womanly poems for womanly women

[WickedEve]

Since we have a manly poems for manly men thread...


wishes for sons - Lucille Clifton


i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
i wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.

 

[champagne1982]

Yes, I was just browsing through that man thread, (bunch of wussy poets). I found this womanly jewel to contribute to yours;

Siren Song - Margaret Atwood, 1976

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistable:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

At last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

 

[SeattleRain]

I am a dangerous woman

I am a dangerous woman
Carrying neither bombs nor babies
Flowers nor molotov cocktails.
I confound all your reason, theory, realism
Because I will neither lie in your ditches
Nor dig your ditches for you
Nor join your struggle
For bigger and better ditches.

I will not walk with you nor for you,
I won't live with you
And I won't die for you
But neither will I try to deny you
Your right to live and die.
I will not share one square foot of this earth with you
While you're hell-bent on destruction
But neither will I deny that we are of the same earth,
Born of the same Mother
I will not permit
You to bind my life to yours
But I will tell you that our lives
Are bound together
And I will demand
That you live as though you understand
This one salient fact.

I am a dangerous woman
because I will tell you, sir,
whether you are concerned or not,
Masculinity has made of this world a living hell
A furnace burning away at hope, love, faith, and justice,
A furnace of My Lais, Hiroshimas, Dachaus.
A furnace which burns the babies
You tell us we must make.
Masculinity made Femininity
Made the eyes of our women grow dark and cold,
sent our sons - yes sir, our sons -
To War
Made our children go hungry
Made our mothers whores
Made our bombs, our bullets, our "Food for Peace,"
our definitive solutions and first strike policies
Yes sir
Masculinity broke women and men on its knee
Took away our futures
Made our hopes, fears, thoughts and good instincts
'irrelevant to the larger struggle.'
And made human survival beyond the year 2000
an open question.

Yes sir
And it has possessed you.

I am a dangerous woman
because I will say all this
lying neither to you nor with you
I am dangerous because
I won't give up, shut up, or put up
with your version of reality.
You have conspired to sell my life quite cheaply
And I am especially dangerous
Because I will never forgive nor forget
Or ever conspire
To sell yours in return.

by Joan Cavanagh (b. 1955)

 

[BooMerengue]

*laughing

So the boys want manly poems? Well, here's one for them (It's written by a sensible guy) that I think every 12 yr old boy ought to memorize!

The Female of the Species

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male. ​

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

 

[WickedEve]

C and S, wonderful selections. I was reading the "man" poems and remembered a thread we had about masculine and feminine poetry. It may have been Angeline who started that thread. It wasn't about whether a man or woman wrote any particular poem, but whether or not the poem itself was masculine or feminine.
Anyway, I thought it might be interesting to see which poems we'd choose as womanly poems. I encourage you all to check out the manly poems and compare. I happen to like charge of the light brigade, one of the manly selections. It even partially influenced a poem of mine:
bullwhip rose
brothers marched north.
brothers marched south.
they marched past günter,

 

[flyguy69]

Huh? Where are the urinals? Oops! Wrong thread.

Sorry!

 

[WickedEve]

*laughing

So the boys want manly poems? Well, here's one for them (It's written by a sensible guy) that I think every 12 yr old boy ought to memorize!

"For the female of the species is more deadly than the male." I think we all know that line--and we all know it to be true.

 

[WickedEve]

Huh? Where are the urinals? Oops! Wrong thread.

Sorry!

Thanks for bringing cooties onto the thread.
You are welcome to post a girly poem, fly.

 

[flyguy69]

Thanks for bringing cooties onto the thread.
You are welcome to post a girly poem, fly.

Like my Jubilate Gallo poem?

 

[BooMerengue]

Huh? Where are the urinals? Oops! Wrong thread.

Sorry!

*takes Fly by the ear...

Urinals? You want urinals? You squat to pee in here, son. Same as we do. And you like it!

 

[flyguy69]

*takes Fly by the ear...

Urinals? You want urinals? You squat to pee in here, son. Same as we do. And you like it!

There's nobody at the sink-- how 'bout if I just go there?

 

[BooMerengue]

There's nobody at the sink-- how 'bout if I just go there?

When's the last time you had your ass kicked ... by a woman?

They didn't call me Beer Bottle for nuthin, ya know!

 

[eagleyez]

she steams
shower scents fill
this Alladins lamp
rubbed and upcomes
the vapor that
rises me from a week in bed,

she is afraid
I know
piano music
coming from
the river of tears,

womanly instinct
shuttled thru me
my fem jeans
hang loose on me.

