She-Poets Cento
Manifesto:
“Femininity” is a sickness. I open my eyes.
How odd the Girl’s life looks
In the envelope of Almost-Infinity.
The living soul has dribbled away.
Is it any wonder I walk over these bodies
All laid like animals for sacrifice?
What doesn’t move, the snow will cover…
*
Verification:
What you have heard is true:
Femininity is a sickness.
She shaves her legs until they gleam
Like petrified mammoth tusk.
She looks in the glass. She remembers:
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx.
Scaling little ladders with glue-pots and pails of Lysol,
Folding dry clothes into a willow basket,
She is a housekeeping. A spring cleaning.
Think of the feeding, the scrubbing.
She cleans her house. She names all the roses,
And puts the dishcloth back on the drain.
Worn away by salt and spray into this threadbare beauty,
The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs,
Down by the fallen fruit in the old orchard.
*
Challenge:
No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy.
(What you have heard is true.)
Want to pet it? It cannot hurt you…
*
Lamentation:
They don’t fit into little –
Dark and wrinkled and hairy.
In a rush of breaking,
And flesh that keeps widening,
How can I fit her mammoth grief?
In every long-haired girl, a bearded lady.
*
Because she wouldn’t fit –
“Women.” “Women!” Women in red dresses –
They don’t fit into little.
The absurdity drove them to disguises:
A crocodile of small girls.
Judy Garland in a small brown box.
A Virgin with downcast eyes and upbent lips.
Marble faces half hidden in leaves.
The natural thing to do was kill them all…
*
One of the many forms of death
Oh my god, you say, I had no idea.
Women? Women?
“Do I look fat? Do I look fat? Do I –”
A weekend of fear and purging,
A regimen of near starvation, to be worthy to go
Swimming forward into foreign darkness.
The cinema of dreams streams through
An idea in her head, flat and paper-thin:
A vibration that we cannot name,
The holding onto nothing but emptiness,
And the mad loyalty that comes from total devotion.
Down the black corridor, lit by torches,
Here comes trotting, snorting death:
Do I look fat?
*
A way forward
Lurid, as if scarred by a fire –
Oh, my god Oh, my god Oh, my god –
Drawn by something dead in the road,
Some woman, dancing,
The crazy woman at the beginning of the mountain,
Rummaging through the ruined beauty.
There are some who may think, “How pitiful, how lonely.”
The bloody breasts… The outrage…
But be alive next to it. Maybe she is
Finding a voice where they found a vision.
We are, I am, you are
They who first must find each other.
We put the puzzle together, piece
By piece,
And sing most terribly.
And move the fuck on.
Cento: a quilt poem, composed entirely of lines taken from works by other poets. In this case, my poem is made entirely with lines taken from (to use Muriel Rukeyser’s term) other she-poets. I have complicated the form, slightly, by repeating the first line in each section as the second line in the succeeding section. I like that cinching-up effect. Three times, I tinkered with lines, but very gently. A slipped or sloppy stitch, perhaps. Some poets appear more frequently than others which probably represents their importance to me. Some lines are iconic lines, others appear out of some kind of sheer necessity which arose from the poem’s needs as it pieced itself together. I salute particularly these humble, working lines which perform a modest but utterly essential function. Offered in homage to Ai, Gwendolyn Brooks, Maxine Kumin, Adrienne Rich, Muriel Rukeyser, and other dear departeds…
Femininity is a sickness. I open my eyes: L. Gregg, “Whole and Without Blessing”
How odd the Girl’s life looks: E. Dickinson, #199
In the envelope of Almost-Infinity: M. Kumin, “The Envelope”
The living soul has dribbled away: E. Bishop, “Crusoe in England”
Is it any wonder I walk over these bodies: T. Derricotte,“On turning up of Unidentified Black Female Corpses”
All laid like animals for sacrifice: M Moore, “Keeping Their World Large”
What doesn’t move, the snow will cover: L. Gluck, “Thanksgiving”
