Ursula Bethell New Zealand poet #lesbian

#iNeedFeminismBecause #intersectionality #lgbt #idlenomore

Ursula Bethell from New Zealand is called a garden poet. Think of a garden that stretches out for miles like the French Kings’ or wild with a backdrop of mountains and a garden small sleepy that holds all the quiet:

dark old pond
:
a frog plunks in

(Basho, haiku)

Dr. Alison Laurie, the Gender and Women’s Studies Programme Director at Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand, wrote a fascinating piece on Ursula Bethell’s life. The poetess had a common law wife: Henrietta Dorothea ‘Effie’ Pollen. They were private in public, and open in their circle of friends and together for over 30 years until Effie’s sudden death.

Time

‘Established’ is a good word, much used in garden books,
‘The plant, when established’…
Oh, become established quickly, quickly, garden
For I am fugitive, I am very fugitive –

Those that come after me will gather these roses,
And watch, as I do now, the white wistaria
Burst, in the sunshine, from its pale green sheath.

Planned. Planted. Established. Then neglected,
Till at last the loiterer by the gate will wonder
At the old, old cottage, the old wooden cottage,
And say ‘One might build here, the view is glorious;
This must have been a pretty garden once.’

From a Garden in the Antipodes (Sidgwick & Jackson, 1929)

Response

When you wrote your letter it was April,
And you were glad that it was spring weather,
And that the sun shone out in turn with showers of rain.

I write in waning May and it is autumn,
And I am glad that my chrysanthemums
Are tied up fast to strong posts,
So that the south winds cannot beat them down.
I am glad that they are tawny coloured,
And fiery in the low west evening light.
And I am glad that one bush warbler
Still sings in the honey-scented wattle…

But oh, we have remembering hearts,
And we say ‘How green it was in such and such an April,’
And ‘Such and such an autumn was very golden,’
And ‘Everything is for a very short time.’

.
Mary Ursula Bethell

Buy the Faber Book of 20th Century Women’s Poetry, ed. Fleur Adcock, from an indie bookseller here.


Established in 1970, Glad Day Bookshop is the world’s oldest LGBTQ bookstore and Toronto’s oldest surviving bookstore. In 2012, a group of 23 community members pooled their funds and bought Glad Day Bookshop to save it from closing.

“Our best strategy for survival is adding new revenues streams like food and drink – which means a larger space.
We’ve picked out a great spot on Church Street that would allow us to be a bookstore & coffee shop during the day and a bar at night.
It is wheelchair accessible, with an accessible washroom.

It has a cute patio, a small space for performances and walls for art.

We will be a space where everyone feels welcome, sexy and celebrated.

We will be a queer-owned, indie place on Church Street. We will amplify the love, creativity, sexuality, diversity & liberation that Glad Day Bookshop is known for.”

THE SPOOL: A PRISONER’S LAMENT Bertoff

#prison #blacklivesmatter # iNeedFeminismBecause #INTERSECTIONALITY #sexwork is decent

Federic W. Bertoff

THE SPOOL: A PRISONER’S LAMENT

There are many ways
to mark time
though most claim they don’t
preferring the myth
of living each day just for itself

And never counting
but I count
and measure the time in ticking seconds
in empty instant coffee jars
in socks with slowly widening holes
in calendar girls

Counting out lovely monthly mermaids
Miss Christmas, New Year’s, Halloween
I’m staring out the window again
or measuring lengths of dental floss
one spool (a hundred yards)
goes about a year or less

While each night hurtling through the galaxy
I floss that grinning death mask,
pink gums sanguine in his dim reflection
and supposing I ought to re-use that floss
at four cents an hour (the going wage)
I consider cost

But, with dramatic dispatch, throw it all away
one Last Grand Gesture
in hopes of burning up that spool
just a little quicker
with fifteen more to go

—from Rattle #10, Winter 1998
Tribute to Poets in Prison

The Shadow People, Francis Ledwidge

Laughing faces in the wild… Some of the images are so lovely.

The Shadow People

[…]

Old lame Bridget says to me,
“It is just your fancy, child.”
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water’s edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.

Francis Ledwidge

Oh, better than the minting
. Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
. Of a lovely thing.

Blanche Jennings Thompson

 
Some One

Some one came knocking
. At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
. I’m sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
. I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
. In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
. Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
. The screech-owl’s call,
Only the cricket whistling
. While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
. At all, at all, at all.

Walter de la Mare

Night Dancers

Their quick feet pattered on the grass
As light as dewdrops fall.
I saw their shadows on the glass
And heard their voices call.

But when I went out hurrying
To join them, they were gone.
I only found a little ring
Of footprints on the lawn.

Thomas Kennedy

Abebooks.com: All The Silver Pennies…buy it from an Indie store!!!

The Find…Francis Ledwidge

From Blanche Jennings Thompson’s comments: “It was a little Irish boy who made a flute for himself out of a reed and played a fairy tune. What do you think he found in the fairy ring?”

