Future Plans

Photo by Ravi Patel on Unsplash

When I am an old, old woman I may very well be

living all alone like many another before me

and I rather look forward to the day when I shall have

a tumbledown house on a hill top and behave

just as I wish to. No more need to be proud—

at the tag end of life one is at last allowed

to be answerable to no one. Then I shall wear

a shapeless felt hat clapped on over my white hair,

sneakers with holes for the toes, and a ragged dress.

My house shall be always in a deep-drifted mess,

my overgrown garden a jungle. I shall keep a crew

of cats and dogs, with perhaps a goat or two

for my agate-eyed familiars. And what delight

I shall take in the vagaries of day and night,

in the wind in the branches, in the rain on the roof!

I shall toss like an old leaf, weather-mad, without reproof.

I’ll wake when I please, and when I please I shall doze;

whatever I think, I shall say; and I suppose

that with such a habit of speech I’ll be let well alone

to mumble plain truth like an old dog with a bare bone.

~ Kate Barnes

(from Where the Deer Were)

Which Has More Patience -- Man or Woman?

Image by Mabel Amber from Pixabay

As my letter must be brief,

I'll at once state my belief,

And this it is -- that, since the world began,

And Adam first did say,

"'Twas Eve led me astray,"

A woman hath more patience than a man.

If a man's obliged to wait

For some one who's rather late,

No mortal ever got in such a stew,

And if something can't be found

That he's sure should be around,

The listening air sometimes grows fairly blue.

Just watch a man who tries

To soothe a baby's cries;

Or put a stove pipe up in weather cold,

Into what a state he'll get;

How he'll fuss and fume and fret

And stamp and bluster round and storm and scold!

Some point to Job with pride,

As an argument for their side!

Why, it was so rare a patient man to see,

That when one was really found,

His discoverers were bound

To preserve for him a place in history!

And while I admit it's true

That man has some patience too,

And that woman isn't always sweetly calm,

Still I think all must agree

On this central fact -- that she

For central all-round patience bears the palm.

~  Lucy Maud Montgomery

Woman Unborn

Source: Favim

I am not born as yet,

five minutes before my birth.

I can still go back

into my unbirth.

Now it’s ten minutes before,

now, it’s one hour before birth.

I go back,

I run

into my minus life.

I walk through my unbirth as in a tunnel

with bizarre perspectives.

Ten years before,

a hundred and fifty years before,

I walk, my steps thump,

a fantastic journey through epochs

in which there was no me.

How long is my minus life,

nonexistence so much resembles immortality.

Here is Romanticism, where I could have been a spinster,

Here is the Renaissance, where I would have been

an ugly and unloved wife of an evil husband,

The Middle Ages, where I would have carried water in a tavern.

I walk still further,

what an echo,

my steps thump

through my minus life,

through the reverse of life.

I reach Adam and Eve,

nothing is seen anymore, it’s dark.

Now my nonexistence dies already

with the trite death of mathematical fiction.

As trite as the death of my existence would have been

had I been really born.

~ Anna Świrszczyńska

(Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan)

Baskets

Source: City of Vancouver, Washington 

1.

It is a good thing,

in the marketplace

the old woman trying to decide

among the lettuces,

impartial, weighing the heads,

examining

the outer leaves, even

sniffing them to catch

a scent of earth

of which, on one head,

some trace remains—not

the substance but

the residue—so

she prefers it to

the other, more

estranged heads, it

being freshest: nodding briskly at the vendor's wife,

she makes this preference known,

an old woman, yet

vigorous in judgment.

2.

The circle of the world—

in its midst, a dog

sits at the edge of the fountain.

The children playing there,

coming and going from the village,

pause to greet him, the impulsive

loving interest in play,

in the little village of sticks

adorned with blue fragments of pottery;

they squat beside the dog

who stretches in the hot dust:

arrows of sunlight

dance around him.

Now, in the field beyond,

some great event is ending.

In twos and threes, boldly

swinging their shirts,

the athletes stroll away, scattering

red and blue, blue and dazzling purple

over the plain ground,

over the trivial surface.

3.

