Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser

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Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser Page 47

by Janet Kaufman


  10

  Lying

  blazing beside me

  you rear beautifully and up—

  your thinking face—

  erotic body reaching

  in all its colors and lights—

  your erotic face

  colored and lit—

  not colored body-and-face

  but now entire,

  colors lights the world thinking and reaching.

  11

  The river flows past the city.

  Water goes down to tomorrow

  making its children I hear their unborn voices

  I am working out the vocabulary of my silence.

  12

  Big-boned man young and of my dream

  Struggles to get the live bird out of his throat.

  I am he am I? Dreaming?

  I am the bird am I? I am the throat?

  A bird with a curved beak.

  It could slit anything, the throat-bird.

  Drawn up slowly. The curved blades, not large.

  Bird emerges wet being born

  Begins to sing.

  13

  My night awake

  staring at the broad rough jewel

  the copper roof across the way

  thinking of the poet

  yet unborn in this dark

  who will be the throat of these hours.

  No. Of those hours.

  Who will speak these days,

  if not I,

  if not you?

  Breaking Open

  1973

  1 Searching / Not Searching

  WAKING THIS MORNING

  Waking this morning,

  a violent woman in the violent day

  Laughing.

  Past the line of memory along

  the long body of your life

  in which move childhood, youth, your lifetime of touch,

  eyes, lips, chest, belly, sex, legs, to the waves of the sheet.

  I look past the little plant

  on the city windowsill

  to the tall towers bookshaped, crushed together in greed,

  the river flashing flowing corroded,

  the intricate harbor and the sea, the wars, the moon, the

  planets, all who people space

  in the sun visible invisible.

  African violets in the light

  breathing, in a breathing universe. I want strong peace,

  and delight,

  the wild good.

  I want to make my touch poems:

  to find my morning, to find you entire

  alive moving among the anti-touch people.

  I say across the waves of the air to you:

  today once more

  I will try to be non-violent

  one more day

  this morning, waking the world away

  in the violent day.

  DESPISALS

  In the human cities, never again to

  despise the backside of the city, the ghetto,

  or build it again as we build the despised

  backsides of houses. Look at your own building.

  You are the city.

  Among our secrecies, not to despise our Jews

  (that is, ourselves) or our darkness, our blacks,

  or in our sexuality wherever it takes us

  and we now know we are productive

  too productive, too reproductive

  for our present invention—never to despise

  the homosexual who goes building another

  with touch with touch (not to despise any touch)

  each like himself, like herself each.

  You are this.

  In the body's ghetto

  never to go despising the asshole

  nor the useful shit that is our clean clue

  to what we need. Never to despise

  the clitoris in her least speech.

  Never to despise in myself what I have been taught

  to despise. Not to despise the other.

  Not to despise the it. To make this relation

  with the it : to know that I am it.

  WHAT DO WE SEE?

  When they're decent about women, they're frightful about children,

  When they're decent about children, they're rotten about artists,

  When they're decent about artists, they're vicious about whores,

  What do we see? What do we not see?

  When they're kind to whores, they're death on communists,

  When they respect communists, they're foul to bastards,

  When they're human to bastards, they mock at hysterectomy—

  What do we see? What do we not see?

  When they're decent about surgery, they bomb the Vietnamese,

  When they're decent to Vietnamese, they're frightful to police,

  When they're human to police, they rough up lesbians,

  What do we see? What do we not see?

  When they're decent to old women, they kick homosexuals,

  When they're good to homosexuals, they can't stand drug people,

  When they're calm about drug people, they hate all Germans,

  What do we see? What do we not see?

  Cadenza for the reader

  When they're decent to Jews, they dread the blacks,

  When they know blacks, there's always something : roaches

  And the future and children and all potential. Can't stand themselves

  Will we never see? Will we ever know?

