Adrienne Rich Dead at 82

[Angeline]

She was, imho, one of the greatest modern poets. I was lucky enough to take a college workshop in women writers with her and got to hear her read a few of her poems. I fell in love with her poetry back then and have stayed happily so ever since. If you are not familiar with her work, she is so deserving of your time. Rest in peace, dear poet.


Integrity
Adrienne Rich

the quality of being complete; unbroken condition; entirety
~ Webster

A wild patience has taken me this far
as if I had to bring to shore
a boat with a spasmodic outboard motor
old sweaters, nets, spray-mottled books
tossed in the prow
some kind of sun burning my shoulder-blades.
Splashing the oarlocks. Burning through.
Your fore-arms can get scalded, licked with pain
in a sun blotted like unspoken anger
behind a casual mist.

The length of daylight
this far north, in this
forty-ninth year of my life
is critical.

The light is critical: of me, of this
long-dreamed, involuntary landing
on the arm of an inland sea.
The glitter of the shoal
depleting into shadow
I recognize: the stand of pines
violet-black really, green in the old postcard
but really I have nothing but myself
to go by; nothing
stands in the realm of pure necessity
except what my hands can hold.

Nothing but myself?....My selves.
After so long, this answer.
As if I had always known
I steer the boat in, simply.
The motor dying on the pebbles
cicadas taking up the hum
dropped in the silence.

Anger and tenderness: my selves.
And now I can believe they breathe in me
as angels, not polarities.
Anger and tenderness: the spider's genius
to spin and weave in the same action
from her own body, anywhere --
even from a broken web.

The cabin in the stand of pines
is still for sale. I know this. Know the print
of the last foot, the hand that slammed and locked the door,
then stopped to wreathe the rain-smashed clematis
back on the trellis
for no one's sake except its own.
I know the chart nailed to the wallboards
the icy kettle squatting on the burner.
The hands that hammered in those nails
emptied that kettle one last time
are these two hands
and they have caught the baby leaping
from between trembling legs
and they have worked the vacuum aspirator
and stroked the sweated temples
and steered the boat there through this hot
misblotted sunlight, critical light
imperceptibly scalding
the skin these hands will also salve.

 

[Tzara]

She was, imho, one of the greatest modern poets. I was lucky enough to take a college workshop in women writers with her and got to hear her read a few of her poems. I fell in love with her poetry back then and have stayed happily so ever since. If you are not familiar with her work, she is so deserving of your time. Rest in peace, dear poet.


Integrity
Adrienne Rich

the quality of being complete; unbroken condition; entirety
~ Webster

A wild patience has taken me this far
as if I had to bring to shore ...

I never felt, as you apparently did, quite the same connection about Ms. Rich.

But I thought of her as a very good poet. An excellent poet.

A poet I should pay attention to.

A poet whose verse I should read, whether I wanted to or not.

I would bury her in peace.

And bless her remains. Even if I know not how.

 

[Angeline]

I never felt, as you apparently did, quite the same connection about Ms. Rich.

But I thought of her as a very good poet. An excellent poet.

A poet I should pay attention to.

A poet whose verse I should read, whether I wanted to or not.

I would bury her in peace.

And bless her remains. Even if I know not how.

I read your post and tried to click a Like button. I think I'm spending too much time on Facebook.

 

[PandoraGlitters]

from Diving into the Wreck:

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.