Tag: poetry

by Sharon Olds

If I pass a mirror,  I turn away,
I do not want to look at her,
and she does not want to be seen. Sometimes
I don’t see exactly how to go on doing this.

Often, when I feel that way,
within a few minutes I am crying, remembering
his body, or an area of it,
his backside often, a part of him
just right now to think of, luscious, not too
detailed, and his back turned to me.

After tears, the chest is less sore,
as if some goddess of humanness
within us has caressed us with a gush of tenderness.

I guess that’s how people go on, without
knowing how. I am so ashamed
before my friends—to be known to be left
by the one who supposedly knew me best,
each hour is a room of shame, and I am
swimming, swimming, holding my head up,
smiling, joking, ashamed, ashamed,
like being naked with the clothed, or being
a child, having to try to behave
while hating the terms of your life.

In me now
there’s a being of sheer hate, like an angel
of hate. On the badminton lawn, she got
her one shot, pure as an arrow,
while through the eyelets of my blouse the no-see-ums
bit the flesh no one seems now
to care to touch.

In the mirror, the torso
looks like a pinup hives martyr,
or a cream pitcher speckled with henbit and pussy-paws,
full of the milk of human kindness
and unkindness, and no one is lining up to drink.

But look! I am starting to give him up!

I believe he is not coming back. Something
has died, inside me, believing that,
like the death of a crone in one twin bed
as a child is born in the other. Have faith,
old heart. What is living, anyway,
but dying.

by Judy Grahn

Her words pour out as if her throat were a broken artery
and her mind were cut-glass, carelessly handled.
You imagine her in a huge velvet hat with great
dangling black feathers, but she shaves her head instead
and goes for three-day midnight walks.

Sometimes she goes down to the dock and dances
off the end of it,
simply to prove her belief
that people who cannot walk on water are phonies,
or dead.

When she is cruel, she is very, very cool
and when she is kind she is lavish.
Fisherman think perhaps she’s a fish,
but they’re all fools.
She figured out that the only way
to keep from being frozen was to
stay in motion, and long ago converted
most of her flesh into liquid.

Now when she smells danger,
she spills herself all over,
like gasoline, and lights it.

She leaves the taste of salt and iron
under your tongue, but you don’t mind.
The common woman is as common as the reddest wine.