Wednesday poetry break

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

— Maya Angelou

Wednesday poetry break

Today's poem is by Miller Williams, a contemporary poet from Arkansas. Today's poet also comes with a fun fact: he's the father of one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Lucinda Williams.

If Ever There Was One

She could tell he loved her. He wanted her there
sitting in the front pew when he preached.
He liked to watch her putting up her hair
and ate whatever she cooked and never broached

the subject of the years before they met.
He was thoughtful always. He let her say
whether or not they did anything in bed
and tried to learn the games she tried to play.

She could tell how deep his feeling ran.
He liked to say her name and bought her stuff
for no good reason. He was a gentle man.
How few there are she knew well enough.

He sometimes reached to flick away a speck
of something on her clothes and didn’t drum
his fingers on the table when she spoke.
What would he do if he knew she had a dream

sometimes, slipping out of her nightgown—
if ever God forbid he really knew her—
to slip once out of the house and across town
and find someone to talk dirty to her.

— Miller Williams

Wednesday Poetry Break: Patriot Edition

Back in September, I posted this poem. At that time, it was a message to the candidates. Today I post this poem as a message to my fellow Americans. You see I, and other bloggers (such as Sara at Suburban Lesbian Housewife) have been told by some readers and friends that we're not working for America's best interest when we insist on equal marriage rights. We're told that there are other, more pressing issues, and that this issue only affects a small percentage of Americans.

Well, I fight for peace and justice. I agitate to end the War in Iraq and Afghanistan. I advocate for environmental responsibility. I've been on the front lines of the education crisis in this country. They're all important issues. It's not a matter of ignoring one for another. They all call out for our attention.

So to those who question why we fight for marriage equality in this country, I say:

I, Too

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed —
I, too, am America.

— Langston Hughes

Wednesday poetry break: DIY edition

A little over a week ago a simple repair job -- $5.00 replacement part from Homo Depot -- became a complete bathroom renovation. I'm a little stressed. Of course we're doing it all ourselves. (Well, with major help from big brother!) It's a learning opportunity. It's going to be rewarding when it's all done. And besides, says my friend Ingrid, "You thrive in chaos." Um ..... not!

So here's a little limerick (a much under appreciated style, if you ask me) in honor of our bathroom.

How awkward when playing with glue

How awkward when playing with glue
To suddenly find out that you
Have stuck nice and tight
Your left hand to your right
In a permanent how-do-you-do!

— Constance Levy

Wednesday poetry break

I think we'll stay with the "animal" theme today. Here's a short little poem by Dorothy Parker, in which, as always, she has several layers to enjoy .....

Ornithology For Beginners

The bird that feeds from off my palm
Is sleek, affectionate, and calm,
But double, to me, is worth the thrush
A-flickering in the elder-bush.

— Dorothy Parker

Wednesday poetry break

I stumbled across a new site this morning, Language is a Virus. And there I found an old favorite poem, which somehow seems most appropriate today. Enjoy!

The Phoenix Again

On the ashes of this nest
Love wove with deathly fire
The phoenix takes its rest
Forgetting all desire.

After the flame, a pause,
After the pain, rebirth.
Obeying nature's laws
The phoenix goes to earth.

You cannot call it old
You cannot call it young.
No phoenix can be told,
This is the end of the song.

It struggles now alone
Against death and self-doubt,
But underneath the bone
The wings are pushing out.

And one cold starry night
Whatever your belief
The phoenix will take flight
Over the seas of grief

To sing her thrilling song
To stars and waves and sky
For neither old nor young
The phoenix does not die.

— May Sarton

Wednesday poetry break

In honor of my Baltimore Orioles defeating the evil New York Yankees in a hard fought game (11 innings) last night, here's a poem by May Swenson. Coincidentally, it was the one read by Garrison Keillor today on The Writer's Almanac.

Analysis of Baseball

It's about
the ball,
the bat,
and the mitt.
Ball hits
bat, or it
hits mitt.
Bat doesn't
hit ball, bat
meets it.
Ball bounces
off bat, flies
air, or thuds
ground (dud)
or it
fits mitt.

Bat waits
for ball
to mate.
Ball hates
to take bat's
bait. Ball
flirts, bat's
late, don't
keep the date.
Ball goes in
(thwack) to mitt,
and goes out
(thwack) back
to mitt.

Ball fits
mitt, but
not all
the time.
Sometimes
ball gets hit
(pow) when bat
meets it,
and sails
to a place
where mitt
has to quit
in disgrace.
That's about
the bases
loaded,
about 40,000
fans exploded.

