good finds
so i've slowly been slogging through The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry (& i do mean slowly--over a semester now) & now that i'm approaching the end i thought i'd post the pieces i liked most.
moving, i thought:
Sara Holbrook
Chicks Up Front
Before and After,
we stand separate,
stuck to the same beer-soaked floor,
fragranced, facing the same restroom mirror.
Adjusting loose hairs--
mine brown, hers purple.
Fumbling for lipsticks--
mine pink, hers black--
a color I couldn't wear anyway
since that convention of lines
gathered around my mouth last year and won't leave.
We avoid eye contact,
both of us are afraid of being carded.
Mature, I suppose, I should speak,
but what can I say to the kind of hostility
that turns hair purple and lips black?
Excuse me, I know I never pierced my nose,
but hey, I was revolting once too?
Back. Before I joined the PTA,
when wonder bras meant, "where'd I put that."
I rebelled against the government system,
the male-female system,
the corporate system, you name it.
I marched, I chanted, I demonstrated.
And when shit got passed around,
I was there, sweetheart, and I inhaled.
Does she know that tear gas
makes your nose run worse than your eyes?
Would she believe that I was a volunteer
when they called "chicks up front,"
because no matter
what kind of hand-to-hand combat
the helmeted authoritarians may have been
engaged in at home,
they were still hesitant to hit girls
with batons in the streets.
"CHICKS UP FRONT!" and we marched and
we marched and we marched right back home.
Where we bore the children we were not going to bring into this mad world, and we
brought them home to the houses we were never going to wallpaper
in those Laura Ashley prints
and we took jobs with corporate mongers
we were not going to let supervise our lives,
where we skyrocketed to
middle-management positions
accepting less money
than we were never going to take anyway
and spending it on the Barbie Dolls
we were not going to buy for our daughters.
And after each party
for our comings and goings
we whisked the leftovers into dust pans,
debriefing and talking each other down
from the drugs and the men
as if they were different,
resuscitating one another as women do,
mouth to mouth.
That some of those we put up front
really did get beaten down
and others now bathe themselves daily
in Prozac to maintain former freshness.
Should I explain what tedious work it is
putting role models together,
and how strategic pieces
sometimes get sucked up by this vacuum.
And while we intended to take
one giant leap for womankind,
I wound up taking one small step, alone.
What can I say at that moment
when our eyes meet in the mirror,
which they will.
What can I say to purple hair, black lips
and a nose ring?
What can I say?
Take care.
beautifully succinct (i've tried this so many times & always fail):
Hettie Jones
Words
are keys
or stanchions
or stones
I give you my word
You pocket it
and keep the change
Here is a word on
the tip of my tongue: love
I hold it close
though it dreams of leaving
appropriate & accompanied by some fine contractions (;0]):
Julia Vinograd
In the Bookstore
I went down to the bookstore this evening
and I found myself in the poetry section.
But for every thin book of poems
there was a thick biography of the poet
and an even thicker book
by someone who's supposed to know
explaining what the poet
is supposed to've said and why he didn't.
So you don't have to waste your time
on the best the writer could do,
the words he fought the darkness and himself for,
the unequal battle with beauty.
Instead you can read comfortably
about the worst the writer could do:
the mess he made of his life,
how he fought with his family,
cheated on his lovers, didn't pay his debts
and not only drank too much
but all the stupid things
he ever said to the bartender
just before getting 86'd will be printed for you
and they're just as stupid
as the things everyone says just before getting 86'd.
The books explaining the poet
are themselves inexplicable.
The students who have to read them
cheat.
I left the poetry section
thinking about burning the bookstore down.
Some of a poet's work comes
in spite of his life, in spite of everything,
even in spite of bookstores.
So I went to the next section
and bought a murder mystery but I haven't read it yet.
I find I don't want to know who done it
and why;
I want to do it myself.
there you are. you really oughta give 'em a read. they're good. trust me since i took to type them all out!
moving, i thought:
Sara Holbrook
Chicks Up Front
Before and After,
we stand separate,
stuck to the same beer-soaked floor,
fragranced, facing the same restroom mirror.
Adjusting loose hairs--
mine brown, hers purple.
Fumbling for lipsticks--
mine pink, hers black--
a color I couldn't wear anyway
since that convention of lines
gathered around my mouth last year and won't leave.
We avoid eye contact,
both of us are afraid of being carded.
Mature, I suppose, I should speak,
but what can I say to the kind of hostility
that turns hair purple and lips black?
Excuse me, I know I never pierced my nose,
but hey, I was revolting once too?
Back. Before I joined the PTA,
when wonder bras meant, "where'd I put that."
I rebelled against the government system,
the male-female system,
the corporate system, you name it.
I marched, I chanted, I demonstrated.
And when shit got passed around,
I was there, sweetheart, and I inhaled.
Does she know that tear gas
makes your nose run worse than your eyes?
Would she believe that I was a volunteer
when they called "chicks up front,"
because no matter
what kind of hand-to-hand combat
the helmeted authoritarians may have been
engaged in at home,
they were still hesitant to hit girls
with batons in the streets.
"CHICKS UP FRONT!" and we marched and
we marched and we marched right back home.
Where we bore the children we were not going to bring into this mad world, and we
brought them home to the houses we were never going to wallpaper
in those Laura Ashley prints
and we took jobs with corporate mongers
we were not going to let supervise our lives,
where we skyrocketed to
middle-management positions
accepting less money
than we were never going to take anyway
and spending it on the Barbie Dolls
we were not going to buy for our daughters.
And after each party
for our comings and goings
we whisked the leftovers into dust pans,
debriefing and talking each other down
from the drugs and the men
as if they were different,
resuscitating one another as women do,
mouth to mouth.
That some of those we put up front
really did get beaten down
and others now bathe themselves daily
in Prozac to maintain former freshness.
Should I explain what tedious work it is
putting role models together,
and how strategic pieces
sometimes get sucked up by this vacuum.
And while we intended to take
one giant leap for womankind,
I wound up taking one small step, alone.
What can I say at that moment
when our eyes meet in the mirror,
which they will.
What can I say to purple hair, black lips
and a nose ring?
What can I say?
Take care.
beautifully succinct (i've tried this so many times & always fail):
Hettie Jones
Words
are keys
or stanchions
or stones
I give you my word
You pocket it
and keep the change
Here is a word on
the tip of my tongue: love
I hold it close
though it dreams of leaving
appropriate & accompanied by some fine contractions (;0]):
Julia Vinograd
In the Bookstore
I went down to the bookstore this evening
and I found myself in the poetry section.
But for every thin book of poems
there was a thick biography of the poet
and an even thicker book
by someone who's supposed to know
explaining what the poet
is supposed to've said and why he didn't.
So you don't have to waste your time
on the best the writer could do,
the words he fought the darkness and himself for,
the unequal battle with beauty.
Instead you can read comfortably
about the worst the writer could do:
the mess he made of his life,
how he fought with his family,
cheated on his lovers, didn't pay his debts
and not only drank too much
but all the stupid things
he ever said to the bartender
just before getting 86'd will be printed for you
and they're just as stupid
as the things everyone says just before getting 86'd.
The books explaining the poet
are themselves inexplicable.
The students who have to read them
cheat.
I left the poetry section
thinking about burning the bookstore down.
Some of a poet's work comes
in spite of his life, in spite of everything,
even in spite of bookstores.
So I went to the next section
and bought a murder mystery but I haven't read it yet.
I find I don't want to know who done it
and why;
I want to do it myself.
there you are. you really oughta give 'em a read. they're good. trust me since i took to type them all out!