 

[WickedEve]

she steams
shower scents fill
this Alladins lamp
rubbed and upcomes
the vapor that
rises me from a week in bed,

she is afraid
I know
piano music
coming from
the river of tears,

womanly instinct
shuttled thru me
my fem jeans
hang loose on me.

Just love the poem, ee.
Does Ange know what a tender, sweet morsel of a man you are? (I hope that didn't sound like I was calling you cat food. You know--tender vittles.)

 

[Angeline]

Just love the poem, ee.
Does Ange know what a tender, sweet morsel of a man you are? (I hope that didn't sound like I was calling you cat food. You know--tender vittles.)

Yes, I do. He's the tenderest vittle I know. Why do you think I'm so nutty over him? I don't know what he's on about with the fem jeans though. They're just Levi's for god's sake.

 

[wildsweetone]

thanks for the enlightenment Ange, i was wondering about the fem jeans too.

dare i ?

 

[WickedEve]

Yes, I do. He's the tenderest vittle I know. Why do you think I'm so nutty over him? I don't know what he's on about with the fem jeans though. They're just Levi's for god's sake.

Oh, I thought maybe he got all puny and had to move into your jeans. Is he... um... wearing your clothes?

 

[Guest]

They'd look cute - Ange in his top, e.e in her bottoms.


(hmmm - my imagination can't take this before lunch)

 

[Angeline]

Now THIS is a love poem

thanks for the enlightenment Ange, i was wondering about the fem jeans too.

dare i ?

Giggle all you want. He has a pretty wonderful sense of humor, too.

Forugh Farrokhzad is a womanly poet, to me. She writes the most beautiful love poems. I can think of other woman poets I love for other reasons, but I adore Forugh for her capacity to express love in a distinctly feminine voice. She was Iranian and has, to me, a strongly biblical tone in her poems. She's not for everyone, but she floats my boat big time.


Love Song
Forugh Farrokhzad

My nights are painted bright with your dream,
and heavy with your fragrance is my breast.
You fill my eyes with your presence, sweet love,
giving me more happiness than grief.
Like rain washing through the soil
you have washed my life clean.
You are the heartbeat of my burning body;
a fire blazing in the shade of my eyelashes.
You are more bountiful than the wheat fields,
more fruit-laden than the golden boughs
against the onslaught of darkening doubts.
You are a door thrown open to the suns.
When I am with you I fear no pain
for my only pain is that of happiness--
this sad heart of mine and so much light
sounding life from the bottom of a grave.

Your eyes are my pastures,
the stamp of your gaze burning deep into my eyes.
If I had you within me before,
I would not take anyone else for you.
Oh it's a dark pain, this urge of wanting,
setting out, belittling oneself fruitlessly,
laying one's head on chests hiding a black heart,
soiling one's breast with ancient hatred,
finding a snake in a caressing hand,
discovering venom behind friendly smiles,
putting coins into deceitful hands,
getting lost in the midst of bazaars.

You are my breath of life, sweet love.
You have brought me back to life from the grave.
You have come down from the distant sky
like a star on two golden wings
silencing my loneliness,
imbuing my body with odors of your embrace.
You are water to the dry streams of my breasts,
you are a torrent to the dry bed of my veins.
In a world so cold and bleak,
in step with your steps, I proceed.

You are hidden under my skin,
flowing through my every cell,
singeing my hair with your caressing hand,
leaving my cheeks sunburned with desire.
You are, sweet love, a stranger to my dress
but so familiar with the fields of my nakedness.
O bright and eternal sunrise,
the strong sunshine of southern climes,
you are fresher than early dawn,
fresher and better-watered than spring-tide.
This is no longer love, it is dazzlement,
a chandelier blazing amidst silence and darkness.
Ever since love was awakened in my heart,
I have become total devotion with desire.
This is no longer me, no longer me.
O wasted are the years I lived with "me."
My lips are the altar of your kisses, sweet love
my eyes watching for the arrival of your kiss.

You are the convulsions of ecstasy in my body,
like a garment, the lines of your figure covering me.
O I am going to burst open like a bud,
my joy becoming tarnished for a moment with sorrow.
O I wish to jump to my feet
and pour down tears like a cloud.

