2 Diverse Poems by Diverse Women

As always, click on the titles to see more about each poet, and why she wrote her work posted here.

1951, Brenda Hillman 1951 –

Was it odd to be born?

Was it odd to be born
when women wore rick-rack

& the sun was a bracelet of yes?

When wind bent dandelions in puffy winglets,
& wisdom did raise her voice & not say weed &

when the toad did raise its spikes at the same time
as federal codes
& the try-to-be-perfect raised its voice?

Did the clang of copper collectors & the too-many lawns
begin in Arizona

while peel-paint steeples rose over dirt for the prism
of progress,

minerals torn from mines with no mouths
but you had a mouth & sang early?

When nuclear testing began north of love
& the Remington computer was placed in office use,

when there was just as much beauty & sex as later,
while some lay down at drive-ins in Chevies on seats
the color of crushed
berries & phone calls went up to a dime?

When Congress loaned money to countries because their grains had
ancient fungus claviceps purpuria that caused
visions & swelling
under the silent claw of the predator?

Was shame in you born before beauty?
Was beauty was shame was beauty?

As white gravel spread under the white churches
as silver sequins on danceless
dresses tacked on each
“hanging by a thread”

like drops of sweat on horses at the city’s edge

while downcast daisies were mimicked on sisterly aprons
catching sugars from women making pudding from boxes
under swamp coolers

with slightly mildewy pads in a breeze
created for doing housework by yourself?

Was it odd to be born when two
types of purslane in the west were called weed,
even agave used to make soap,
though it was home to the yucca moth, central & sweet, its

terminal clusters piercing thunderheads over red pick-up trucks,

& lowly dogbane hiding from developers with sibling roots
     of fungi with “no downsides to pesticides”
            & florets like diamond periods on certain fonts
                                    also were called weed?

Was it odd to be born near hillsides with radars
        like baby ears of question marks

     under the silent claw of the predator,
when mountains shook toward sabino canyons

& there was Jello salad at picnics?

Here from this century can you say
was it wild to be born?

Was there anything else like this, anything at all?

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Failed Poems, Jessica Abughattas

will crawl out of the drain and try to kill you
like some 80s horror flick. The picture of us at the Santa Fe
Railyard, foreheads glistening. The black widow creeping
from the mound of linens still warm from our bodies. Mechanical
hum of crickets when you push into me in the middle of the night, when
I can’t sleep and the years replay like a foreign movie, a terrible one
where the voices sound underwater. Failed poems will steal
your breath when you wake parched, hungover, emptied
in a room full of the steady buzz of the refrigerator.
When all that excites you is momentary, an earthquake in which
all the books shake in place, and nothing falls. No one ever reads
failed poems, but they follow you home in the dark and tuck in
beside you. Failed poems are cute grim reapers that live in cartoon snowcaps.
They’re midnight döner kebabs that give you heartburn.
Once, in Zurich, we were served rabbit paella at a party
celebrating an exhibition of an artist from Venice Beach
who used to be homeless but drinks $25 Erewhon smoothies and paints
hundreds maybe thousands of happy faces with his feet. His canvasses
go for $25,000. Toe paintings are better or at least significantly
more profitable than failed poems. Failed poems won’t help you
earn a living. You will probably have to do freelance marketing
to sustain the creation of failed poems. Failed poems accrue interest.
They seep into dreams where all your friends line up to blow
your husband. They cost a monthly cloud subscription to maintain.
Failed poems are injected into your father’s veins when he ODs
for the second time this year. They’re shared to infinity
when you’re canceled for fringe political views. When you’re six
feet under, a failed poem is written on your head. It’s a prayer
in the form of a failed poem, the last words
you hear on earth

A Piece Of Beauty

Before

One From Worriedman

Calm was the even, and clear was the sky,/ And the new budding flowers did spring,/ When all alone went Amyntas and I/ To hear the sweet nightingale sing; by Worriedman Read on Substack

“Song: Calm was the even, and clear was the sky”. By John Dryden

Fun poem ! Bawdy! Go read it!