It's about
the ball,
the bat,
the mitt,
the bases
and the fans.
It's done
on a diamond,
and for fun.
It's about
home, and it's
about run.

— May Swenson

Wednesday poetry break

Hectic day today (vacation? what vacation?). If I don't get a chance to post anything else, at least I need to catch up on my poetry breaks. From today's edition of The Writer's Almanac:

"I shall keep singing!"

I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes—
Each-with a Robin's expectation—
I—with my Redbreast—
And my Rhymes—
Late—when I take my place in summer—
But—I shall bring a fuller tune—
Vespers—are sweeter than Matins-Signor—
Morning—only the seed of Noon—

— Emily Dickinson

Poetry Break

It's been a hectic week getting ready for vacation; I apologize for missing this weekly feature yesterday. But here's an appropriate one from one of my favorite contemporary poets, Billy Collins. Enjoy!

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

— Billy Collins

Wednesday Poetry Break: Happy Birthday Will!

Today is the presumed birthday of William Shakespeare, born 444 years ago on April 23, 1564. (Oh, I know that's not a picture of William Shakespeare, it's Joseph Fiennes playing young Will in "Shakespeare in Love." Don't be so picky -- just feast your eyes!)

And what a treat today to listen to the Writer's Almanac, and hear Garrison Keillor reading the poem below. Enjoy!

Sonnet 104

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April pérfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

— William Shakespeare

Wednesday Poetry Break

Sorry for the late post; I know a few of you look forward to the Wednesday Poetry Break, and I apologize for the wait -- but I think you'll find it's worth it! The poem below was written by a friend, Sarah Knudsen. (Sarah, if I misspelled your last name, I apologize!) It's powerful and speaks to much of what we've been commenting on here. Thanks, Sarah!

UPDATE: Okay, I apologize, Sarah! It's Knutson. I was close, right?

Undecided

Better divisive
than indecisive

Obama, yo mama
ain’t no slave
in the home of the brave
land of the free
democracy
is for you, too
Hillary
your vote counts
on your fingers
pointing the way
to universal suffrage
is the answer
to all our problems
can be solved for x
in terms of y
is the only good
emancipation
a dead one
man one vote
promises a result
that is just and true
blue red and white
Americans of all colors
do not admit defeat
is not an option
to buy crude
estimates of the cost
of oil is going up
for everyone
of the barons
all is wells

Better divisive
than indecisive
Jesus saves
the world across
my heart, hope to die
in Iraq
for America
all is wells

All is wells
in my fathers house
there are many cells
are the basic building blocks
of life
is not a toy
in the hands
of terrorists
take no prisoners
are not free
to call
home of the brave

Better divisive
than indecisive
Obama, yo mama
is free
to vote republican
in the primary school
all the kids
is second to none
will be left
behind the screen
there is a man
exclaims Dorothy
witch way
is it to Kansas
the which is dead
all is wells

the which is dead
all is wells
are for drinking
water is a precious resource
we should not waste
time is of the
essential oils
make your face shine
your light on me, Lord
thy burning Bush
before all nations
lights the way
to hell is good
intentions do not profit
is the point
of a free market
yourself wisely
manage your account
the cost or pay
the price of gas
is astronomical
loans must be excused
pardon me
Lord I just blew
all the debt
that Jesus saves
the best for last
place at the table
that bill
without a vote
we cannot reach
a resolution

Better divisive
than indecisive
all is not wells

— Sara Knutson

Wednesday Poetry Break

I went looking for a poem on gardening/Spring/etc., in honor of my decision to take the day off work today so that I can get the vegetable garden in order and plant the lettuce (yes, it's a little late for that in Maryland, but we'll get something out of it).  This short little poem speaks to me on so many levels because of many different things going on in my world right now, and I find myself re-reading it and discovering something new each time. I hope you do, too. Enjoy.

The Gardener 85

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak

of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.

From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of

an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, 

sending its glad voice across an hundred years.

— Rabindranath Tagore

Wednesday poetry break

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— John McCrae

Wednesday poetry break

I can't believe I almost forgot for two weeks in a row to post the Wednesday poetry break! Fortunately I found this charming poem by Jane Kenyon at The Writer's Almanac. Enjoy!

I. At The Store

Clumps of daffodils along the storefront
bend low this morning, late snow
pushing their bright heads down.
The flag snaps and tugs at the pole
beside the door.

