It seems that it is absolutely weeks on end since i last did a poetry post so here are some recent ones i have enjoyed. Both female poets and the first being self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet,” Audre Lorde dedicated both her life and her creative talent to confronting and addressing the injustices of racism, sexism, and homophobia.
Hanging FireBY AUDRE LORDEI am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me
the boy I cannot live without
still sucks his thumb
in secret
how come my knees are
always so ashy
what if I die
before morning
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.
I have to learn how to dance
in time for the next party
my room is too small for me
suppose I die before graduation
they will sing sad melodies
but finally
tell the truth about me
There is nothing I want to do
and too much
that has to be done
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.
Nobody even stops to think
about my side of it
I should have been on Math Team
my marks were better than his
why do I have to be
the one
wearing braces
I have nothing to wear tomorrow
will I live long enough
to grow up
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.
Audre Lorde, “Hanging Fire” from The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde.
DawnBY LOUISE GLÜCK1
Child waking up in a dark room
screaming I want my duck back, I want my duck back
in a language nobody understands in the least —
There is no duck.
But the dog, all upholstered in white plush —
the dog is right there in the crib next to him.
Years and years — that’s how much time passes.
All in a dream. But the duck —
no one knows what happened to that.
2
They’ve just met, now
they’re sleeping near an open window.
Partly to wake them, to assure them
that what they remember of the night is correct,
now light needs to enter the room,
also to show them the context in which this occurred:
socks half hidden under a dirty mat,
quilt decorated with green leaves —
the sunlight specifying
these but not other objects,
setting boundaries, sure of itself, not arbitrary,
then lingering, describing
each thing in detail,
fastidious, like a composition in English,
even a little blood on the sheets —
3
Afterward, they separate for the day.
Even later, at a desk, in the market,
the manager not satisfied with the figures he’s given,
the berries moldy under the topmost layer —
so that one withdraws from the world
even as one continues to take action in it —
You get home, that’s when you notice the mold.
Too late, in other words.
As though the sun blinded you for a moment.
Source: Poetry (February 2008)