Boast,woman,of how
great you are,
or could have been
had you had
my advantages--
violence and poverty,
cruel abuse,
sadistic husbands,
a haunted youth,
lost in visions,
mad with truth;
working in fields
for a dollar a day
wild in the country,
as a changeling child,
lost in libraries,
books and poems--
friendless and lonely,
never understood
by lovers or strangers
or those who stood
high and righteous
in others men's eyes--
lost and lonely,hated,reviled,
cursed and criticized,
beaten and
robbed,
object of scorn,derision,
mistrust,
object of fun if the night's
a bust--
torn by passions so
fierce and wild
I tore the skin
from my arms
as a child
to ease the pain
of the loss inside
when I found the one
that I loved had lied
Torn by hurricanes
of terror and fear,
firestorms of fury,
unleashed on those near,
violent rages at
promises broken,
(love meant to last
called only a token
of what could
be real between
woman and man);
children taken
for rich men's wives,
far too beautiful
for the lives
of the poor who work
at what they find,
no matter how brilliant
and gifted in mind;
tell me the story,
oh, woman of worth,
born to riches,
power and fame--
how you could write this
just the same,
if you'd had the time
or perhaps the desire,
or just the right lover
to inspire
true love and divine desire
that might forge in
poetry's raging fires
far better creations
than I give birth,
(pardon me, please won't you
pass the Perth).
You've taken the man
I'd have died to keep--
here, go ahead, take my work
as well;
while I'm starved and homeless,
consigned to hell,
without a roof
under which to dwell.
Remember when
you claim these rhymes
(which you could
do better, and will, of course)
that those who labor
to build you ease,
who harvest the crops,
and dig in the mines,
weave in the mills
and fish the seas,
or beg their bread
in welfare lines,
(while you eat crab
salad on silver tines),
that men have died
to write like this,
and you will never
taste the bliss
creation brings
to those who toil--
ashes and rust are the victor's spoil.