What you have heard is true: C. Forche, “The Colonel”
Femininity is a sickness. I open my eyes: L. Gregg, “Whole and Without Blessing”
She shaves her legs until they gleam/Like petrified mammoth tusk: Rich, “Snapshots of a Daughter in Law”
She looks in the glass. She remembers: D. Levertov, “Abel’s Bride”
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx: M. Moore, “”A Grave”
Scaling little ladders with glue-pots and pails of Lysol: S. Plath, “The Colossus”
Folding dry clothes into a willow basket: L. Gluck, “Burning Leaves”
She is a housekeeping. A spring cleaning: E. Boland, Woman Posing
Think of the feeding, the scrubbing: M. Kumin Childbirth, Dove Cottage, The Wordsworths
She cleans her house..: L Gregg, “Dry Grass & Old Color of the Fence & Smooth Hills “
And puts the dishcloth back on the drain: T. Derricote, “In an Urban School”
Worn away by salt and spray into this threadbare beauty: A. Rich, “Diving Into the Wreck”
The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs: ED, #341
Down by the fallen fruit in the old orchard: D. Levertov, the Coming Fall
No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy: D. Levertov, Hypocrite Women
(What you have heard is true.) What you have heard is true: C. Forche, “The Colonel”
Want to pet it? It cannot hurt you: A. Ostriker, “Normal”
They don’t fit into little: L. Clifton, “”Homage to My Hips”
Dark and wrinkled and hairy: D. Levertov, Hypocrite Women
In a rush of breaking: L.Clifton, “if something should happen”
And flesh that keeps widening: L. Clifton, “god’s mind”
How can I fit her mammoth grief: J. Jacobsen, “Country Drive-In”
In every long-haired girl, a bearded lady: J. Valentine, “Riverside”
“Women.” “Women!” Women in red dresses: E. Boland, “Under the Window: Ouro Preto,”
They don’t fit into little: L. Clifton, “”Homage to My Hips”
The absurdity drove them to disguises: W. Szymborska, “Memory Finally”
A crocodile of small girls. S. Plath, “Parliament Hill Fields”
Judy Garland in a small brown box. J. Jacobsen, “Notes Toward Time”
A Virgin with downcast eyes and upbent lips. M. Swenson, “Instead of the Camargue”
Marble faces half hidden in leaves. M. Swenson, “Fountains of Aix”
The natural thing to do was kill them all: E. R. Taylor “Last Ant”
Oh my god, you say, I had no idea: E. Lerner, “Lunch Will Be Served”
“Women.” “Women!” Women in red dresses: E. Boland, “Under the Window: Ouro Preto”
“Do I look fat? Do I look fat? Do I:” G. Stein, “Lifting Belly”
A weekend of fear and purging: J. Kenyon, “Chrysanthemums”
A regimen of near starvation, to be worthy to go/Swimming forward into foreign darkness: C. Twichell, “Physics”
The cinema of dreams streams through/An idea in her head..: M.B. Pratt “My Life You Are Talking About”
A vibration that we cannot name: H.D.,“Tribute to the Angels”
The holding onto nothing but emptiness: Ai, “The Strange Journey of Ulysesses Paradeece After a Hurricane”
And the mad loyalty that comes from total devotion: Ai, “Brotherhood”
Down the black corridor, lit by torches: Ai, “Deathbed Scene”
Here comes trotting, snorting death: M. Swenson, “Death Invited”
Do I look fat? G. Stein, “Lifting Belly”
Lurid, as if scarred by a fire: M. Kinzie, “Sun & Moon”
Oh, my god Oh, my god: E. Lerner, “Lunch Will Be Served”
Drawn by something dead in the road: R. Becker “Death of the Owl”
Some woman, dancing: M. Rukeyser, “Along History”
The crazy woman at the beginning of the mountain: L Gregg, “Lost in the Heart”
Rummage through the ruined beauty. L. Emanuel “Elsewhere”
There are some who may think, “How pitiful, how lonely.” J. Hirschfield, “August Day”
The bloody breasts. The outrage: L. Gregg, “Not a Pretty Bird “
But be alive next to it. Maybe it is: M. Peacock, “The Surge”
Finding a voice where they found a vision: E. Boland, “The Singers”
We are, I am, you are A. Rich, “Diving into the Wreck”
They who first must find each other E. Spires, “Worldling”
We put the puzzle together, piece/By piece: D. Laux, “Break”
And sing most terribly: G. Brooks “The Crazy Woman”
And move the fuck on: Ai, “Violation”
