Riciklim i poezive te "harruara"

[Leila]

Kam vene re qe cfaredo letersi qe ne vleresojme, merr vemendje prej nesh vazhdimisht per te mos dale nga rutina, dhe shkrimet e tjera injorohen. Isha duke hedhur revistat dhe fletet qe kam ruajtur gjate viteve, dhe gjeta keto shkrimet e meposhtme qe me kishin pelqyer atehere.

Me poshte, flitet per femren ideale, imazhin qe shume vajza perpiqen te plotesojne, dhe se fundi kurre nuk jane te kenaqura... deri sa vdesin. Eshte pak ironik, por mua me terheqin keto lloj shkrimesh, si edhe fabulat.

BARBIE DOLL
Marge Piercy

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty?
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? veryone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.

[Leila]

Edhe kjo, eshte humoristike.

WHAT'S THAT SMELL IN THE KITCHEN
Marge Piercy, 1983

All over America women are burning dinners.
It’s lambchops in Peoria; it’s haddock
in Providence; it’s steak in Chicago;
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning
food they’re supposed to bring with calico
Smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, it’s
her husband spitted over a slow fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
it’s a dead rat with a bomb in its belly
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested,
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I
am Spam.
Burning dinner is not incompetence but
War.

[Leila]

Serish nga Marge Piercy.

A WORK OF ARTIFICE
Marge Piercy

The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.

[Leila]

MY MOTHER AND THE BED
Lyn Lifshin


no not that way she'd
say when I was 7 pulling
the bottom sheet smooth
you've got to ___ saying
hospital corners


I wet the bed much later
than I should, until
just writing this I
hadn't thought of
the connection


My mother would never
sleep on sheets someone
else had ___ I never
saw any stains on hers
though her bedroom was


a maze of powder ___ hair
pins ___ black dresses
Sometimes she brings her
own sheets to my house
carries toiletseat covers


Did anybody sleep
in my ___ she always asks
Her sheets her hair
smells of smoke she
says the rooms here
smell funny


we drive at 3 AM
slow into Boston and
strip what looks like
two clean beds as the
sky gets light I


smooth on the form
fitted flower bottom
she redoes it


She thinks of my life
as a bed only she
can make right

[Leila]

Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mould straight off.

- Adrienne Rich
"Snapshots of a Daughter- in-Law"

[Leila]

Me kishte rene ne dore libri i tij RESIDENCE ON EARTH.

THE DROWNED WOMAN OF THE SKY
Pablo Neruda

Woven butterfly, garment
hung from the trees
drowned in the sky, derived
amid squalls and rains, alone, alone, compact,
with clothes and tresses torn to shreds
and centers corroded by the air.
Motionless, if you withstand
the raucous needle of winter,
the river of angry water that harasses. Celestial
shadow, dove branch
broken by night among the dead flowers:
I stop and suffer
when like a slow and cold-filled sound
you spread your red glow baten by the water.

[Leila]

Rapunzel
Anne Sexton

A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young.
The mentor
and the student
feed off each other.
Many a girl
had an old aunt
who locked her in the study
to keep the boys away.

They would play rummy
or lie on the couch
and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast...

They play mother-me-do
all day.
A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young

Once there was a witch's garden
more beautiful than Eve's
with carrots growing like little fish,
with many tomatoes rich as frogs,
onions as ingrown as hearts,
the squash singing like a dolphin
and one patch givenover wholly to magic-
rampion, a kind of salad root,
a kind of harebell more potent thatn penicillin,
growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin,
as rapt and as fluid as Isadora Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked
and each day a woman who was with child
looked upon the rampion wildly,
fancying that she would die
if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare
and thus climbed into the garden
to fetch the life-giving tubers.

Ah ha, cried the witch
whose proper name was Mother Gothel,
you are a theif and now you will die.

However they made a trade,
typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel
so of course when it was born
she took the chils away with her,
She gave it the name Rapunzel,
another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl
Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought:
None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tower without a door
or a staircase. It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried:
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as yellow as a dandilion
and as strong as a dog leash.
Han hand she shimmied up
the hair like a sailor
and there in the stone-cold room,
as cold as a museum,
Mother Gothel cried:
Hold me, my young dear, hold me,
and thus they played mother-me-do.

