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[ophelias-sister.livejournal.com]

The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still though run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars may'st though roam.
In critic's hands beware though dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

--Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

Comments

The Woman and the Soul

[pelegrine.livejournal.com]

There was a woman kept a soul
in a box, all folded up
like a paper doll, and she'd take it out
and put the paper clothes on it
and fold the little paper tabs
to hold the clothes onto the soul.
Party clothes for parties
Shopping clothes for shopping
Wedding clothes for wedding
Swimming suit for swimming
Sexy suit for sex.
Afterward
she'd take off the clothes and fold them
and fold the soul and put it in the box.

After the wedding she discovered
that he had a box too,
that he kept in the garage.
She never saw him open it.
When the kids were grown she asked him once,
but he said he'd lost the key.
Mine never had a key, she said.
She'd been so busy with people and things
she hadn't thought about the box
for years. She found it in the attic
and opened it and took out the soul.

It had outgrown the clothes.
In the dark it was pale
but it looked all right.
After awhile it came downstairs
and lived in her closet with her clothes,
coming out sometimes
in the very early morning
to have breakfast with her.
And they talked.

When her husband died
she buried his box in the coffin with him
unopened and without a key.
The children came for the funeral
and the soul left the closet
and followed them around,
and the patted it and said, Good soul!
and went away again,
So she talked to it.
And it kept growing,
filling up all the rooms.
There she was in the house alone
with this huge soul.
It didn't fit.
It bulged out the windows.

One morning early
she opened all the doors
and the soul came outside.
Follow me, she said,
and went down to the beach.
Go on!
And the soul got as large as the sky,
like the rain clouds,
and ran across the sea with the south wind,
and went up with the mountains and down with
the rain,
How can I keep you now? she said.

Don't worry,
said the soul
It's my turn.
And it put her gently in the box
with all her pretty clothes
and kept her.

Thirteenth Moon, 1993
--Le Guin, Ursula K. (1929- )

Werewomen

[pelegrine.livejournal.com]

I want to go moonwalking
on it or under it I don't care
I just want to go moonwalking
alone.
Women in there sixties
don't go to the moon,
women in the cities
don't go out alone.
But I want O listen what I want
is to not be afraid.
Listen what I need is freedom.
Women in their sixties
think about dying,
women in the cities
think about dying,
all kinds of women
think about lying,
think about lying alone.
But listen there's a moon out there
and I don't want sex and I don't want death
and I don't want what you think I want
only to be a free woman.
What is that, a free woman,
a young free woman,
an old free woman?
Asking for the moon.
Women in there sixties
have no moon.
Women in the cities
howl at the moon.
All kinds of women
talk about walking alone.
When the moon is full
listen how the howl,
listen how the howl together.