The old freezer, full of Maine blueberries
and breaded scallops, mumbles along.
A box of fresh bananas on the floor,
luminous and exotic...
I take what I need from the narrow aisles.

Cousins arrive like themes and variations.
Ansel leans on the counter,
remembering other late spring snows,
the blue snow of '32:
Yes, it was, it was blue.
Forrest comes and goes quickly
with a length of stovepipe, telling
about the neighbors' chimney fire.

The store is a bandstand. All our voices
sound from it, making the same motley
American music Ives heard;
this piece starting quietly,
with the repeated clink of a flagpole
pulley in the doorway of a country store.

— Jane Kenyon

Wednesday poetry break

I heard Garrison Keillor read this one today on The Writer's Almanac, and it took me back about 35 years. It's a charming poem; I hope you enjoy it.

Outside of Richmond, Virginia, Sunday

It's the kind of mid-January afternoon—
the sky as calm as an empty bed,
fields indulgent,
black Angus finally sitting down to chew—
that makes a girl ride her bike up and down the same muddy track of road
between the gray barn and the state highway
all afternoon, the black mutt
with the white patch like a slap on his rump
loping after the rear tire, so happy.
Right after Sunday dinner
until she can see the headlights out on the dark highway,
she rides as though she has an understanding with the track she's opened up in
the road,
with the two wheels that slide and stutter in the red mud
but don't run off from under her,
with the dog who knows to stay out of the way but to stay.
And even after the winter cold draws tears,
makes her nose run,
even after both sleeves are used up,
she thinks a life couldn't be any better than this.
And hers won't be,
and it will be very good.

— Deborah Slicer

Wednesday poetry break ... with a dash of snark

You Smiled, You Spoke, and I Believed

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!

— Walter Savage Landor

(And yes, that's 3 shots for those of you playing the Obama Drinking Game ....)

Wednesday poetry break

Late getting to posting today because the past 24 hours have been crazy. Actually, it all started at 4:30 am yesterday when I was blasted out of a deep sleep by someone leaving a loud message on the answering machine about picking up a dumpster. For the record, I do not have dumpster. Never have. But the caller was so loud and intense that we all woke up and the dog started barking, and well, not a good way to start the day.

Next up was the weather. An ice storm here in the DC area caused traffic jams of epic proportions. It took me over 3 and half hours to go 40 miles. Then I slid to the polling place and voted. For Hillary Clinton. Who lost in Maryland. And DC. And Virginia.

You may sense some weariness, perhaps even cynicism, in today's poem.

Subject To Change

A reflection on my students

They are so beautiful, and so very young
they seem almost to glitter with perfection,
these creatures that I briefly move among.

I never get to stay with them for long,
but even so, I view them with affection:
they are so beautiful, and so very young.

Poised or clumsy, placid or high-strung,
they're expert in the art of introspection,
these creatures that I briefly move among—

And if their words don't quite trip off the tongue
consistently, with just the right inflection,
they remain beautiful. And very young.

Still, I have to tell myself it's wrong
to think of them as anything but fiction,
these creatures that I briefly move among—

Because, like me, they're traveling headlong
in that familiar, vertical direction
that coarsens beautiful, blackmails young—
the two delusions we all move among.

— Marilyn Taylor

Wednesday Poetry break

From On the Pulse of Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

[...]

— Maya Angelou

Wednesday poetry break

Today is the birthday of poet and author Richard Brautigan. Learn more about him at the Poetry Foundation.

Private Eye Lettuce

Three crates of Private Eye Lettuce,
the name and drawing of a detective
with magnifying glass on the sides
of the crates of lettuce,
form a great cross in man’s imagination
and his desire to name
the objects of this world.
I think I’ll call this place Golgotha
and have some salad for dinner.

— Richard Brautigan

Thursday poetry break

As those in the MSM fan the fire of public passion, repeatedly asking "which trumps which: race or gender?" it seems a fine day for some Audrey Lorde. You can find more of her poems and those of many others at the Poetry Foundation website.

Who Said It Was Simple

There are so many roots to the tree of anger
that sometimes the branches shatter
before they bear.

Sitting in Nedicks
the women rally before they march
discussing the problematic girls
they hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes
a waiting brother to serve them first
and the ladies neither notice nor reject
the slighter pleasures of their slavery.
But I who am bound by my mirror
as well as my bed
see causes in colour
as well as sex

and sit here wondering
which me will survive
all these liberations.

— Audre Lorde