Sunday, November 17, 2013

ROTHKO'S EYES


I cannot entertain this truth
as being someone else’s.

I envision Cassandra
reaching out in her last moment,
retching 
from the stench of truth

And it is me.

I think of Iphigenia 
on that alter stone,
eyes gazing up at father’s

And it is me.

I watch with inward eye
as Clytemnestra plots Agamemnon’s death:
bath drawn,
knife stealthily concealed

And it is me.

“ROTHKO!” 
I shout, gazing on the Eagle.

And agonize,
conceiving corpses
cold before my coil was formed,

And It Is ME.

*The artist Mark Rothko’s
“Omen of The Eagle” was his response
to “The Orestia.” I offer this feminist
response to both works.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

ANNA'S LAST WALTZ


She danced in the air,
a mote in the gaslight
soft 
     and fragile,
her moment over 
too soon.

When she thought
of him
It was with a longing
for moments lost,

For a dance never
fully engaged in.

Raw silk
chafed at her neck,
this would be her last waltz.

One danced alone.

Her feet 
never touching the
cold, grey
cement  floor

Once the chair
was kicked aside
And all of her sadness
evaporated,
A mote in the gaslight.





Sunday, July 21, 2013

PORTLAND VIGNETTE


That night she watched as snow fell against the branches of the evergreen -- large, silent drops, cool and white drifting at its base. And the bamboo, soft and gentle dancing in the wind.
It was so beautiful, the way its shadows lay against the snow.
Sighing, she let the curtain drop as she drew her comforter from the chair.
Come July, she thought, the sun will warm me by the water and perhaps someone with a dog will be by my side to laugh and rest and dream with me.

Pushing the cap back from his face, he leaned forward and stoked the fire. 
For an instant he thought he caught the image of a woman flickering like sunlight on a mountain stream.
Come July, he thought, I’ll laugh with that woman by my side.

When they met each other at the new restaurant on The Willamette that Friday afternoon, they smiled and wondered if this could be the July they’d dreamt about that winter.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

A DAY AT THE BEACH


Seagrass wound,
entwined with strands of hair,
a mixture of grays and auburns.

She rose like Venus,
from the waves.
But the half-shell was gone,
nowhere to be seen.

Inside, she briefly felt
that lass of 20.

Outside, her frame and demeanor
reflected the years of life
she had enjoyed,
And sometimes endured.

He laid his hand upon her thigh.
She rejected the touch.
Too many memories borne heavily
in its weight.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

AGNES


I dab her pigment with a cotton swab,
soaked in alcohol.

Check for craquelure --

It seems she is the real thing:
a grandmother 
who, I can hold in memories eye
and study.

I must look at sketches
made before my form was conceived.

I must recall a photogravure image,
We shall call it “Woman with Bun,”
hair balanced softly above
a face reminiscent of my mother’s.

Who were you Agnes?
I hear there were horses.

I hear there were men
who shared your brief life.

What was it of Milton
that made you chose him
to father your daughter and son?

But then,
there was no choice for you.
You were of a different age.

What came to focus
briefly before your death?
What were your hopes
and dreams?

Did you worry on your deathbed
of a daughter and a son
left alone?

Did you consider the day
when I might follow you
in life?

You were of a different age.
Is it purely fancy to think we
would have had much in common?



Friday, June 14, 2013

WHEN LOVERS MEET


She translates herself
into a virgin.

The milk that would have fed
the god
flows from her breast
with the fluidity of modern French.

“Tu J’adore Monsieur Cochon.
You love me!
I travel on to mystic shores," she sings.

"La fleur de lis stitched to my heart,
The door to oysters’ sustenance awaits."

Friday, May 10, 2013

FEMINIST WRITING AS IT RELATES TO POSTCOLONIAL LITERATURE


In order to present the feminist perspective in your writing, you must teach your reader to reinterpret (eurocentric ? male?) cultural paradigms. 
  The writers of post-colonial third world nations strive to break from the imperialist-taught interpretations of the classics in order to write their own people’s reality. Similarly, the feminist writer must break away from canonically taught male pedagological interpretations of life.
  Actual relevance of life from a feminist perspective can only be projected when your reader is able to interpret your writing outside of the canonical male pedagological parameters. 
Ngugi wa Thiong’o, in his article “A Globalectical Imagination,” applies this concept for developing a relevant reading of the European  (imperial) classics in postcolonial cultures:
“Today, a Fanonian reading of Shakespeare would yield contemporary relevance even for students outside of the imperial perimeters.”
  Thiong’o then notes how through an imperial interpretation “Macbeth’s bloody dagger” could be explained as “the result of blind ambition, a fatal character flaw.”
  Freeing the reader’s interpretation from that imperial paradigm, allows the reader to see the bloody dagger as reflecting how “imperial nations had taken power by the sword, maintained it by the sword and the colonized could only grab it back by the sword” he writes. 
  Thiaong’o continues, “It’s not just Shakespeare, Goethe or Balzac. A certain reading of postcolonial literature can equally straitjacket the ethical and aesthetic vision (I would add, “of your reader as she interprets the postcolonial writer’s work.”)
  Similarly, a reader of the feminist writer’s work can equally be “straitjacketed” by interpreting what she reads in canonical eurocentric paradigms and miss the concepts the writer is presenting. To avoid this happening, you must train your reader to reinterpret outside of that straitjacket.