Where are the women who, entre deux guerres,
came out on college-graduation trips,
came to New York on football scholarships,
came to town meeting in a decorous pair?
Where are the expatriate salonnieres,
the gym teacher, the math-department head?
Do nieces follow where their odd aunts led?
The elephants die off in Cagnes-sur-Mer.
H.D., whose “nature was bisexual,”
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where are the single-combat champions:
the Chevalier d’Eon with curled peruke,
Big Sweet who ran with Zora in the jook,
open-handed Winifred Ellerman,
Colette, who hedged her bets and always won?
Sojourner’s sojourned where she need not pack
decades of whitegirl conscience on her back.
The spirit gave up Zora; she lay down
under a weed-field miles from Eatonville,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where’s Stevie, with her pleated schoolgirl dresses,
and Rosa, with her permit to wear pants?
Who snuffed Clara’s mestiza flamboyance
and bled Frida onto her canvases?
Where are the Niggerati hostesses,
the kohl-eyed ivory poets with severe
chignons, the rebels who grew out their hair,
the bulldaggers with marcelled processes?
Conglomerates co-opted Sugar Hill,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Has Ida B. persuaded Susan B.
to pool resources for a joint campaign?
(Two Harriets act a pageant by Lorraine,
cheered by the butch drunk on the IRT
who used to watch me watch her watching me;
We’ve notes by Angelina Grimke Weld
for choral settings drawn from the Compiled
Poems of Angelina Weld Grimke.)
There’s no such tense as Past Conditional,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Who was Sappho’s protegee, and when did
we lose Hrotsvitha, dramaturge and nun?
What did bibulous Suzanne Valadon
think about Artemisia, who tended
to make a life-size murderess look splendid?
Where’s Aphra, fond of dalliance and the pun?
Where’s Jane, who didn’t indulge in either one?
Whoever knows how Ende, Pintrix, ended
is not teaching Art History at Yale,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Is Beruliah upstairs behind the curtain
debating Juana Ines de la Cruz?
Where’s savante Anabella, Augusta-Goose,
Fanny, Maude, Lidian, Freda and Caitlin,
“without whom this could never have been written”?
Louisa who wrote, scrimped, saved, sewed, and nursed,
Malinche, who’d like all translators, cursed,
Bessie, whose voice was hemp and steel and satin,
outside a segregated hospital,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where’s Amy, who kept Ada in cigars
and love, requited, both country and courtly,
although quinquagenarian and portly?
Where’s Emily? It’s very still upstairs.
Where’s Billie, whose strange fruity ripened in bars?
Where’s the street-scavenging Little Sparrow?
too poor, too mean, too weird, too wide, too narrow:
Marie Curie, examining her scars,
was not particularly beautiful;
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Who was the grandmother of Frankenstein?
The Vindicatrix of the Rights of Woman,
Madame de Sevigne said prayers to summon
the postman just as eloquent as mine,
though my Madame de Grignan’s only nine.
But Mary Wollstonecraft had never known
that daughter, nor did Paula Modersohn.
The tree-day infants blinked in the sunshine.
The mothers turned their faces to the wall;
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Tomorrow night the harvest moon will wane
that’s floodlighting the silhouetted wood.
Make your own footnotes; it will do you good.
Emeritae have nothing to explain.
She wasn’t very old, or really plain–
my age exactly, volumes incomplete.
“The life, the life, will it never be sweet?”
She wrote it once; I quote it once again
midlife at midnight when the moon is full
and I can almost hear the warning bell
offshore, sounding through starlight like a stain
on waves that heaved over what she began
and truncated a woman’s chronicle,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Marilyn Hacker
Selected Poems: 1965-1990

The Crying Cock

July 16, 2017

Many questions plague
My curious mind,
Which often strays
Along sex and gender lines.

Why must a man be tough?
Why must a man be powerful?
Why must a man be impermeable to pain?

I suspect an unhealthy link
Exists between a man’s brain and head-
Simultaneously connecting
Identity, ego, and weakness.

I’m just going to flat out say it…

A man’s penis is fragile.
A man’s penis is weak.
A man’s penis is sensitive.

With a malicious flick of a finger,
A man can be brought to his knees.
With a hastily misplaced thrust,
His manhood can be snapped like a twig…

Long before a vagina,
Practically designed to take a beating, will.
Which begs the question…
Which is the weaker sex?

Indie Rod

Thoughts

July 16, 2017

The expanded edition of ‘bone’ by Yrsa Daley-Ward with penguin books will be available online and in bookstores on Tuesday, September 26th. 2017.
PRE-ORDER NOW AVAILABLE.
on
Amazon US – http://bit.ly/PreOrderBone
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and
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My Demons

July 16, 2017

Too much

July 16, 2017

Sunday cum

July 16, 2017

The human trap

July 16, 2017

16th July

He said, ‘Put your face down there,’ and guided her head lower. She lightly kissed his belly before taking him into her mouth –

She became like a she-wolf feasting on flesh – he cried out in pleasure, pain, terror, and she smiled as she feasted, sucking the very soul from his body in that fractured moment of time –

A wild thing, was she. Feral and ferocious – and, oh, so greedy! She felt liquid fire in her veins and the moon filling her head –

Gradually she released her claw-like grip, licked the remains of his soul from her lips, and spoke in a low growl. She said, ‘I’d like to keep you chained in my wardrobe. I’d have you there to kiss whenever I wanted. Have you there to fuck when I felt desire. See how eager I am? I came to you without shoes or clothes, dressed only in my fine grey fur. Yes, my love tastes of bitterness, and like the wild rose I’ve been covered in thorns. I will make a crown of thorns for you to wear in my wardrobe…my den. Your prison. And only I will see. Only I – ’

He lay silent an still beneath her. She breathed her life into his motionless mouth, and said, ‘You’re as nothing now. Nothing but what I mould you into. My pet, my dog. My slave. You are nothing but a blank canvass on which I can paint my darkest fantasies. You will be whatever I tell you to be. You have no choice. There is no other way -’

#

He knew she could cut his soul into a million pieces. Once, in a corn file, he’d heard the sound of raindrops whispering on her bare flesh. It was a poetry, softly recited on breasts, belly and buttocks, which came back to haunt him again and again. Another time she wrote him a love letter, the only one, and it was full of sadness and despair –