Lord, who gave me

my solitude, I watch

the sun descending:

in the marketplace

the stalls empty, the remaining children

bicker at the fountain—

But even at night, when it can't be seen,

the flame of the sun

still heats the pavements.

That's why, on earth,

so much life's sprung up,

because the sun maintains

steady warmth at its periphery.

Does this suggest your meaning:

that the game resumes,

in the dust beneath

the infant god of the fountain;

there is nothing fixed,

there is no assurance of death—

4.

I take my basket to the brazen market,

to the gathering place.

I ask you, how much beauty

can a person bear? It is

heavier than ugliness, even the burden

of emptiness is nothing beside it.

Crates of eggs, papaya, sacks of yellow lemons—

I am not a strong woman. It isn't easy

to want so much, to walk

with such a heavy basket, either

bent reed, or willow.

~ Louise Glück

Baskets

Source: City of Vancouver, Washington 

1.

It is a good thing,

in the marketplace

the old woman trying to decide

among the lettuces,

impartial, weighing the heads,

examining

the outer leaves, even

sniffing them to catch

a scent of earth

of which, on one head,

some trace remains—not

the substance but

the residue—so

she prefers it to

the other, more

estranged heads, it

being freshest: nodding briskly at the vendor's wife,

she makes this preference known,

an old woman, yet

vigorous in judgment.

2.

The circle of the world—

in its midst, a dog

sits at the edge of the fountain.

The children playing there,

coming and going from the village,

pause to greet him, the impulsive

loving interest in play,

in the little village of sticks

adorned with blue fragments of pottery;

they squat beside the dog

who stretches in the hot dust:

arrows of sunlight

dance around him.

Now, in the field beyond,

some great event is ending.

In twos and threes, boldly

swinging their shirts,

the athletes stroll away, scattering

red and blue, blue and dazzling purple

over the plain ground,

over the trivial surface.

3.

Lord, who gave me

my solitude, I watch

the sun descending:

in the marketplace

the stalls empty, the remaining children

bicker at the fountain—

But even at night, when it can't be seen,

the flame of the sun

still heats the pavements.

That's why, on earth,

so much life's sprung up,

because the sun maintains

steady warmth at its periphery.

Does this suggest your meaning:

that the game resumes,

in the dust beneath

the infant god of the fountain;

there is nothing fixed,

there is no assurance of death—

4.

I take my basket to the brazen market,

to the gathering place.

I ask you, how much beauty

can a person bear? It is

heavier than ugliness, even the burden

of emptiness is nothing beside it.

Crates of eggs, papaya, sacks of yellow lemons—

I am not a strong woman. It isn't easy

to want so much, to walk

with such a heavy basket, either

bent reed, or willow.

~ Louise Glück

Epitaph for a Romantic Woman

Source: Favim 

She has attained the permanence

She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.

Untended stalks blow over her

Even and swift, like young men running.

Always in the heart she loved

Others had lived,—she heard their laughter.

She lies where none has lain before,

Where certainly none will follow after.

~ Louise Bogan

Epitaph for a Romantic Woman

Source: Favim 

She has attained the permanence

She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.

Untended stalks blow over her

Even and swift, like young men running.

Always in the heart she loved

Others had lived,—she heard their laughter.

She lies where none has lain before,

Where certainly none will follow after.

~ Louise Bogan

Wonder Woman

Source: Unknown/Favim

Sometimes I see reflections on bits of glass on sidewalks
I catch the glimmer of empty bottles floating out to sea
Sometimes I stretch my arms way above my head and wonder if
There are women along the Mekong doing the same

Sometimes I state longingly at women who I will never know
Generous, laughing women with wrinkled cheeks and white teeth
Dragging along chubby, rosy-cheeked babies on fat, wobbly legs
sometimes I state at Chinese grandmothers
Getting on the 30  Stockton with shipping bags
Japanese women tourists in European hats
Middle-aged mothers with laundry carts
Young wives holding hands with their husbands
lesbian women holding hands in coffee-houses
Smiling debutantes with bouquets of yellow daffodils
Silver-haired matrons with silver rhinestoned poodles
Painted prostitutes posing along MacArthur boulevard
Giddy teenage girls snapping gum in fast cars
Widows clutching bibles, crucifixes