This sad heart of mine and the burning incense,
music of harp and lyre in a prayer-hall,
empty space and such flights
this silent night and so much song.
Your gaze is like a magic lullaby, sweet love,
a cradle for restless babies.
Your breathing is a breeze half-asleep,
washing down all my tremors of anguish.
It is hidden in the smiles of my tomorrows,
it has sunken deep into the depths of my worlds.

You have touched me with the frenzy of poetry,
pouring fire into my songs,
kindling my heart with the fever of love,
thus setting all my poems ablaze, sweet love.

Translated By Karim Emami

 

[Angeline]

Oh, I thought maybe he got all puny and had to move into your jeans. Is he... um... wearing your clothes?

I have been known to steal his shirts--and one sweater I really like.

He wore this big old flannel shirt of mine once--till I told him it was a girl's shirt...

 

[Angeline]

They'd look cute - Ange in his top, e.e in her bottoms.


(hmmm - my imagination can't take this before lunch)

Not going there.

 

[flyguy69]

Breasts II
Suzanne Lummis

In my teens they were famous
for their insignificance.
Though I exercised and hoped
beyond hope they remained just figments
of my imagination, or suggestions
of all that is possible--the wealth
that has only half come into this world.

But now in their succinct way
they can hold their own with those
of men's fantasies. Though they don't
drop toward my waist like diving bells,
or precede me when I enter a room,
though they aren't gratuitous
like those featured in Penthouse,
they are more elemental,
closer to the heart.

They are endowed with magical properties,
unsounded mysteries.
Like two incipient moons
flattened by darkness
they vanish when I lie on my back.

They are prized by diamond cutters,
vegetarians and collectors of miniatures,
but are shunned by plebeians,
by readers of pulp novels,
and are overlooked by the nearsighted.

Yet a man must not seize them
like mouthfuls of fast food packaged
by lowpaid workers. No!
He must approach them like a man
who was once blind for years
but can now see,
like a man who was alone a long time,
kidnapped by propagandists,
locked up in a room, but is now
..............free, like a man who has fallen
from his sad and silent past
into my arms and now
everything shines with an almost
unbearable splendor.

As for other poets who've written of their own,
my breasts are indisputably closer
to poetry: precise yet subtle, the most
economical of forms.

In short, my breasts are superior
to all breast poems, to even
(I'm abashed to admit) my own poems.
In this respect I'm in competition with myself
and must strive my whole life
to equal in writing
their exquisitely finite triumph.

 

[SeattleRain]

I have been known to steal his shirts--and one sweater I really like.

He wore this big old flannel shirt of mine once--till I told him it was a girl's shirt...

dear seattle,
your breasts
stretch my sweaters
leaving boob shadows
where my chest should be
wear your own
damn
clothes

love,
your husband



I think that my womanly poem up there was actually pretty masculine. Let me find something softer, like


bows and flows of angel hair
and ice cream castles in the air

 

[SeattleRain]

um I think this belongs in marias boob thread.

Breasts II
Suzanne Lummis

In my teens they were famous
for their insignificance.
Though I exercised and hoped
beyond hope they remained just figments
of my imagination, or suggestions
of all that is possible--the wealth
that has only half come into this world.

But now in their succinct way
they can hold their own with those
of men's fantasies. Though they don't
drop toward my waist like diving bells,
or precede me when I enter a room,
though they aren't gratuitous
like those featured in Penthouse,
they are more elemental,
closer to the heart.

They are endowed with magical properties,
unsounded mysteries.
Like two incipient moons
flattened by darkness
they vanish when I lie on my back.

They are prized by diamond cutters,
vegetarians and collectors of miniatures,
but are shunned by plebeians,
by readers of pulp novels,
and are overlooked by the nearsighted.

Yet a man must not seize them
like mouthfuls of fast food packaged
by lowpaid workers. No!
He must approach them like a man
who was once blind for years
but can now see,
like a man who was alone a long time,
kidnapped by propagandists,
locked up in a room, but is now
..............free, like a man who has fallen
from his sad and silent past
into my arms and now
everything shines with an almost
unbearable splendor.

As for other poets who've written of their own,
my breasts are indisputably closer
to poetry: precise yet subtle, the most
economical of forms.

In short, my breasts are superior
to all breast poems, to even
(I'm abashed to admit) my own poems.
In this respect I'm in competition with myself
and must strive my whole life
to equal in writing
their exquisitely finite triumph.

 

[flyguy69]

um I think this belongs in marias boob thread.

I see you extinguished your fiery tits.