The whole poem-

The Poetry Foundation’ s biography of Dryden is quite good. I like the sound of his poetry. It’s good to read aloud. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/john-dryden

“Fenn, did you see what happened to the Lemon Oreos I left on the table?”

My desktop at work

Hellebores

Amaryllis! At home –

At work –

Greenhouse sunrise

I spent some time with Barncat tonight

I had a great time out with Amos and the Minions .

I took a bunch of pictures – I’ll use them this weekend.

That’s all I got room for – thanks for dropping by! (snip)

Friday Poetry

Rx for Fascism (Sonnet) – Abhijit Naskar, Neurosonnets (Final Cover)

A Kitty Name Poem, with A Mule, Too

The Naming of Cats by Worriedman

T. S. Eliot Read on Substack

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,

Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,

Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—

All of them sensible everyday names.

There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:

Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—

But all of them sensible everyday names,

But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,

A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,

Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,

Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,

Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum— Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,

And that is the name that you never will guess;

The name that no human research can discover—

But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation

Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular name.

Barn cat is a righteous little storm of constant movement. I have to take four pictures to everyone I can use – sometimes more. Here’s the first nine pictures I took for this session.

It’s always worth the patience!

The Mule was on the Top of the Hill.

All is well

(snip)

Some Thoughts I Share With This Poet-

when the day’s temp has exceeded 70 degrees. Time to think about the weather again! (Still!)

Late February

I Have Been Remiss

with the Worriedman farm/garden posts. I apologize, but the weather is warming, Ollie can go out, and we like to play in the backyard, which also runs off stress for both of us. So I did that yesterday, and plan to do it some more later on today, but here’s a nice post right quick:

Amongst the flowers I am alone with my pot of wine drinking by myself; then lifting my cup I asked the moon to drink with me – by Worriedman

Li Po- Alone and Drinking Under the Moon Read on Substack

The rest of the poem- it’s fine! You should go read it.

I considered rewriting this – I was going to call it Alone and Smoking Under The Moon – After a Poem By Li Po (Amongst the flowers I am alone with my pot, smoking by myself; then, lifting my pipe I asked the moon to smoke with me -) I didn’t though. Li Po was a badass. His life would make a good novel.

On the way out to feed the horse – if Hopper has painted Ohio barns.

Barncat came down from the hayloft.

Amos !

Huck demonstrates his boundary issues.

That’s all I have room for – thanks for dropping by!

I Just Really Like This Apropos To Nothing Current-Event Related; I Would Really Like It Anyway-

2000 Sonnets of Naskar – Mammoth Compilations

Two More Poems I Ran Across Yesterday,

posted in observance of Black History Month. The titles link to the pages with more info about the poet and their works.

Surrender

Angelina Weld Grimké 1880 – 1958

We ask for peace. We, at the bound
O life, are weary of the round
In search of Truth. We know the quest
Is not for us, the vision blest
Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned,
We go, with heads bowed to the ground,
And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned.
Let us forget the past unrest,—
We ask for peace.

Our strainéd ears are deaf,—no sound
May reach them more; no sight may wound
Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best,
And, while we totter down the West,
Unto that last, that open mound,—
We ask for peace.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 8, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

=============================

Expectancy

William Moore

I do not care for sleep, I’ll wait awhile
For Love to come out of the darkness, wait
For laughter, gifted with the frequent fate
Of dusk-lit hope, to touch me with the smile
Of moon and star and joy of that last mile
Before I reach the sea. The ships are late
And mayhap laden with the precious freight
Dawn brings from Life’s eternal summer isle.

And should I find the sweeter fruits of dream—
The oranges of love and mating song—
I’ll laugh so true the morn will gayly seem
Endless and ships full laden with a throng
Of beauty, dreams and loves will come to me
Out of the surge of yonder silver sea.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 9, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.