  LOOKING AT EACH OTHER

  Yes, we were looking at each other

  Yes, we knew each other very well

  Yes, we had made love with each other many times

  Yes, we had heard music together

  Yes, we had gone to the sea together

  Yes, we had cooked and eaten together

  Yes, we had laughed often day and night

  Yes, we fought violence and knew violence

  Yes, we hated the inner and outer oppression

  Yes, that day we were looking at each other

  Yes, we saw the sunlight pouring down

  Yes, the corner of the table was between us

  Yes, bread and flowers were on the table

  Yes, our eyes saw each other's eyes

  Yes, our mouths saw each other's mouth

  Yes, our breasts saw each other's breasts

  Yes, our bodies entire saw each other

  Yes, it was beginning in each

  Yes, it threw waves across our lives

  Yes, the pulses were becoming very strong

  Yes, the beating became very delicate

  Yes, the calling the arousal

  Yes, the arriving the coming

  Yes, there it was for both entire

  Yes, we were looking at each other

  DESDICHADA

  1

  For that you never acknowledged me, I acknowledge

  the spring's yellow detail, the every drop of rain,

  the anonymous unacknowledged men and women.

  The shine as it glitters in our child's wild eyes,

  one o'clock at night. This river, this city,

  the years of the shadow on the delicate skin

  of my hand, moving in time.

  Disinherited, annulled, finally disacknowledged

  and all of my own asking. I keep that wild dimension

  of life and making and the spasm

  upon my mouth as I say this word of acknowledge

  to you forever. Ewig. Two o'clock at night.

  2

  While this my day and my people are a country not yet born

  it has become an earth I can

  acknowledge. I must. I know what the

  disacknowledgment does. Then I do take you,

  but far under consciousness, knowing

  that under under flows a river wanting

  the other : to go open-handed in Asia,

  to cleanse the tributaries and the air, to make for making,

 
; to stop selling death and its trash, pour plastic down

  men's throats,

  to let this child find, to let men and women find,

  knowing the seeds in us all. They do say Find.

  I cannot acknowledge it entire. But I will.

  A beginning, this moment, perhaps, and you.

  3

  Death flowing down past me, past me, death

  marvelous, filthy, gold,

  in my spine in my sex upon my broken mouth

  and the whole beautiful mouth of the child;

  shedding power over me

  death

  if I acknowledge him.

  Leading me

  in my own body

  at last in the dance.

  VOICES

  Voices of all our voices, running past an imagined race.

  Pouring out morning light, the pouring mists of Mil Cumbres.

  Out of the poured cities of our world.

  Out of the black voice of one child

  Who sleeps in our poverty and is dreaming.

  The child perceives and the cycles are fulfilled.

  Cities being poured; and war-fire over the poor.

  Mist over the peak.

  One child in his voices, many voices.

  The suffering runs past the end of the racing

  Making us run the next race. The child sleeps.

  Lovers, makers, this child, enter into our voices.

  Speak to the child. Now something else is waking:

  The look of the lover, the rebel and learning look,

  The look of the runner just beyond the tape, go into

  The child's look at the world. In all its voices.

  FIRE

  after Vicente Aleixandre

  The fire entire

  withholds

  passion.

  Light alone!

  Look—

  it leaps up pure

  to lick at heaven,

  while all the wings

  fly through.

  It won't burn!

  And man?

  Never.

  This fire

  is still

  free of you, man.

  Light, innocent light.

  And you, human:

  better never be born.

  WAITING FOR ICARUS

  He said he would be back and we'd drink wine together

  He said that everything would be better than before

  He said we were on the edge of a new relation

  He said he would never again cringe before his father

  He said that he was going to invent full-time

  He said he loved me that going into me

  He said was going into the world and the sky

  He said all the buckles were very firm

  He said the wax was the best wax

  He said Wait for me here on the beach

  He said Just don't cry

  I remember the gulls and the waves

  I remember the islands going dark on the sea

  I remember the girls laughing

  I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me

  I remember mother saying : Inventors are like poets,

  a trashy lot

  I remember she told me those who try out inventions are

  worse

  I remember she added :Women who love such are the worst

  of all

  I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer.

  I would have liked to try those wings myself.

  It would have been better than this.

  FROM CITY OF PARADISE

  after Vicente Aleixandre To my city of Malaga

  There was I led by a maternal hand.

  Accident of flowering grillwork, that sad guitar

  singing a song abruptly held in time;

  the night went quiet, more quieted the lover,

  the moon forever, in interrupted light.

  One breath of eternity could destroy you,

  prodigious city, moment emerged from a god's mind.

  According to a dream man lives and does not live,

  eternally gleaming like a breath of heaven.

  Garden, flowers. The sea breathing, someone's arm

  stretched gasping to the city swinging from peak to gulf,

  white in air, have you seen birds in the wind held by gusts

  and not rising in flight? O city not of earth!

