A poem by Adrienne Cecile Rich (1929 – 2012)
1
You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with henna-colored hair, skin like a peachbud,
still have your dresses copied from that time,
and play a Chopin prelude
called by Cortot: “Delicious recollections
float like perfume through the memory.”
Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake,
heavy with useless experience, rich
with suspicion, rumor, fantasy,
crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge
of mere fact. In the prime of your life.
Nervy, glowering, your daughter
wipes the teaspoons, grows another way.
2
Banging the coffee-pot into the sink
she hears the angels chiding, and looks out
past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky.
Only a week since They said: Have no patience.
The next time it was: Be insatiable.
Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save.
Sometimes she’s let the tapstream scald her arm,
a match burn to her thumbnail,
or held her hand above the kettle’s snout
right inthe woolly steam. They are probably angels,
since nothing hurts her anymore, except
each morning’s grit blowing into her eyes.
3
A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.
The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature,
that sprung-lidded, still commodious
steamer-trunk of tempora and mores
gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers,
the female pills, the terrible breasts
of Boadicea beneath flat foxes’ heads and orchids.
Two handsome women, gripped in argument,
each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream
across the cut glass and majolica
like Furies cornered from their prey:
The argument ad feminam, all the old knives
that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours,
ma semblable, ma soeur!
4
Knowing themselves too well in one another:
their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn,
the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn…
Reading while waiting
for the iron to heat,
writing, My Life had stood–a Loaded Gun–
in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum,
or, more often,
iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird,
dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.
5
Dulce ridens, dulce loquens,
she shaves her legs until they gleam
like petrified mammoth-tusk.
6
When to her lute Corinna sings
neither words nor music are her own;
only the long hair dipping
over her cheek, only the song
of silk against her knees
and these
adjusted in reflections of an eye.
Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before
an unlocked door, that cage of cages,
tell us, you bird, you tragical machine–
is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down
by love, for you the only natural action,
are you edged more keen
to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown
her household books to you, daughter-in-law,
that her sons never saw?
7
“To have in this uncertain world some stay
which cannot be undermined, is
of the utmost consequence.”
Thus wrote
a woman, partly brave and partly good,
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more,
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore.
8
“You all die at fifteen,” said Diderot,
and turn part legend, part convention.
Still, eyes inaccurately dream
behind closed windows blankening with steam.
Deliciously, all that we might have been,
all that we were–fire, tears,
wit, taste, martyred ambition–
stirs like the memory of refused adultery
the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years.
9
Not that it is done well, but
that it is done at all? Yes, think
of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child,
Time’s precious chronic invalid,–
would we, darlings, resign it if we could?
Our blight has been our sinecure:
mere talent was enough for us–
glitter in fragments and rough drafts.
Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mold straight off.
For that, solitary confinement,
tear gas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.
10
Well,
she’s long about her coming, who must be
more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge
breasted and glancing through the currents,
taking the light upon her
at least as beautiful as any boy
or helicopter,
poised, still coming,
her fine blades making the air wince
but her cargo
no promise then:
delivered
palpable
ours.
A few random poems:
- Autumn by Siegfried Sassoon
- Николай Рубцов – Я тебя целовал
- The Dunciad: Book III. poem – Alexander Pope
- William Stafford – William Stafford
- Tears. by Walt Whitman
- The Rose And The Bee by Sara Teasdale
- XV: Some Verses: Ciprian’s Smyling by William Alexander
- flight_of_stairs.html
- Come, Come, Whoever You Are by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
- A New Year’s Gift, Sent To Sir Simeon Steward by Robert Herrick
- Владимир Маяковский – Собственную революцию удушив… (РОСТА №443)
- The Princess: A Medley: As thro’ the land poem – Lord Alfred Tennyson poems
- Вероника Тушнова – Знаешь ли ты, что такое горе
- Низами Гянджеви – О милый друг, давно пленен я
- The Tenants Of The Little Box by Vasko Popa
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- A June-Tide Echo poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- A Greek Girl poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- A Farewell poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- A Cross-Road Epitaph poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- Vacant Lot With Pokeweed poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- The Sun Underfoot Among The Sundews poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Syrinx poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Salvage poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- On The Disadvantages Of Central Heating poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Nothing Stays Put poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Fog poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Exmoor poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Vacant Lot With Pokeweed poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Easter Morning poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Beach Glass poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- The Sun Underfoot Among The Sundews poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- A Silence poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Syrinx poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- Salvage poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
- A Hermit Thrush poem – Amy Clampitt poems | Poems and Poetry
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Adrienne Cecile Rich (1929 – 2012) was an American poet, essayist, and feminist.