God Poems, Love Poems, Poetry

A Soft Place to Carry (poem)

He mended his side, his Christ wound
sharply, his face distorted by pain—
the needle a thick catharsis,
the catgut a chanteuse in loose stitches.

He dug out his liver first
to make a nest for his love
who made herself small
enough to crawl in.
Who made herself animal
enough to luxuriate in
the wet perfumes of carnage.

-M.

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Poetry, Still Life Poetry

In Florence (poem)

An apartment with frescoes on the walls
that lean toward the light, lean toward naughty Roman,
sigh darkly over their birth in the prim pre-Renaissance instead.
They whisper to each other of the hardships of being
mere copies of copies, restored and restored again,
each time by cruder hands.

The apartment, saddled with inaccurate
purple velvet furniture and skinny beds
packed in as if for orphans
is attached to some chi chi hotel with flags out front
that clank against their poles and wave
to the bronzed pickpocket boys in the street
whose clever-eyed discernment is spent mostly on
which girls’ asses are ripe for a pinch.

The pope who built the palace,
now parsed out for foreigners and fornicators,
glides from room to room, to hotel lobby,
to check-in check-out counter, and, disillusioned,
wonders if this torment is the tail end of his
thousand year purgation for loving the woman
who burnt his bread often and shrieked at lesser maids.

-M.

Prose, Writing Life

Galloping Mathilda (essay)

carthorseKeeping the horse before the cart, you would think, would almost happen naturally. After all, isn’t that where the horse is supposed to be? Isn’t that where her essence wills her to be?

But sometimes the natural yearning essence of the horse depends on its owner. My horse, her name is Mathilda, finds it far more natural and enjoyable to trot along behind the cart, sniffing the heather, watching the birds fly, dreaming of the far-distant future where there will be no carts at all, just a shady tree to lie under and lots and lots of lettuce to feed her and, occasionally, to roll around in in an obscene manner. The problem with Mathilda’s nature is that sooner or later the cart starts to roll downhill, and, as it is filled with countless heavy bushels full of tasks left undone, it careens faster and faster down that hill, forcing Mathilda to go from trot to canter to gallop to stumble to roll, until cart and horse and tasks and dreams end up in a crashed and broken heap.

Ah, nothing like a cheery blog to get you going in the morning!

The moral of the story is this, I have learned through hard experience and countless times digging myself out from under the rubble of crashed enterprises, to keep Mathilda up there leading the cart, all four hooves on the path, rocky though it may be sometimes. And ultimately she feels better in that spot, more purposeful and proud, and finds her time for dreaming on Sundays when the cart stops for restocking.

-M.

Prose, Writing On Writing

Gender Bias Among Women Writers (essay)

Hello. My name is Michelle… and I write like a man.

Usually when we speak of gender bias, the first thing that comes to mind is the literary feats of old dead white dudes still controlling the standards by which works of literature are measured today, regardless of the author’s race, gender, socio-economic status, etc. Or we speak of the white guys who are still alive and kicking having an upper hand in getting grants, getting agents, getting published, getting attention, getting press, getting prizes, getting better grants, and round and round we go. But the gender bias I want to talk about is far more insidious. Those things I mentioned above certainly create a problem that should be addressed, but there is a pernicious undercurrent of another form of gender bias among writers that can potentially harm their efforts so early on, that they will never get past the very early stages of publishing, let alone into the realm of real recognition, regardless of the depth of their talent. This gender bias has directly to do with the quagmire of questions that are: What does and what does not make a woman? What does and what does not make a man?

When I was about twenty and learning to play the violin, still sounding an awful lot like a cat caught in the spin cycle, my Hungarian teacher pounded his fist on the table and exclaimed, “You bow like a man!” He meant it as a serious compliment, and I took it as such, having not yet learned I was supposed to be offended about stuff like that.

I kept that compliment in my pocket for rainy days as I slowly but surely became the writer everybody said I was going to end up being, regardless of my wishes to do anything artistic but that. (How deeply, deeply unglamorous is being a writer? Seriously?) So the first time a female poet, many, many, manyranks above me told me I write like a man, I was thrilled. I remember distinctly being in her office, smiling, puffing my chest out when she said it, then her following with, “That wasn’t a compliment.”

I was devastated.

She then went on to explain that because I wrote in direct sequence, in short lines, was incredibly devoted to punctuation, (total nerd, I know), and crazy about craft, I was writing in a manly fashion that clearly signified I was not in touch with my own femininity in a deeper way and, because of this, I would never produce real art as a woman, nor would I be truly accepted among other women writers.

I write as I write, and had never even considered there was some standard for woman-ness I was expected to meet lest my gender or the very soul of my gender be questioned.

I tried to brush her off as a cranky old so-and-so that was just jealous of my up-and-comer self and all that other b.s. we sell ourselves when our ego has taken a beating. But as I got more and more out into the world of reading, exposure, and publishing, I heard it again and again and again. My writing is too masculine. I write in straight lines. I am not emotionally centered so I am cold and mannish. It is mind-boggling.

And I started developing a complex thinking this was just me, but the more networking with other poets I did, I found several other women poets who had experienced the same thing. Again, being told that even though they were women, their work was not considered womanly enough that they be taken seriously as woman poets.

What kind of nonsense is that? What is this holy grail of literary womanhood we are supposed to be striving for? What does that even look like if not simply woman poet writes woman poetry?

Early on in college I took a literary theory class in which we studied French feminist literary theory. I hated it. I hated every last bit of it. And the bit I hated worst was this thing about how women, by virtue of their essence, write long, flowing lines and are naturally more concerned with their emotions and senses in part because they have erogenous zones everywhere.

Yes, really.

It’s something like: Sorry Muse, I can’t seem to write you an A to B to C poem today because somebody touched my elbow and got me all hot, made me cry, and doomed me to write in unpunctuated curlicues and unicorn shapes for at least the next eight hours, after which I plan on taking to my bed with the vapors. Why? Because I’m a woman and this is what other literary women tell me I must be and must do in order to be a proper literary woman.

Again, this is the kind of thing many women poets are bludgeoned with throughout their careers—trying to honor their own voices as women while suffering the disadvantages of not being a man in the literary world and, at same time, being told they are not womanly enough to fit in with the women.

Conform or be cast out! Write my way, or write rhyming billboards for the side of the highway!

In reacting to the male-dominated literary world, a good many women writers have created an equally exclusionary world of their own in direct opposition, which, as it is and maintains itself as direct, is actually being controlled by the dominant stream after all.

Woman poet writes woman poetry, regardless of her punctuation, the length of her lines, the centeredness of her emotions, or even the number of erogenous zones she has. Woman poet writes woman poetry. Woman poet writes women poetry. That is all.

-M.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I am a woman
and I write like one too.