the wrong end of the telescope

(Dedications) I know you are reading this poem (1990-1991)


I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses its momentum and before running up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
where you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lenses enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

--Adrienne Rich

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

—Dylan Thomas

So there was supposed to be a story. But we're writing and editing this other story that is pushing 40K and is supposed to be done very soon, so the first story isn't done yet. Sorry about that. ♥

I did want to tell you happy birthday, and how glad I am that we found each other, telepathic-feminist-thinky-weird-pairing-loving sister of my writing soul. (I told you I was going to get sappy. Deal with it.) Love, darling. I hope today continued to be great and I hope many more great days are yet to come. And I can't wait to meet you.

( here, have a poem )

When making this entry on representation and voice last night, I asked if someone could find me a link to Hassa Helal reading her whole poem on the fatwa, the one that earned her death threats. delphinapterus found it for me. It has English subtitles, too. Worth watching. The translation is fairly awkward, but oh, do you ever get the gist of what she is saying.

Linked because I couldn't make embedding work.

This collection has some of the best poetry I've ever read, for the record. Just to get that out of the way.

It deals with difficult subject matter that is personal (the end of a relationship) and that is bigger than that (race relations past and present in the US, and isn't that a polite way to talk about racism and the Civil War), but it also reverses that, because the personal can be for everyone, and the political or historical can be very personal indeed.


Native Guard by Natasha Tretheway.

( we tell the story every year )


Previous reviews: The Whale Rider by Witi Ihimaera | Libyrinth by Pearl North | Ash by Malinda Lo | The Changeover by Margaret Mahy

So there are TWO birthdays today. There's brilligspoons, who was one of my first friends on LJ. I love you hon, and I hope you have a fantastic day! I still remember that long, long discussion we had on feminist literature way back when, it was GREAT. Also, I love that you indulge my love of poetry. Speaking of which, here, have a poem:

( Fully Empowered, by Pablo Neruda )

But it's also halflinen's birthday! Megan, oh Megan. One half of my Canadian OTP, she's been there during some tough, tough times for me and, just, she's supportive and sweet and amazing and funny and posts awesome recipes and writes lovely stories--I just, okay, I'm so glad she's in my life. Happy birthday, lady, I feel confident that it's going to be a good one. ♥

( And since I can't be there, dammit, have a kitty and some story recs )

Or the one where you're supposed to post your favourite poem. I have a lot of those, no lie, but I'm posting this one, because I've been thinking a lot about women and stories and which ones we're allowed to tell lately.

Spelling

My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.

I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.

A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.

I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.

A word after a word
after a word is power.

At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.

--Margaret Atwood