are ringing
  With mirth and light and song,
Among the mazy dances
  The forms familiar throng,
And speak above the viols
  The voices loved so long.

When wandering far I visit
  Grey tower and haunted stream,
Beyond the storied casements
  Those earliest hearth-fires gleam,
And dear Canadian forests
  Grow dark around my dream.

No strange and lovely countries
  Men venture far to view,
No power and gifts and glory
  Are worth one heart-beat true;
Kinsfolk, kinsfolk,
  My heart is all for you!

Becoming

Titilope Sonuga
Nigerian
b. 1985

 

When the world unravels before you
and even your dreams are crumbling stones
when everything you dare to touch
is set on fire
and all around you is ash and smoke
remember this

rock bottom
is a perfect place for rebuilding
Remember that you are your mother’s daughter
your grandmothers answered prayers
a whole bloodline of women who bend
in response to raging winds
there is nothing broken here
nothing damaged or discarded
each scar is a badge of honor
every misstep is a victory dance
waiting to happen

You are a woman becoming
learning the complicated language
of forgiveness
the intricate lessons of the universe

Your heart is just a muscle
it needs exercise
and you were born for this sort of heavy lifting
you were born one part saint
one part warrior woman

Loving yourself without shame
is the most important thing
you will ever have to fight for

Congratulations

We present this work in honor of National Foundation Day.

Yumi Fuzuki
Japanese
b. 1991

 

Hollow night,
Earth holds its breath hushed
and watches me blossom.
With roots so straight,
The flowers will not cease to bloom.
In a state of ignorance as to the why of arrival,
they bid you welcome.
Hearts singing out to the springtime.

Could the news have been true?
That I’d become colorful.
That on sturdy heels
I’d set out to walk
This fragrant terrain of blankness.
Was it true to the core?

In this wind-vanished now,
No one’s seen the face of spring unpainted.
As we stand erect, through our eyes
the pale flow of petals.
Applauding hands, I wrench them open,
To blow your name inside.
Your birth,
Your awakening—cause for celebration.

Let us love what enters our vision,
With such wicked earnestness
I will dye you the color of spring—
Congratulations.
Sunrise dances lovely into my throat.