I look at them and wonder if
They are a part of me
I look in their eyes and wonder if
They share my dreams

I wonder if the woman in mink is content
If the stockbroker’s wife is afraid of growing old
If the professor’s wife is an alcoholic
If the woman in prison is me

There are copper-tanned women in Hyannis port playing tennis
Women who eat with finger bowls
There are women in factories punching time clocks
Women tired every waking hour of the day

I wonder why there are women born with silver-spoons in their mouths
women who have never known a day of hunger
Women who have never changed their own bed linens
And I wonder why there are women who must work
Women who must clean other women’s houses
Women who must shell shrimps for pennies a day
Women who must sew other women’s clothes
Who must cook
Who must die
In childbirth
In dreams

Why must women stand divided?
Building the walls that tear them down?
Jill-of-all-trades
Lover, mother, housewife, friend, breadwinner
Heart and spade
A woman is a ritual
A house that must accommodate
A house that must endure
Generation after generation
Of wind and torment, of fire and rain
A house with echoing rooms
Closets with hidden cries
Walls with stretchmarks
Windows with eyes

Short, tall, skinny, fat
Pregnant, married, white, yellow, black, brown, red
Professional, working-class, aristocrat
Women cooking over coals in sampans
Women shining tiffany spoons in glass houses
Women stretching their arms way above the clouds
In Samarkand, in San Francisco
Along the Mekong

~ Genny Lim

Wonder Woman

Source: Unknown/Favim

Sometimes I see reflections on bits of glass on sidewalks
I catch the glimmer of empty bottles floating out to sea
Sometimes I stretch my arms way above my head and wonder if
There are women along the Mekong doing the same

Sometimes I state longingly at women who I will never know
Generous, laughing women with wrinkled cheeks and white teeth
Dragging along chubby, rosy-cheeked babies on fat, wobbly legs
sometimes I state at Chinese grandmothers
Getting on the 30  Stockton with shipping bags
Japanese women tourists in European hats
Middle-aged mothers with laundry carts
Young wives holding hands with their husbands
lesbian women holding hands in coffee-houses
Smiling debutantes with bouquets of yellow daffodils
Silver-haired matrons with silver rhinestoned poodles
Painted prostitutes posing along MacArthur boulevard
Giddy teenage girls snapping gum in fast cars
Widows clutching bibles, crucifixes

I look at them and wonder if
They are a part of me
I look in their eyes and wonder if
They share my dreams

I wonder if the woman in mink is content
If the stockbroker’s wife is afraid of growing old
If the professor’s wife is an alcoholic
If the woman in prison is me

There are copper-tanned women in Hyannis port playing tennis
Women who eat with finger bowls
There are women in factories punching time clocks
Women tired every waking hour of the day

I wonder why there are women born with silver-spoons in their mouths
women who have never known a day of hunger
Women who have never changed their own bed linens
And I wonder why there are women who must work
Women who must clean other women’s houses
Women who must shell shrimps for pennies a day
Women who must sew other women’s clothes
Who must cook
Who must die
In childbirth
In dreams

Why must women stand divided?
Building the walls that tear them down?
Jill-of-all-trades
Lover, mother, housewife, friend, breadwinner
Heart and spade
A woman is a ritual
A house that must accommodate
A house that must endure
Generation after generation
Of wind and torment, of fire and rain
A house with echoing rooms
Closets with hidden cries
Walls with stretchmarks
Windows with eyes

Short, tall, skinny, fat
Pregnant, married, white, yellow, black, brown, red
Professional, working-class, aristocrat
Women cooking over coals in sampans
Women shining tiffany spoons in glass houses
Women stretching their arms way above the clouds
In Samarkand, in San Francisco
Along the Mekong

~ Genny Lim

The Woman in Black

Source: Denver Post

She made the sign of the cross
in front of each one
the flame of the candle flickering
in the breath of her words
which she whispered with care
lest the gods
missed the meaning

They, at ease in their frames
complacent in their robes of
rich reds and old gold,
they gazed just above the knot of
her scarf at the street in the sun.
So bored, all of them
with this stubborn persistence
that would have them take note.

