Friday, February 02, 2007

Silent Poetry Day

Okay, in honor of this, I'm doing two entries today and leaving you with this--obviously written some years ago:


And I will never grow old
Because my students wear jeans and sneakers
And I will never die
Because my kids will remember MacBeth
So hush dear don’t you cry
Because Grandma’s can ride horses
And in the heart of every crone
Dwells a five year old in tears.
And I will never grow old
Because people wear jeans and sneakers
And I will never die
Because Orwell’s alive and well.
My daughter cries at night
because she doesn’t want to wrinkle
She prays to God that she
Will never grow old and die
But she will never grow old
Because I’ve seen her in jeans and sneakers
And she will never die
Because in my heart she’s always five.
My son’s heart hurt last night
Because he doesn’t want to die now
I told him to fall asleep,
When he awakes he’ll still be seven
My daughter made me cry
Because she doesn’t want to die now
I told her sleep, my child my child
To me you’ll always be five
And someday we’ll grow old
And someday we’ll wear pajamas
But we will never die
Because to God we’re always five


The lady in red said...

Sweet. I really like that poem. SInce I don't have a blog o'my own, I'm going to post a poem here. I wrote this after a conversation with my father about his disappointment over my gender. Yeah, he's father of the year.

For Lack of a Penis

Failed faery tales and disembodied dreams
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.

The men in my family,
Proud Mexican men
Have first born sons.
They have daughters too.
But not first,
Never first.
What then, was he to do with me.
The audacity with which I entered the world,
first in line, potentially the only one in line.
What was I thinking,
leaving my womb without my penis?
A mistake that would earn me a lifetime
of reminders of my inadequacies.
An affront to his masculinity, his machismo.
He blamed my mother,
said she didn't eat enough meat
to make a boy.
In seventh grade,
we learned about sex,
the kind you have and the kind you are.
Funny how one little stroke is all that separates
an X from a Y.
I told my father that he was to blame
for my lack of a penis.
That I hadn't forgotten it at all.
There was never a penis to forget.
Again with the audacity,
the affront,
and this time, it was me who didn't eat enough meat
to keep me sane.
God is punishing me he said, but I was the one who got the spanking.
He left.
Reproductive disappointment overwhelmed him.
Three sons could not make amends for
the usurper,
for me.

His failed faery tales and disembodied dreams,
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.
At least not by me.

Catie said...

This is such a cool idea. I love your poem Amy (and you too Lady). The one over at the Harlot is great too.

Amy Lane said...

The one on Yarn Harlot's blog made me actually cry--and the one by our Lady made me think that lady is A. a very good poet, B. a very strong person (I knew that already) and C. could not have been anything BUT a woman--the Goddess simply would not have allowed it at all.

Roxie said...

My dears, I am so awestruck I can't even formulate a limerick. Write on, Ladies! Write on!!

deborah oak said...

wow. both your poem and the lady in red's are GREAT!!!! If they aren't already noted, make sure they are at
where there's a growing list of the poetry posted for Brigid/Groundhog Day.