Girl, me too.

As I've been relearning as of yet, there's this special connection between girlfriends that's of vital importance to survival. If you don't have friends you know will have your back no matter what, what's the point? Girls, be unafraid to be badasses. And now, for this beautiful poem from Sandra Cisneros's Loose Women.

Las Girlfriends

by Sandra Cisneros

Tip the barmaid in tight jeans

She's my friend

Been to hell and back again

I've been there too.

Girlfriend, I believe in Gandhi.

But some nights nothing says it

quite precise like a Lone Star

cracked on someone's head.

Last week in this same bar,

kicked a cowboy in the butt

who made a grab for Terry's ass.

How do I explain, it was all

of Texas I was kicking,

and all our asses on the line.

At Tacoland, Cat flamencoing crazy

circles round the pool

player with the furry tongue.

A warpath of sorts for every

wrong ever wronged us.

And Terry here has her own history

A bar down the street she can't

go in, and one downtown. Me,

a French cafe in Austin

where they don't say--entrez-vous.

Little Rose of San Antone

is the queen bee of kick-nalga.*

When you go out with her,

don't wear your good clothes.

But the best story is la Barbara

who runs for the biggest kitchen knife

in the house every bad-ass domestic quarrel.

Points it toward her own heart

like some Aztec priestess gone loca.

!ME MATO!**

I tell you, nights like these,

something bubbles from

the tips of our pointy boots

to the top of our coyote yowl.

Y'all wicked mean, a voice at the bar

claims. Naw, not mean. Shit!

Been to hell and back again.

Girl, me too.

* nalga = butt(cheeks)

** me mato = I kill myself

I am the master of my fate

This is a classic poem. It was lately used as the title of the movie Invictus as it is reportedly the poem that kept Nelson Mandela strong whilst he was imprisoned in South Africa. I first heard it in, and thus associate it with, the film The Dead Poets Society. The second half of each stanza is bolded because those are the parts I like best.

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

My butt is big...

Nike ran a series of ads to this effect a few years back as they jumped on the "real women" advertising train that Dove arguably started. I came to the realization as I was at the gym today that this one is true for me. Thought I'd share.

For 4/12 Damn forgot again...The voice you hear when you read silently is not silent, it is speaking

The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently...

is not silent, it is a speaking –
out-loud voice in your head: it is spoken,
a voice is saying it
as you read. It’s the writer’s words,
of course, in a literary sense
his or her “voice” but the sound
of that voice is the sound of your voice.
Not the sound your friends know
or the sound of a tape played back
but your voice
caught in the dark cathedral
of your skull, your voice heard
by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts
and what you know by feeling,
having felt. It is your voicesaying, for example, the word “barn”
that the writer wrote
but the “barn” you say
is a barn you know or knew. The voice
in your head, speaking as you read,
never says anything neutrally – some people
hated the barn they knew,
some people love the barn they know
so you hear the word loaded
and a sensory constellation
is lit: horse-gnawed stalls,
hayloft, black heat tape wrapping
a water pipe, a slippery
spilled chirr of oats from a split sack,
the bony, filthy haunches of cows…
And “barn” is only a noun- no verb
or subject has entered into the sentence yet!
the voice you hear when you read to yourself
is the clearest voice: you speak it
speaking to you.

by Thomas Lux

I did a lot of reading yesterday and today so this fits well.

Aguas...inpenetrables

Mar por la tarde
por Octavio Paz

Altos muros del agua, torres altas,
aguas de pronto negras contra nada,
impenetrables, verdes, grises aguas,
aguas de pronto blancas, deslumbradas.
Aguas como el principio de las aguas,
como el principio mismo antes del agua,
las aguas inundadas por el agua,
aniquilando lo que finge el agua.

El resonante tigre de las aguas,
las uñas resonantes de cien tigres,
las cien manos del agua, los cien tigres
con una sola mano contra nada.

Desnudo mar, sediento mar de mares,
hondo de estrellas si de espumas alto,
prófugo blanco de prisión marina
que en estelares límites revienta,

¿qué memorias, qué rocas, yelos, islas,
informe confusión de aguas y nada,
qué mares, encendidos prisioneros,
dentro de ti, bajo tu pecho, cantan?

¿Qué violencias recónditas, qué labios,
conmueven a tu piel de verdes llamas?,
¿qué desoladas aguas, costas solas,
qué mares invisibles, mar, alías?,

¿dónde principias, mar, dónde te viertes?,
¿dónde principias, tiempo, vida mía,
ejército de humo y de mentira,
adónde vas, latido, carne, sueño?

¿Dónde te viertes, avidez de nada?
No soy la piedra que se precipita,
soy su caída, y más, soy el abismo,
el círculo de sombra en que se ahonda.

Tiempo que se congela, mar y témpano,
vampiro de la luna ?o se despeña:
madre furiosa, inmensa res hendida,
mar que te comes vivas las entrañas.

for 4/11 man I keep getting behind...

This is a pretty poem, aside from its perpetuating of the goodness of "April showers bring May flowers," I prefer eternal sunshine.

Life

by Charlotte Bronte

LIFE, believe, is not a dream

So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,

Life's sunny hours flit by,

Gratefully, cheerily,

Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in

And calls our Best away ?

What though sorrow seems to win,

O'er hope, a heavy sway?

Yet hope again elastic springs,

Unconquered, though she fell;

Still buoyant are her golden wings,

Still strong to bear us well.

Manfully, fearlessly,

The day of trial bear,

For gloriously, victoriously,

Can courage quell despair!

A bit of nostalgia...

I used to hate poetry, daresay like every other adolescent. And so in my 8th grade honors English class when Mrs. Dann made us "analyze" it, I was far from thrilled. Funny how things change. For some reason this poem sticks in my mind, one of two I remember from Mrs. Dann's class. Rest in peace Mrs. Dann, thanks for forcing poetry upon us, even if we didn't appreciate it until later.

The Village Blacksmith

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

 Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.