~ Antigone Kefala

The Woman in Black

Source: Denver Post

She made the sign of the cross
in front of each one
the flame of the candle flickering
in the breath of her words
which she whispered with care
lest the gods
missed the meaning

They, at ease in their frames
complacent in their robes of
rich reds and old gold,
they gazed just above the knot of
her scarf at the street in the sun.
So bored, all of them
with this stubborn persistence
that would have them take note.

~ Antigone Kefala

At The Gate Of A Hospital

Paul McCarthy, Mannequin Head, 1995, Courtesy The Dakis Joannou Collection, Athens.

Lo! Who is being down loaded,
From the ambulance,
Covered with the bed sheet,
All spotted with blood,
And now tossing for life?
Her swollen belly portends,
That it contains a pre-born babe.
Oh! They tell she has been shot,
By her husband: the crown of head,
For not affording,
The substance for drink;
She was spared no more,
Though six children she bore.

Lo! Who has been brought,
Lying on the cot,
All scratched, nailed,
Bitten and torn,
As if the dogs,
Have exercised well their skill,
In the same way,
When they prey upon the deer?
Oh! They say she was raped,
By the men twelve,
They let loose appetite,
Of their bestial nature,
They always remained unpunished,
In the plagued system.
Now the cameramen zoom around,
For the public display,
To rag her remaining honour,
And a few men of law,
With the heavy round bellies,
Move helplessly.

Lo! Who has been brought,
Wrapped in a blanket,
With singed, burnt face,
Too horrible to see,
Shreds from her arms,
Are lurking loose,
Making the bones naked,
Yet she breathes,
Huffing like a furnace,
Her eyes exhibit,
Display a state of horror?
Oh! They tell she was burnt,
For restraining, preventing,
The husband: the guardian,
From fourth love marriage.

~ Shahida Latif

At The Gate Of A Hospital

Paul McCarthy, Mannequin Head, 1995, Courtesy The Dakis Joannou Collection, Athens.

Lo! Who is being down loaded,
From the ambulance,
Covered with the bed sheet,
All spotted with blood,
And now tossing for life?
Her swollen belly portends,
That it contains a pre-born babe.
Oh! They tell she has been shot,
By her husband: the crown of head,
For not affording,
The substance for drink;
She was spared no more,
Though six children she bore.

Lo! Who has been brought,
Lying on the cot,
All scratched, nailed,
Bitten and torn,
As if the dogs,
Have exercised well their skill,
In the same way,
When they prey upon the deer?
Oh! They say she was raped,
By the men twelve,
They let loose appetite,
Of their bestial nature,
They always remained unpunished,
In the plagued system.
Now the cameramen zoom around,
For the public display,
To rag her remaining honour,
And a few men of law,
With the heavy round bellies,
Move helplessly.

Lo! Who has been brought,
Wrapped in a blanket,
With singed, burnt face,
Too horrible to see,
Shreds from her arms,
Are lurking loose,
Making the bones naked,
Yet she breathes,
Huffing like a furnace,
Her eyes exhibit,
Display a state of horror?
Oh! They tell she was burnt,
For restraining, preventing,
The husband: the guardian,
From fourth love marriage.

~ Shahida Latif

A Young Woman, A Tree

The life spills over, some days.
She cannot be at rest,
Wishes she could explode

Like that red tree—
The one that bursts into fire
All this week.

Senses her infinite smallness
But can’t seize it,
Recognizes the folly of desire,

The folly of withdrawal—
Kicks at the curb, the pavement,
If only she could, at this moment,

When what she’s doing is plodding
To the bus stop, to go to school,
Passing that fiery tree—if only she could

Be making love,
Be making a painting,
Be exploding, be speeding through the universe

Like a photon, like a shower
Of yellow flames—
She believes if she could only catch up

With the riding rhythm of things, of her own electrons,
Then she would be at rest—
If she could forget school,

Climb the tree,
Be the tree,
burn like that.

~ Alicia Ostriker

A Young Woman, A Tree

The life spills over, some days.
She cannot be at rest,
Wishes she could explode

Like that red tree—
The one that bursts into fire
All this week.

