Night Fishing
Adolescence
The Obsession
Yes
Never Say Yes
Friday, July 28, 2017
Never Say Yes
Never Say Yes
By Nin Andrews
Each day I positioned myself carefully. I wouldn't move a muscle. I would tell myself I was in good hands. Of course, it is only natural to be a little uneasy. To think of upsetting an order so nicely arranged, every hair in place. Blown dry. Sometimes I even mastered a windblown look as if I had been flying. People suspected me of having been out on the sly. Of living a secret life. They said, it's a very bad sign. And a woman like that. Who would have thought? For so long they trusted me; they even called me one of their own. I who always yearned to be possessed. When confronted, I solemnly swore that I hadn't budged an inch. Nor had I blinked. I never let on. But gradually I began to display the tell_tale symptoms. Every crime needs a criminal. Nothing can be done about it. Spectators come in droves. Mothers warn their children, See what happens? And to think. I who was taken in by such a nice family. Good, hard_working folk. And they thought I was such a good egg. Look what happens whenever you say yes.
By Nin Andrews
Each day I positioned myself carefully. I wouldn't move a muscle. I would tell myself I was in good hands. Of course, it is only natural to be a little uneasy. To think of upsetting an order so nicely arranged, every hair in place. Blown dry. Sometimes I even mastered a windblown look as if I had been flying. People suspected me of having been out on the sly. Of living a secret life. They said, it's a very bad sign. And a woman like that. Who would have thought? For so long they trusted me; they even called me one of their own. I who always yearned to be possessed. When confronted, I solemnly swore that I hadn't budged an inch. Nor had I blinked. I never let on. But gradually I began to display the tell_tale symptoms. Every crime needs a criminal. Nothing can be done about it. Spectators come in droves. Mothers warn their children, See what happens? And to think. I who was taken in by such a nice family. Good, hard_working folk. And they thought I was such a good egg. Look what happens whenever you say yes.
Yes
Yes
By Nin Andrews
By Nin Andrews
Orgasms are bad news. In the town where I grew up, orgasms were against the law. No one had an orgasm, not even God. By the time I was twelve, I wanted an orgasm. Just one, I begged. Then one day, everything changed. My body caught fire. Everyone knew. Everywhere I went the men took off their trousers and shoes and their skinny black socks. The men (such men!) became acrobats in disguise. Who would have guessed? And I? I was so much in love! And wanted to record their every color and size and shape, not to mention their flavors and moods. Life is so fleeting, is it not? And what is more fleeting than a man?
And so it was that I came to write A Field Guide to Nudes. A Field Guide to Desires. A Field Guide to Orgasms . . .
I was so busy with my research, I had no time to reflect. (Some say I was obsessed. It's true!) No time to consider the consequence of my acts. Of course I should have known. The people were outraged. They chased me into the streets and out of the city gates. Now I can never go back. I live alone with my desires. With my dreams that never stop dreaming. With these orgasms that never stop singing my name. Yes, it's a fact! Whatever they say, I can only sigh and say yes. Whatever they wish for, I just say yes. Yes! Yes! I say yes. Again and again, I say yes. And I will say it for you if you ask. Yes! Yes! Yes!
The Obsession
The Obsession
By Nin Andrews
Occasionally the sailor suspects a woman swims nude beneath his ship, though when he dives into the water, he sees only white jellyfish opening and closing like umbrellas. He is reminded of the time when he was a boy and imagined ordinary stones were gems, lovely enough to win the heart of the girl next door. But he never reached to pick one up. Instead he decided the girl would never like him. The more he thought about her not liking him, the more he grew to despise her and her adolescent beauty. The more he despised her, the more he wanted to see her, to follow her, to sit just behind her, and never let her out of his sight. That was the beginning of the obsession. Evenings he stayed up late, peeking through his Venetian blinds, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in her pink striped pajamas. Every weeknight she stretched out on the lime green carpet in her living room and did her homework in front of the flickering TV. The boy began to believe that if he did not watch her, she might not do her homework. Then she might do poorly in school and be mocked, and he would have to protect her. What if he didn t know how? Better to be sure she did her work. But the more he stared at her, the more beautiful she became, the more her skin softened, and the silk of her hair awakened him from his dreams. He grew convinced his eyes gave off a kind of glow that polished the girl, like an apple, that she could never have been as lovely if he had not looked at her so intensely. He even thought his staring might have been making her breasts grow, just as the sun's heat caused fruit to ripen. That's when he realized her beauty was a kind of death wish. Like a mirage, he thought. A mirage of an oasis in the Sahara, something that could never satisfy his thirst. No wonder years later he still saw her breasts in the middle of the sea. No wonder he hated her.
By Nin Andrews
Occasionally the sailor suspects a woman swims nude beneath his ship, though when he dives into the water, he sees only white jellyfish opening and closing like umbrellas. He is reminded of the time when he was a boy and imagined ordinary stones were gems, lovely enough to win the heart of the girl next door. But he never reached to pick one up. Instead he decided the girl would never like him. The more he thought about her not liking him, the more he grew to despise her and her adolescent beauty. The more he despised her, the more he wanted to see her, to follow her, to sit just behind her, and never let her out of his sight. That was the beginning of the obsession. Evenings he stayed up late, peeking through his Venetian blinds, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in her pink striped pajamas. Every weeknight she stretched out on the lime green carpet in her living room and did her homework in front of the flickering TV. The boy began to believe that if he did not watch her, she might not do her homework. Then she might do poorly in school and be mocked, and he would have to protect her. What if he didn t know how? Better to be sure she did her work. But the more he stared at her, the more beautiful she became, the more her skin softened, and the silk of her hair awakened him from his dreams. He grew convinced his eyes gave off a kind of glow that polished the girl, like an apple, that she could never have been as lovely if he had not looked at her so intensely. He even thought his staring might have been making her breasts grow, just as the sun's heat caused fruit to ripen. That's when he realized her beauty was a kind of death wish. Like a mirage, he thought. A mirage of an oasis in the Sahara, something that could never satisfy his thirst. No wonder years later he still saw her breasts in the middle of the sea. No wonder he hated her.
