Women and Poetry 2- More Miss Maya

I love Maya Angelou. A stronger female voice I have yet to hear;
 a woman who inspires women to have their heads held high and
 act as if they own the world. Cause really, we do. : )



Still I Rise
by: Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Women and Poetry

Oddly enough, as much as I have always been into writing poetry, I have never taken a lot of time to read poetry. I can think of maybe a handful of good poetry I've read, or at least that has made enough of an impact for me to keep it fresh.

So, I'm asking for some recommendations. Anything to stir the soul, make you think, make you stop for just a minute. I'm going to add a weekly poem to the old blog here, and I'm looking for strong women's voices. Credit goes to whoever recommends the poet I post per week.

For now, we'll stick with an old favorite of mine, one that I think any woman can appreciate. Because underneath it all? We're all phenomenal. Sometimes, we just need someone to remind us...

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

A Brief Interlude

Thank you to those who wrote and inspired me to try it myself, please bear with me if I stumble over the words.

LIKE HIM

He taught me how to ride a bike, you told me I would fall.
So it sat for years, and gathered rust, I never rode that bike at all.
He played games with me that set a child's imagination free,
You played the games that instilled the fear I still have in me.

But, look at me, I think I'll make it,
I don't think that I could take it,
Being who I am today
You didn't have your way,
My life's a dream come true in the making,
The starts are all mine for the taking,
Maybe I should have thanked you all along,
You made me live to prove you wrong.

He worked his fingers to the bone, to provide more than we would need,
You took him for everything he had, may I never have the greed,
To methodically destroy,
This perfect little girl, little boy,
The way you tried so hard to do,
But maybe in a way I owe you.

For every time I watch my babies laugh, every time I hear their dreams,
I'll remember how it felt to have my world torn at the seams,
By hateful words and glances,
Then to have no second chances,
To make it right again,
Because you just don't, in the end.

I'm teaching them to ride their bikes, and I won't let them fall.
I guess you were right; maybe I'm just like him, after all.

I wrote this a few years back, to honor my father. The person I credit for the good in me, the strong without mean in me, the spine without anger. We had our trials, both of us being cut from the same stubborn cloth, and both of us victim to the same game, but we are closer now than we ever have been.

Every day, I wake up and remind myself I am not my mother. No one knows I do this, and I have never touched all too deeply on it, to anyone, exactly what has been left behind. I'm not even sure now if I can. But I think I need to, because as much as I've thought that the scars have faded, they really haven't. I remind myself I am not her, pray I never would be.... and in so many ways, I am. There is something inside me that I cannot quiet, a voice as familiar as my own face, that i detest more now than I ever did when I actually heard it day to day. There are walls and barriers, doubts and insecurities, built around my being that were being slowly put in place even as I sat and built toy walls with Lego blocks. And there are features, gestures, tones and words that I hate about myself, because they are hers.

Looking back, I can never remember a time when I wasn't afraid. Of people, of places, of trying new things. When I wasn't, I felt guilty and exhilarated at the same time. Now that I am older, the guilt is gone, and replaced with an almost child like glee, when I succeed at something, meet someone new, etc. And I feel sorry for that kid who missed out because you know, no one would ever truly love her, want her, be her friend. Ever. I feel sorry for me, still so self conscious of my lazy eye, my ugly feet, my awkward stance in a new setting. Then I get angry.

Being somewhat rational, I believe she was sick, emotionally. I've heard enough from various relatives and parents of friends to know there was something.. somewhere.. that went horribly wrong. Bipolar comes to mind, and seeing some of her in myself, it scares me. Sometimes, in rough patches, I still believe her. And that scares me more.

My mother died in 2003, and I have never cried. That sounds horrible, hollow, and completely monstrous. I am someone who can cry at the sappy movies, at the news, at Extreme Makeover Home Edition, but I could never muster a tear for my own mother. I won't say I've never missed her, because you miss the familiar. But I have never missed her in the way you should miss your mother, and that hurts me. For her, for me. Because there were good times, good memories, fun. And that makes it harder to see the whole picture sometimes.

I am scared of being that to my kids, my husband, my friends.The crazy, the mean bitch no one likes, but everyone is leery of. The woman no one will ever cry for, the one that, when there is a memorial service, no one comes. And I see it in me, know it's there. But in dealing with it, writing it out- not posting it, necessarily- it will ease.

There will be more of these, but I think it's enough for now. This is a first step, and one I have needed to take for quite some time. Thanks for bearing with me.

Featured Article

I'm not much of a bragger (about myself- I'll brag about my kids, hubby, family & friends till you tape my mouth shut!!) but because this includes my oldest daughter, I'm gonna post about it. (And cause Jim told me to, LOL.)

I joined a site called Divine Caroline a week, maybe two ago and posted a couple of my older poems there. (Yup, I write poetry. and novels. But that's another post.) I got an email today telling me that one of those poems, "Just Us Girls" was a featured article.

I wrote that two summers ago, about a trip to my family reunion. Miss Lyss and I had gone with my father and his lady friend, and it was one of the best times I've gotten to have with Lyss. Just us. Because of things here, it's sometimes hard to grab that one on one time without interruption. So to have almost three full days away, to have evenings of stories and laughter and just seeing her be a little girl without any interruption, was something very special to me. So I wrote about it.

To see it, go here.

Thanks guys!