This poem takes me immediately to the quiet and the hill…

The Find

I took a reed and blew a tune,
And sweet it was and very clear
To be about a little thing
That only few hold dear.

Three times the cuckoo named himself,
But nothing heard him on the hill,
Where I was piping like an elf
The air was very still.

‘Twas all about a little thing
I made a mystery of sound,
I found it in a fairy ring
Upon a fairy mound.
Francis Ledwidge

Buy All The Silver Pennies from an Indie bookstore 🙂 here 

 

Brenda Hillman #iNeedFeminismBecause Claudia Rankine

on the back and forth blanket
from the fathers’ cars—
they lay down with you, and when
did you start missing them.

As Sacramento missed its yellow dust 1852.
When did you start missing those
who invented your body with their sparks—

(LS, 4) Brenda Hillman

all love is representative
of the beginning of time. When you are loved
the darkness carries you.
When you are loved, you are golden—

(LS, 5-6)

—Then the owl came back the druid the helper
and you asked,
Where is she who we love. Who-who,
it said, who-who, matching sets
for you and her—

you who had thought distinction
in the pronouns
found they were all the same—

(DT, 9)

American Women Poets in the 21st Century, Claudia Rankine ed.

It hurts everywhere

By Emily Dickinson

I wonder if They bore it long – 
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain – 

I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –

Akua Lezli Hope RESIGNATION Rattle.com

#iNeedFeminismBecause we need to rethink some of the systems in place for educating children. Too many schools are like this: chaos, stress, not understanding, falling behind, falling behind, falling behind, shame and instead we need to create a drive in kids to search for as many possible arguments, answers, questions, as their little heart and body can take -and for them to have joy doing this.

Akua Lezli Hope

RESIGNATION

I cannot justify making students cry,
the disorder is in the system.
Too small to span the keyboard, hands shake trying
behaviors far beyond them in the curriculum.
The disorder is in the system.
They cry with frustration. They must attempt
behaviors far beyond them in the curriculum,
scored on wildly inappropriate assessments.
They cry with frustration. They must attempt
poorly written tests. Their shoulders slump. Some misbehave.
Scored on wildly inappropriate assessments,
teachers are regimented, punished if they deviate.
Children hunt for letters they must attempt
but cannot read. Disorder is in the system.

Political Language

GS's avatarGuilty by Nation

Never Again, arbeit macht frei
remember, remember, we’re all in this together
labour isn’t working, yes we can
lest we forget, ich bin ein berliner

remember pearl harbour
half the sky
new labour new danger
arbeit macht frei

long live the indissoluble union
of the working class, kolkhoz peasantry, and national intelligentsia!
educationeducationeducation
we’re all in this together

ain’t no black in the union jack
are you thinking what we’re thinking
taking our country back
labour isn’t working

smite the leftists and save israel!
one heart, one mind, one korea
i’ve never voted tory before
ich bin ein berliner

Never Again

View original post

“My Prince” by Nathalia Bernstein (hat tip Rattle.com)

Nathalia Bernstein (Age 9)

MY PRINCE

My prince is not coming on a white horse
but on a turtle.
That is why it will take so long
before we are together.

from 2015 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

Heather Bell I HAVE THIS FANTASY- heheheheh. Yes! And thank you for sharing.

Heather Bell

I HAVE THIS FANTASY

I have this fantasy
that I am dressed in a leather jacket
smoking a cigar
just standing there
holding Kafka or Adrienne Rich
by the spine
when an old boyfriend walks up with his
yellow-haired wife and says

Hey, remember me? Sean.

And I reply, casually

Sean? Maybe. The Sean with the big dick or the Sean with the small dick?
And his eyes dart around because he wants to say

Big dick.

but then he’s admitting to me seeing his dick at all
with his wife standing right there

who is holding a ratty looking purse
and what I think is a dead raccoon or
maybe her jacket

So he says

Sorry, I might be mistaken.

but damn, I look so good standing there in my cheetah-print leggings
and puffy hair and the sort of eyeliner that looks professional

that he repeats

But I really think we might have known each other at some point.

And I grin a little, lean in,
and whisper just loud enough for his wife to hear

Small dick, eh?

And I go home and I put on my pink bathrobe and sit on the couch and
I feel triumphant and my kids are running around with scissors

and the leggings are thrown over the loveseat
like a flag

—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014

Jazzonia by Langston Hughes. “oh, silver rivers of the soul” #BlackLivesMatter #BlackHistoryYouDidntLearnInSchool #blackpoet

Jazzonia by Langston Hughes

Oh, silver tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

In a Harlem cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.

Oh, singing tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

Were Eve’s eyes
In the first garden
Just a bit too bold?
Was Cleopatra gorgeous
In a gown of gold?

Oh, shining tree!
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!

In a whirling cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.

 

.

From: The Oxford Anthology of African-American Poetry.
NEW and USED: Abebooks.com The Oxford Anthology of African-American Poetry
NEW at independent bookstores: http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780195125634