Senses her infinite smallness
But can’t seize it,
Recognizes the folly of desire,

The folly of withdrawal—
Kicks at the curb, the pavement,
If only she could, at this moment,

When what she’s doing is plodding
To the bus stop, to go to school,
Passing that fiery tree—if only she could

Be making love,
Be making a painting,
Be exploding, be speeding through the universe

Like a photon, like a shower
Of yellow flames—
She believes if she could only catch up

With the riding rhythm of things, of her own electrons,
Then she would be at rest—
If she could forget school,

Climb the tree,
Be the tree,
burn like that.

~ Alicia Ostriker

One Train May Hide Another

Image: Claude La Riviere (Soundsangels)

(sign at a railroad crossing in Kenya)

In a poem, one line may hide another line,
As at a crossing, one train may hide another train.
That is, if you are waiting to cross
The tracks, wait to do it for one moment at
Least after the first train is gone. And so when you read
Wait until you have read the next line—
Then it is safe to go on reading.
In a family one sister may conceal another,
So, when you are courting, it’s best to have them all in view
Otherwise in coming to find one you may love another.
One father or one brother may hide the man,
If you are a woman, whom you have been waiting to love.
So always standing in front of something the other
As words stand in front of objects, feelings, and ideas.
One wish may hide another. And one person’s reputation may hide
The reputation of another. One dog may conceal another
On a lawn, so if you escape the first one you’re not necessarily safe;
One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs and on the Appia Antica one tomb
May hide a number of other tombs. In love, one reproach may hide another,
One small complaint may hide a great one.
One injustice may hide another—one colonial may hide another,
One blaring red uniform another, and another, a whole column. One bath may hide another bath
As when, after bathing, one walks out into the rain.
One idea may hide another: Life is simple
Hide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertrude Stein
One sentence hides another and is another as well. And in the laboratory
One invention may hide another invention,
One evening may hide another, one shadow, a nest of shadows.
One dark red, or one blue, or one purple—this is a painting
By someone after Matisse. One waits at the tracks until they pass,
These hidden doubles or, sometimes, likenesses. One identical twin
May hide the other. And there may be even more in there! The obstetrician
Gazes at the Valley of the Var. We used to live there, my wife and I, but
One life hid another life. And now she is gone and I am here.
A vivacious mother hides a gawky daughter. The daughter hides
Her own vivacious daughter in turn. They are in
A railway station and the daughter is holding a bag
Bigger than her mother’s bag and successfully hides it.
In offering to pick up the daughter’s bag one finds oneself confronted by the mother’s
And has to carry that one, too. So one hitchhiker
May deliberately hide another and one cup of coffee
Another, too, until one is over-excited. One love may hide another love or the same love
As when “I love you” suddenly rings false and one discovers
The better love lingering behind, as when “I’m full of doubts”
Hides “I’m certain about something and it is that”
And one dream may hide another as is well known, always, too. In the Garden of Eden
Adam and Eve may hide the real Adam and Eve.
Jerusalem may hide another Jerusalem.
When you come to something, stop to let it pass
So you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where,
Internal tracks pose dangers, too: one memory
Certainly hides another, that being what memory is all about,
The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities. Reading A Sentimental Journey look around
When you have finished, for Tristram Shandy, to see
If it is standing there, it should be, stronger
And more profound and theretofore hidden as Santa Maria Maggiore
May be hidden by similar churches inside Rome. One sidewalk
May hide another, as when you’re asleep there, and
One song hide another song; a pounding upstairs
Hide the beating of drums. One friend may hide another, you sit at the foot of a tree
With one and when you get up to leave there is another
Whom you’d have preferred to talk to all along. One teacher,
One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one man
May hide another. Pause to let the first one pass.
You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It can be important
To have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.

