Female Poets

Among Other Thoughts on Our Wedding Anniversary

Judith Viorst
American
b. 1931

 

Over the years,
When the sink overflowed
Or the car ran out of gas
Or the lady who comes every Tuesday to clean didn’t come
Or I felt pudgy
Or misunderstood
Or inferior to Marilyn Kaufman who is not only a pediatric surgeon but also a very fine person as well as beautiful
Or I fell in the creek and got soaked on our first family camping trip
Or mosquitoes ate me alive on our first family camping trip
Or I bruised my entire left side on our first family camping trip
Or I walked through a patch of what later turned out to be plenty of poison ivy on what later turned out to be our last family camping trip
Or my sweater shrank in the wash
Or I stepped on my glasses
Or the keys that I swear on my children’s head I put on the top of the dresser weren’t there
Or I felt depressed
Or unfulfilled
Or inferior to Ellen Jane Garver who not only teaches constitutional law but is also a wit plus sexually insatiable
Or they lost our luggage
Or our reservations
Or two of the engines
Or the rinse that was going to give my hair some subtle copper highlights turned it purple
Or my mother-in-law got insulted at something I said
Or my stomach got upset at something I ate
Or I backed into a truck that I swear when I looked in my rear-view mirror wasn’t parked there
Or I suffered from some other blow of fate,
It’s always been so nice to have my husband by my side so I could
Blame him.

In the Garden

Fitnat Hanim
Turkish
1725 – 1780

 

In the garden, the roses were all bewildered as they watched your cheek
Jealous of your lovelocks the hyacinths were all distraught

We deserved one attractive glance, but alas, what to do
Our bosom is constantly the target of eyelash-arrows

Oh you with rosebud lip, I imagined your crimson cheek
And it became the envy of every rose in the dwelling of my memory

You give savor to the party, oh lovely mine of salt,
For the cup of wine is but a salt-bowl reflecting your ruby lip

Oh Fitnat, when that sweet mouth begins to speak alluringly,
Blessed by abundant speech the world all becomes a field of sugarcane

Love Song for Vietnam

Caitlin Maude
Irish
1941 – 1982

 

They said we had no shame
celebrating our love
with this ruin all around us.

the hawk gyring in the air
awaiting the smell of death.

they said these were our own people
this, the funeral of our people.
that we should at least be solemn,
even if we were not sorrowful.

but we,
we’re much like the weather,
especially the sun.
we don’t pay too much heed
to the goings-on, lately.

each thing rots with the sun’s heat
once it’s dead

and it wasn’t we who killed them
but yourselves.

we might’ve stayed on the slaughter-field
but the sorrowful faces of the soldiers
started us laughing
and we took a soft place by the river.

The Hunt

O.V. Usha
Indian
b. 1948

 

It burns
White hot are these sands;
Coils brand the body,
In crushing embrace.
Who has hurled me alive
On these burning sands?
With growing clarity
I see the strangeness of it all
And the approach of a beast of fierce resolve.

Large, wrought of fire,
With a slouch and a smothered roar,
It runs a bright flame tongue
Slowly over its ember lips.
In its gaze,
Poised for a throw
Is a thunderbolt
That would cleave my soul!

Now the beast pauses
Not close and not far!
Cry for help?
Stilled is my voice
And there is no one
Within the throw of human voice.
Has the beast put
A slow burning step forward?
Have those fearsome teeth
Splashed white liquid fire?
Yes it draws close,
Lets out a roar;
Puts out its flaming tongue
and licks those ember lips.
It bends over me.

Mercy?
There is no patch of cloud
In the spread of its wild fiery eyes
The skies catch fire
The world burns!
The beast scoops out my heart and devours
And now in one sweep
It catches
The little bird, encaged in my frame
And it growls and rolls
In awesome play.

It Comes in Every Storm

In honor of Carnival Monday, we present the work of one of modern Argentina’s most celebrated poets.

Olga Orozco
Argentine
1920 – 1999

 

And don’t you feel also, perhaps, a stormy sorrow on the skin of time,
like a scar that opens again
there where the sky was uprooted?
And don’t you feel sometimes how that night gathers its tatters into an ominous bird,
that there’s a beating of wings against the roof
like a clash among immense spring leaves struggling
or of hands clapping to summon you to death?
And don’t you feel afterwards someone exiled is crying,
that there’s an ember of a fallen angel on the threshold,
brought suddenly like a beggar by an alien gust of wind?
And don’t you feel, like me, that a house rolling toward the abyss
runs over you with a crash of crockery shattered by lightning,
with two empty shells embracing each other for an endless journey,
with a screech of axles suddenly fractured like love’s broken promises?
And don’t you feel then your bed sinking like the nave of a cathedral crushed by the fall of heaven,
and that a thick, heavy water runs over your face till the final judgment?

Again it’s the slime.
Again your heart thrown into the depth of the pool,
prisoner once more among the waves closing a dream.

Lie down as I do in this miserable eternity of one day.
It’s useless to howl.
From these waters the beasts of oblivion don’t drink.

The Dog and the Sheep

Marie de France
French
c. 1160 – c. 1215

 

This tale is of a dog, who was
A liar, cheat and treacherous,
Who sued a sheep. He had her led
Before the judge; as plaintiff, said
That he must have the loaf of bread
He’d lent to her, that she still had.
The sheep denied the whole affair;
He had not lent a loaf to her!
The judge said: “Dog, can you produce
Witnesses that the Court can use?”
The dog said that he could, all right,
Two; one the wolf and one the kite.
These witnesses were led forth, both,
And both affirmed by solemn oath
That all the dog had said was true.
You know why they agreed, don’t you?
They hoped to get some portion, if
The sheep, found guilty, lost her life.
The judge, proceeding in the trial,
Summoned the sheep; why the denial
He asked her, that she had the bread
The dog had lent her, as he said.
Why lie? This item was so small!
Return it; or worse would befall!
The wretched sheep, who had no bread,
Was forced to sell her wool instead.
Winter and cold soon had her dead.
The dog came; took some wool she’d shed,
The kite came flying for his share,
And then the wolf. They took from her
All of her flesh; the seized on it,
For they had long been starved for meat.
No vestive of her life was left;
And, too, her master was bereft.

With this example we can state
What many false folk demonstrate.
With lies and tricks of every sort
They drag the poor folk into court;
They get false witnesses to lie,
They bribe with poor folks’ prosperity.
They don’t care how the wretched die;
They only want their slice of pie.

Now I Know

Lourdes Casal
Cuban
1938 – 1981

 

Now I know
that distance is three-dimensional.
It’s not true that the space between you and me
can be measured in metres and inches,
as if the streets might cross each other freely,
as if it were easy to hold out your hand.

This is a solid, robust distance,
and the absence is total,
complete;
in spite of the illusory possibility
of the telephone
it is thick, and long, and wide.

slaveships

We present this work in honor of the 10th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Lucille Clifton
American
1936 – 2010

 

loaded like spoons
into the belly of Jesus
where we lay for weeks for months
in the sweat and stink
of our own breathing
Jesus
why do you not protect us
chained to the heart of the Angel
where the prayers we never tell
and hot and red
as our bloody ankles
Jesus
Angel
can these be men
who vomit us out from ships
called Jesus Angel Grace of God
onto a heathen country
Jesus
Angel
ever again
can this tongue speak
can these bones walk
Grace Of God
can this sin live