proud woman

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?'
Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard'
Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I riseUp from a past that's rooted in pain
I riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I riseInto a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I riseBringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I riseI riseI rise.
Maya Angelou

female poet

A Little While
*************
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

- Emily Bronte

female poem

Those Who Do Not Dance (Gabriela Mistral )

A crippled child said,
“How shall I dance?”
Let your heart dance
We said.

Then the invalid said:
“How shall I sing?”
Let your heart sing
We said .

Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
But I, how shall I dance?”
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.

Then God spoke from above
“How shall I descend from the blue?”
Come dance for us here in the light
We said.

All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.

Gabriela Mistral ,pen name of Lucila Godoy Alcayaga, was the first female Latin American poet to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. She received it in 1945 for: "for her lyric poetry which, inspired by powerful emotions, has made her name a symbol of the idealistic aspirations of the entire Latin American world"

female poem

Do not stand at my grave and weep
Mary Frye (1932)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) was a housewife from Baltimore USA, when a visiting friend's mother died, and this prompted Mary Frye to compose the verse, which she said was her first real attempt to write poetry. She wrote the poem on a brown paper shopping bag. Apparently in interviews since writing the poem Frye said that the 'words just came to her', and it also seems clear that she wrote her poetry to bring comfort and pleasure to others, rather than to profit from its publication.

Anjela, a woman from Brittany

It's 3am in Plumpiemousie, but I can't sleep...I wanted to share with you the voices of a country I love: Brittany. But the problem was it was too difficult for me to translate poets...I found translations tonight. A beautiful work has been done by Lenora Timm.
I don't speak Breton, the mother language of people I love. I was not born in this country but I love it deeply, I always did. That's why I wanted to post the poem Rye both in English and Breton. Please, go to the site , the link is in the title, and read these texts...
I am very honoured of presenting you Anjela Duval...

Brittany's voices

Anjela Duval (1905/1981)

a great woman
a great poet
a true woman from Brittany



Segal

Skeudenn Nevez-Amzer
Aet eo Meurzh ’tu-hont d’an hanter :
Avel skarin. Treut an amzer.
Ruz ar parkoù, al lannoù
Netra c’hlas er maezioù
Nag an danvez foenn, nag an danvez bara
Netra c’hlas, netra
Netra nemet ar segalegoù
Ar parkoù tort ouzh tor an dorgenn
Ar segal graet gantañ goap ouzh ar goañv
Ar segal dilezet, ar segal disprizet
— Gant ar juloded —
Ar segal trevad an douar paour
Trevad ar paour
Ar segal glas o c’hoarzhin
Ar segal seder o kanañ
’Vel ma kan ar paour
E baourentez.

Meurzh 1964

Anjela Duval

Piv?
WHO?

I have always been faithful to my motto
--I DO BATTLE ON EVERY FRONT—
My life has been a battle.
And at the end of my time
At the end of my strength
I sigh!
Who will take my motto
After me?
Who will take my arms
When they have fallen from my hands
When I have not borne a son...?

a nice discovery...

Rie Sheridan
Monday, January 19, 2004

Little Things
make life worth while.....
.
Little things...
the smile of a child--
the laugh of a friend--
the touch of a mother.
Little things...
a rose in the rain--
a star in the night--
a poem in the attic.
Little things...
coffee with a neighbor--
chocolate with a partner--
wine with a lover.
Little things...
make life complete.
Rie Writes
so many texts to discover, I thought I was just picking a tiny poem!!!I'll come back Rie.

Ginny Odenbach

Thank you Lisa for the poem
« An Anasazi Woman Speaks »Ginny Odenbach
I was here, I came this way.

With the rabbit brush
you dig from your fields
I wove a carrying basket
and worked into it a dark
design of eagles'claws,
My signature-inked
with sneezeweed dyes.
With the feathers you pluck
from your turkey and burn
I wove a blanket,a cape to wear when
winds blow chilly.
With the yuka you ignore
I shod my feet and wash my hair
weaving sandals from the leaves
and making soapweed suds from the roots.
With the yarrow leaves the wind scatters
I made tea, hot and strong,
to warm and cure and calm.
With the clay beneath your feet
that gumbo which sticks to your boots,
I coiled pots, and mugs,and sacred feather holders.
With the soft inner barkof the juniper,
I diapered my baby,or crushed it between my hands
to make a nest for the spark
from my fire bow.
I ground red hematite
between two stones and mixed it
with my honey-colored urine
that slapped my painty palm
against the canyon wall, saying,
I was here.I came this way.