~ Kenneth Koch

One Train May Hide Another

Image: Claude La Riviere (Soundsangels)

(sign at a railroad crossing in Kenya)

In a poem, one line may hide another line,
As at a crossing, one train may hide another train.
That is, if you are waiting to cross
The tracks, wait to do it for one moment at
Least after the first train is gone. And so when you read
Wait until you have read the next line—
Then it is safe to go on reading.
In a family one sister may conceal another,
So, when you are courting, it’s best to have them all in view
Otherwise in coming to find one you may love another.
One father or one brother may hide the man,
If you are a woman, whom you have been waiting to love.
So always standing in front of something the other
As words stand in front of objects, feelings, and ideas.
One wish may hide another. And one person’s reputation may hide
The reputation of another. One dog may conceal another
On a lawn, so if you escape the first one you’re not necessarily safe;
One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs and on the Appia Antica one tomb
May hide a number of other tombs. In love, one reproach may hide another,
One small complaint may hide a great one.
One injustice may hide another—one colonial may hide another,
One blaring red uniform another, and another, a whole column. One bath may hide another bath
As when, after bathing, one walks out into the rain.
One idea may hide another: Life is simple
Hide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertrude Stein
One sentence hides another and is another as well. And in the laboratory
One invention may hide another invention,
One evening may hide another, one shadow, a nest of shadows.
One dark red, or one blue, or one purple—this is a painting
By someone after Matisse. One waits at the tracks until they pass,
These hidden doubles or, sometimes, likenesses. One identical twin
May hide the other. And there may be even more in there! The obstetrician
Gazes at the Valley of the Var. We used to live there, my wife and I, but
One life hid another life. And now she is gone and I am here.
A vivacious mother hides a gawky daughter. The daughter hides
Her own vivacious daughter in turn. They are in
A railway station and the daughter is holding a bag
Bigger than her mother’s bag and successfully hides it.
In offering to pick up the daughter’s bag one finds oneself confronted by the mother’s
And has to carry that one, too. So one hitchhiker
May deliberately hide another and one cup of coffee
Another, too, until one is over-excited. One love may hide another love or the same love
As when “I love you” suddenly rings false and one discovers
The better love lingering behind, as when “I’m full of doubts”
Hides “I’m certain about something and it is that”
And one dream may hide another as is well known, always, too. In the Garden of Eden
Adam and Eve may hide the real Adam and Eve.
Jerusalem may hide another Jerusalem.
When you come to something, stop to let it pass
So you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where,
Internal tracks pose dangers, too: one memory
Certainly hides another, that being what memory is all about,
The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities. Reading A Sentimental Journey look around
When you have finished, for Tristram Shandy, to see
If it is standing there, it should be, stronger
And more profound and theretofore hidden as Santa Maria Maggiore
May be hidden by similar churches inside Rome. One sidewalk
May hide another, as when you’re asleep there, and
One song hide another song; a pounding upstairs
Hide the beating of drums. One friend may hide another, you sit at the foot of a tree
With one and when you get up to leave there is another
Whom you’d have preferred to talk to all along. One teacher,
One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one man
May hide another. Pause to let the first one pass.
You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It can be important
To have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.

~ Kenneth Koch

The Woman I Am

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The woman I am
Hides deep in me
Beneath the woman
I seem to be.

She hides away
From the stranger’s eye—
She is not known
To the passers-by.

She goes her way,
The woman I seem,
But the woman I am
Withdraws to the dream!

The woman I seem
Goes carelessly—
When love goes by
Does not seem to see.

But the woman I am
Knows sudden fear…
And hides more deeply
When love draws near!

For love might look closely
Perhaps… and see
Her beneath the woman
I seem to be!

~ Roselle Mercier Montgomery

The Woman I Am

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The woman I am
Hides deep in me
Beneath the woman
I seem to be.

She hides away
From the stranger’s eye—
She is not known
To the passers-by.

She goes her way,
The woman I seem,
But the woman I am
Withdraws to the dream!

The woman I seem
Goes carelessly—
When love goes by
Does not seem to see.

But the woman I am
Knows sudden fear…
And hides more deeply
When love draws near!

For love might look closely
Perhaps… and see
Her beneath the woman
I seem to be!

~ Roselle Mercier Montgomery

Quote on uniqueness

Photo credit: acrylicartist from morguefile.com

She is not one of those people. She is her odd self. The kiln has been fired; she is a person persnickety about keeping her house clean but not above spitting on her desk to rub out a coffee stain; she will never be an athlete or a mathematician or a skinny person or someone whose heart isn't snagged by the sight of fireflies on a summer night and the lilting cadence of a few good lines of poetry.

~ Elizabeth Berg