Years later a prince came by
and heard Rapunzel singing in her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine
but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees
and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out:
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,e
and thus they met and he declared his love,
What is this beast, she thought,
with muscles on his arms
like a bag of snakes?
What is this moss on his legs?
What prickly plant grows on his cheeks?
What is this voice as deep as a dog?
Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads,
swimming through them
like minnows through kelp
and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.

Each day he brought her a skein of silk
to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot
and cut off Rapunzel's hair toher ears
and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened
the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw that Rapunzel had been banished
he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that pricked him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years for years
until he heard a song that pierced his heartentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes
and in the manner of such cure-alls
his sight was suddenly restored.

They lived happily as you might expect
proving that mother-me-do
can be outgrown,
just as the fish on Friday,
just as a tricycle.
The world, some say,
is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.

As for Mother Gothel,
her heart shrank to the size of a pin,
never again to say: Hold me, my young dear,
hold me,
and only as she dreamt of the yellow hair
did moonlight sift into her mouth.

[Leila]

Nje cope poezi e gjetur ne murin e nje bodrum haremi ne Turqi, e shkruajtur nga nje odalisk (vajze haremi) qe e kishin denuar se vodhi nje pasqyre:

For a two bit
Mirrow lost,
This sitting here is caught
By the men of the century.

[Leila]

DEREK WEBSTER

Odalisque

"Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room"

Florida. Wallace Stevens and pink
ice-cream. My gay friend says, Girl,
have you ever screamed in anger?
Well-that's not me.
I am "slender," sound as a flute:
in the crisp air of winter, wear nude
stockings and a lavender suit,
to find out who needs me.

In lightning, under sheets, I sweat
a yellow angel of regret.
Behind me, grass and branches turn
green: the world is fleet.

They see themselves upside-down
in me. All men are dogs, the married
doubly so: they think another clown
floats in my mouth, and has a bone
to prove it. Well, I won't get carried
off; I've never minded that,
to feel a mind work me like meal,
be written on, oh, even to feel
a sculpting pen adjust my hat:
we live for such a moment.
I've had lovers-who has not?
Virgins horde their fruits. They rot.

I played gin rummy with sleeping pills,
took social visits to a psychiatrist-
was never asked to pay the bills;
he made me triste-
Half-revealed, a crescent moon,
I stayed up nights, unwhole and sharp-
knowing that I move,
not that I fall.

On airplanes, highrises, trees,
a peacock of shattered glass.
I wonder, would I scream,
to see myself at last?

Today I cut my leaves and stalk
a lover, lilac bowl in bloom.
My train is a promise deferred,
my French a smile and single words.
Side to side we'll slowly rock.

[Leila]

Mr. Mine

Notice how he has numbered the blue veins
in my breast. Moreover there are ten freckles.
Now he goes left. Now he goes right.
He is buiding a city, a city of flesh.
He's an industrialist. He has starved in cellars
and, ladies and gentlemen, he's been broken by iron,
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant
iron of his mother's death. But he begins again.
Now he constructs me. He is consumed by the city.
From the glory of words he has built me up.
From the wonder of concrete he has molded me.
He has given me six hundred street signs.
The time I was dancing he built a museum.
He built ten blocks when I moved on the bed.
He constructed an overpass when I left.
I gave him flowers and he built an airport.
For traffic lights he handed at red and green
lollipops. Yet in my heart I am go children slow.

Lessons in Hunger

"Do you like me?"
I asked the blue blazer.
No answer.
Silence bounced out of his books.
Silence fell off his tongue
and sat between us
and clogged my throat.
It slaughtered my trust.
It tore cigarettes out of my mouth.
We exchanged blind words,
and I did not cry,
and I did not beg,
blackness lunged in my heart,
and something that had been good,
a sort of kindly oxygen,
turned into a gas oven.
Do you like me?
How absurd!
What's a question like that?
What's a silence like that?
And what am I hanging around for,
riddled with what his silence said?