Women's History Month

 

March is Women's History Month, so I thought I'd share a select few poems written by women about women. I've kept the last several posts simple and stress-free, which has allowed me to continue with this blog. Balancing demands and life require cutting back a bit. The direction is going forward, and not in reverse (thank goodness!) with respect to the next book, but I'm taking my time with it. In addition to painting with acrylics, I've revisited using watercolors and remember how much I loved it. Slowing the pace with everything is needed. 

As always, thanks for checking in and reading what I share.

A Suggested Campaign Song

Alice Duer Miller - 1874-1942

(“No brass bands. No speeches. Instead a still, silent, effective influence.”—Anti-suffrage speech.)

We are waging—can you doubt it?
   A campaign so calm and still
No one knows a thing about it
   And we hope they never will.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   And we hope they never will.

We are ladylike and quiet,
   Here a whisper—there a hint;
Never speeches, bands or riot,
   Nothing suitable for print.
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
   For we never speak for print.

Sometimes in profound seclusion,
   In some far (but homelike) spot,
We will make a dark allusion:
   “We’re opposed to you-know-what.”
          No one knows
          What we oppose,
For we call it “You-Know-What.”

Alice Paul

Katharine Rolston Fisher - 1871-1949

I watched a river of women,
Rippling purple, white and golden,
Stream toward the National Capitol.

Along its border,
Like a purple flower floating,
Moved a young woman, worn, wraithlike.
All eyes alight, keenly observing the marchers.
Out there on the curb, she looked so little, so lonely,
Few appeared even to see her;
No one saluted her.

Yet commander was she of the column, its leader;
She was the spring whence arose that irresistible river of women
Streaming steadily towards the National Capitol.

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl (443)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— 

Life's little duties do—precisely— 

As the very least  

Were infinite—to me— 

    

I put new Blossoms in the Glass— 

And throw the old—away— 

I push a petal from my gown  

That anchored there—I weigh  

The time 'twill be till six o'clock  

I have so much to do— 

And yet—Existence—some way back— 

Stopped—struck—my ticking—through— 

We cannot put Ourself away  

As a completed Man  

Or Woman—When the Errand's done  

We came to Flesh—upon— 

There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought— 

Of Action—sicker far— 

To simulate—is stinging work— 

To cover what we are  

From Science—and from Surgery— 

Too Telescopic Eyes  

To bear on us unshaded— 

For their—sake—not for Ours— 

Twould start them— 

We—could tremble— 

But since we got a Bomb— 

And held it in our Bosom— 

Nay—Hold it—it is calm— 

    

Therefore—we do life's labor— 

Though life's Reward—be done— 

With scrupulous exactness— 

To hold our Senses—on—

Oughta Be a Woman

June Jordan - 1936-2002

Washing the floors to send you to college
Staying at home so you can feel safe
What do you think is the soul of her knowledge
What do you think that makes her feel safe

Biting her lips and lowering her eyes
To make sure there's food on the table
What do you think would be her surprise
If the world was as willing as she's able

Hugging herself in an old kitchen chair
She listens to your hurt and your rage
What do you think she knows of despair
What is the aching of age

The fathers, the children, the brothers
Turn to her and everybody white turns to her
What about her turning around
Alone in the everyday light

There oughta be a woman can break
Down, sit down, break down, sit down
Like everybody else call it quits on Mondays
Blues on Tuesdays, sleep until Sunday
Down, sit down, break down, sit down

A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Courage that cries out at night
A way outa no way is flesh outa flesh
Bravery kept outa sight
A way outa no way is too much to ask
Too much of a task for any one woman

And a favorite, which I shared here in 2016:

After A While (Comes the Dawn)

By Veronica Shoffstall 

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open,

With the grace of a woman,
Not the grief of a child

And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine
Burns if you get too much

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

And you learn that you really can endure…
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth,
and you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.

Comes the Dawn

I'd like to start this blog post by mentioning that I'll be participating in the 6th annual Bookstock-Memphis Area Author's Festival on Saturday, April 23 at Benjamin Hooks Central Library in Memphis, Tennessee. More details will be shared once I receive them, and I'm honored to be included in this event that's sponsored by the Memphis Public Library.

Now to explain the title of this post. Anyone (particularly those of a certain older age) who moves from one location to another knows the work and stress it takes to get to that new stage in your life. In our attempt to downsize, we go through boxes that have been stored in the basement or on closet shelves; we sort through things we'd like to keep, items we can donate to charity and some things that simply need to be tossed onto the garbage heap. I did this recently (moving from Chicago to Memphis due to my husband's new job) and found a scrapbook that I put together as a teenager. On one of the pages was a poem that I'd cut and pasted from some publication. I think it resonates with most women, regardless of age, because the words can apply to various stages of life. 

Titled Comes the Dawn, the poem's author was listed as Unknown on my scrapbook page. After searching online, I found that the work has been attributed to three authors: Veronica A. Shoffstall (with a different title, After a While), Judith Evans, and Jorge Luis Borges (Argentina, 1899-1986). I have no idea who really wrote it, but it seems the popular consensus is Shoffstall, who gave a copyright date of 1971 to the poem. 

I'd like to share the words here. To the author of this lovely piece: thank you for the simple, beautiful words to Comes the Dawn (After a While).

                                             

After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats

With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today,

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn

That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong,

And you really do have worth.

And you learn and learn...

                                             With every goodbye you learn.