A New Adventure Every Day

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Anne Sexton

Anne Sexton, poetry goddess that she was, explores the divinity of all women through this poem.  Maybe I like this particular poem  because as a younger woman I didn't see much in popular culture that spoke to me of my experience and I had to seek it out.  Maybe unconsciously the revolution of feminism seeped into me as I was growing up.  I recall hearing men and their voices and rarely heard much at all about women.  Hearing and seeing only the men's point of view pissed me off though.  I wanted the woman's perspective.  I decided as a teen that I would seek out women artists, women poets, women authors, women musicians and singers.  I decided I wanted to hear from other women about the woman's point of view.  I need only go to popular media and culture to hear about the male point of view and how women are viewed from that perspective in spades.  Even now most of our culture is from the male point of view.


In Celebration of My Uterus

By Anne Sexton

Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.   
They wanted to cut you out   
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty   
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying   
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.   
You are not torn.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the soul of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight   
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.   
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.   
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,   
“It is good this year that we may plant again   
and think forward to a harvest.
A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.”
Many women are singing together of this:   
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,   
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,   
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,   
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,   
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,   
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,   
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,   
one is wiping the ass of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train   
in the middle of Wyoming and one is   
anywhere and some are everywhere and all   
seem to be singing, although some can not   
sing a note.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,   
let me suck on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part).
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,   
for the kissing,   
for the correct