  By what maternal hand was I borne lightly

  along your weightless streets. Barefoot by day.

  Barefoot by night. Big moon. Pure sun.

  The sky was you, city who lived in the sky.

  You took flight in the sky with open wings.

  THE QUESTION

  Mother and listener she is, but she does not listen.

  I look at her profile as I ask, the sweet blue-grey of eye

  going obdurate to my youth as I ask the first grown sexual

  question. She cannot reply.

  And from then on even past her death, I cannot fully

  have language with my mother, not as daughter

  and mother through all the maze and silences

  of all the turnings.

  Until my own child grows and asks, and until

  I discover what appalled my mother long before, discover

  who never delivered her, until their double weakness and

  strength in myself

  rouse and deliver me from that refusal.

  I threw myself down on the pine-needle evening.

  Although that old ancient poem never did come to me,

  not from you, mother,

  although in answer you did only panic, you did only grieve,

  and I went silent alone, my cheek to the red pine-needle

  earth, and although it has taken me all these years

  and sunsets to come to you, past the dying, I know,

  I come with my word alive.

  IN HER BURNING

  The randy old

  woman said

  Tickle me up

  I'll be

  dead very soon—

  Nothing will

  touch me then

  but the clouds

  of the sky

  and the bone-

  white light

  off the moon

  Touch me

  before I go

  down

  among the bones

  My dear one

  alone

  to the night—

  I said

  I know I know

  But all I know

  tonight

  Is that the sun

  and the moon

  they burn

  with the one

  one light.

  In her burning

  signing

  what does the

  white moon say?

  The moon says

  The sun

  is shining.

  RONDEL

  Now that I am fifty-six

  Come and celebrate with me—

  What happens to song and sex

  Now that I am fifty-six?

  They dance, but differently,

  Death and distance in the mix;

  Now that I'm fifty-six

  Come and celebrate with me.

  MORE CLUES

  Mother, because you never spoke to me

  I go my life, do I, searching in women's faces

  the lost word, a word in the shape of a breast?

  Father, because both of you never touched me

  do I search for men building space on space?

  There was no touch, both my hands bandaged close.

  I come from that, but I come far, to touch to word.

  Can they reach me now, or inside out in a universe

  of touch, of speech is it? somewhere in me, clues?

  MYTH

  Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walked the

  roads. He smelled a familiar smell. It was

  the Sphi
nx. Oedipus said, “I want to ask one question.

  Why didn't I recognize my mother?” “You gave the

  wrong answer,” said the Sphinx. “But that was what

  made everything possible,” said Oedipus. “No,” she said.

  “When I asked, What walks on four legs in the morning,

  two at noon, and three in the evening, you answered,

  Man. You didn't say anything about woman.”

  “When you say Man,” said Oedipus, “you include women

  too. Everyone knows that.” She said, “That's what

  you think.”

  SEARCHING / NOT SEARCHING

  Responsibility is to use the power to respond. after Robert Duncan

  1

  What kind of woman goes searching and searching?

  Among the furrows of dark April, along the sea-beach,

  in the faces of children, in what they could not tell;

  in the pages of centuries—

  for what man? for what magic?

  In corridors under the earth, in castles of the North,

  among the blackened miners, among the old

  I have gone searching.

  The island-woman told me, against the glitter of sun

  on the stalks and leaves of a London hospital.

  I searched for that Elizabethan man,

  the lost discoverer, the servant of time;

  and that man forgotten for belief, in Spain,

  and among the faces of students, at Coventry,

  finding and finding in glimpses. And at home.

  Among the dead I too have gone searching,

  a blue light in the brain.

  Suddenly I come to these living eyes,

  I a live woman look up at you this day

  I see all the colors in your look.

  2 MIRIAM : THE RED SEA

  High above shores and times,

  I on the shore

  forever and ever.

  Moses my brother

  has crossed over

  to milk, honey,

  that holy land.

  Building Jerusalem.

  I sing forever

  on the seashore.

  I do remember

  horseman and horses,

  waves of passage

  poured into war,

  all poured into journey.

  My unseen brothers

  have gone over;

  chariots

  deep seas under.

  I alone stand here

  ankle-deep

  and I sing, I sing,

  until the lands

 

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