So far, all over the world, women have survived it. Perhaps it was that our grandmothers were stoic or, that back then, they weren’t entitled to complain, still they reached old age wilting bodies but strong souls. Now, instead, dissertations are written on the subject. As early as thirty agony sets in, Foretelling the catastrophe.
A body is much more than the sum of its hormones. Menopausal or not a woman remains a woman, beyond the production of secretions or eggs. To miss a period does not imply the loss of syntax or coherence; it shouldn’t lead to hiding as a snail in a shell, nor provoke endless brooding. If depression sets in it won’t be a new occurrence, each menstrual cycle has come to us with tears and its load of irrational anger. There is no reason, then, to feel devalued: Get rid of tampons and sanitary napkins! Use them to light a bonfire in your garden! Be naked Dance the ritual of aging And survive Like so many Before you.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 235th birthday.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
We present this work in honor of the 210th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Now through the outward court swift speeds the knight ; Within the second from his steed descends; Along the third his pace majestic bends: Where’er he enters, dazzled by his sight, The guards make way, — his gait, his dress, his air, A nuptial guest of highest rank declare. Now he advances towards an ebon gate, Where with drawn swords twelve Moors gigantic wait, And piecemeal hack the wretch who steps unbidden there. But the bold gesture and imperial mien Of Huon, as he opes the lofty door, Drive back the swords that crossed his path before, And at his entrance flamed with lightning sheen. At once, with rushing noise, the valves unfold: High throbs the bosom of our hero bold, When, locked behind him, harsh the portals bray : Through gardens decked with columns leads the way, Where towered a gate incased with plates of massy gold. There a large forecourt held a various race Of slaves, a hapless race, sad harem slaves, Who die of thirst ‘mid joy ‘s o’erflowing waves ! And when a man, whom emir honors grace, Swells in his state before their hollow eye, Breathless they bend, with looks that seem to die, Beneath the weight of servitude oppressed ; Bow down, with folded arms across the breast, Nor dare look up to mark the pomp that glitters by.
Oh, women of this land! There is no life, nothing. This is nothing but failure and grief. Death for us is hundred times Better than such a life. This life is nothing But a symbol of slavery. Beware, women of this land! Be friends to one another! Dissolve your links with men! Why do you take on the name of Your husband, though you have A name of your own?
O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live. True love is life’s true end, My heart can comprehend, And therefore I intend My love unceasingly to give. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love lends me confidence, Grants conscience calmer sense, Builds patient competence, Forms faith and hope restorative; O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love is my victory, Honor, gleaming glory; Fashions me his story Of pleasure’s daily narrative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love has such lovely grace That when I see his face I find a tranquil place For fervent years contemplative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love offers deep content: With his care provident And arm omnipotent, I need no aid alternative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love draws me lovingly, Attracts with gloom, then glee, Charms me with misery. Alas! His changes I misgive. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love spreads his wings to fly, Calls me to gratify Him by pursuit; I sigh, And hurry toward the fugitive. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Love, to secure my heart, Falls in my arms by art, And then away will dart In dalliance provocative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
My joy without a peer Inspires such songful cheer, I cry to every ear, “Love love, or lapse insensitive!” O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
Shepherdesses gracious, For Love be amorous, Thereby more rapturous Than queens of high prerogative. O shepherdess, my friend, On love alone I live.
We present this work in honor of the 15th anniversary of the poet’s death.
No one comes by way of the doughy track through straggly tea tree bush and gorse, past the hidden spring and bitter cress.
Under the chill moon’s light no one cares to look upon the drunken fence-posts and the gate white with moss.
No one except the wind saw the old place maker her final curtsy to the sky and earth:
and in no protesting sense did iron and barbed wire ease to the rust’s invasion nor twang more tautly to the wind’s slap and scream.
On the cream lorry or morning paper van no one comes, for no one will ever leave the golden city on the fussy train; and there will be no more waiting on the hill beside the quiet tree where the old place falters because no one comes anymore no one.