Adolescence
Adolescence
By Nin Andrews
The winter her body no longer fit, walking felt like swimming in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Everything stuck to her skin: gum wrappers, Band-Aids, leaves. How she envied the other girls, especially the kind who turned into birds. They were the ones boys hand-tamed, training them to eat crumbs from their palms or sing on cue. What she would have done for a red crest and a sharp beak, for a little square of blue sky to enter her like wings. But it was her role to sink so the others could rise, hers to sleep so the others could dance. If only her legs weren't too sodden to lift, if only her buttons were unfastened by the water she kept swimming through, and she could extract from the shadow of her breasts a soul as soft as a silk brassiere, beautiful and useless, like a castle at the bottom of the sea.
By Nin Andrews
The winter her body no longer fit, walking felt like swimming in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Everything stuck to her skin: gum wrappers, Band-Aids, leaves. How she envied the other girls, especially the kind who turned into birds. They were the ones boys hand-tamed, training them to eat crumbs from their palms or sing on cue. What she would have done for a red crest and a sharp beak, for a little square of blue sky to enter her like wings. But it was her role to sink so the others could rise, hers to sleep so the others could dance. If only her legs weren't too sodden to lift, if only her buttons were unfastened by the water she kept swimming through, and she could extract from the shadow of her breasts a soul as soft as a silk brassiere, beautiful and useless, like a castle at the bottom of the sea.
Night Fishing
Night Fishing
By Nin Andrews
By Nin Andrews
| We were eating Milk Duds and drinking some kind of colas on the screen porch, a moth bopping the light bulb overhead, me still wearing my itchy wool skirt and knee socks with penny loafers. You wanted to take me over the hill past the barn and show me something. Like what? That old rabied dog you keep locked up? Out back Dad was using the chain saw in the dark. Jimmy was chopping wood. We snuck down to Milton's Pond where the moon slid on the water. See that? You asked me. See what? I asked. I didn't want any part of you touching me. Like the moon was some kind of excuse, you tore off your clothes and dove in. I remember how you looked, buck naked and belly white, like a fish jumping, once he's hooked. |
Depths
Depths
By Richard Moore
Once more home is a strange place: by the ocean a
big house now, and the small houses are memories,
once live images, vacant
thoughts here, sinking and vanishing.
Rough sea now on the shore thundering brokenly
draws back stones with a roar out into quiet and
far depths, darkly to lie there
years, years—there not a sound from them.
New waves out of the night's mist and obscurity
lunge up high on the beach, spending their energy,
each wave angrily dying,
all shapes endlessly altering,
yet out there in the depths nothing is modified.
Earthquakes won't even move—no, nor the hurricane—
one stone there, nor a glance of
sun's light stir its identity
By Richard Moore
Once more home is a strange place: by the ocean a
big house now, and the small houses are memories,
once live images, vacant
thoughts here, sinking and vanishing.
Rough sea now on the shore thundering brokenly
draws back stones with a roar out into quiet and
far depths, darkly to lie there
years, years—there not a sound from them.
New waves out of the night's mist and obscurity
lunge up high on the beach, spending their energy,
each wave angrily dying,
all shapes endlessly altering,
yet out there in the depths nothing is modified.
Earthquakes won't even move—no, nor the hurricane—
one stone there, nor a glance of
sun's light stir its identity
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Our Vision Is Our Voice
Our Vision Is Our Voice
By Sonia Sanchez
By Sonia Sanchez
Our vision is our voice
we cut through the country
where madmen goosestep in tune to Guernica.
we are people made of fire
we walk with ceremonial breaths
we have condemned talking mouths.
we run without legs
we see without eyes
loud laughter breaks over our heads.
give me courage so I can spread
it over my face and mouth.
we are secret rivers
with shaking hips and crests
come awake in our thunder
so that our eyes can see behind trees.
for the world is split wide open
and you hide your hands behind your backs
for the world is broken into little pieces
and you beg with tin cups for life.
are we not more than hunger and music?
are we not more than harlequins and horns?
are we not more than color and drums?
are we not more than anger and dance?
give me courage so I can spread it
over my face and mouth.
we are the shakers
walking from top to bottom in a day
we are like Shango
involving ourselves in acts
that bring life to the middle
of our stomachs
we are coming towards you madmen
shredding your death talk
standing in front with mornings around our waist
we have inherited our prayers from
the rain
our eyes from the children of Soweto.
red rain pours over the land
and our fire mixes with the water.
give me courage so I can spread
it over my face and mouth.
we cut through the country
where madmen goosestep in tune to Guernica.
we are people made of fire
we walk with ceremonial breaths
we have condemned talking mouths.
we run without legs
we see without eyes
loud laughter breaks over our heads.
give me courage so I can spread
it over my face and mouth.
we are secret rivers
with shaking hips and crests
come awake in our thunder
so that our eyes can see behind trees.
for the world is split wide open
and you hide your hands behind your backs
for the world is broken into little pieces
and you beg with tin cups for life.
are we not more than hunger and music?
are we not more than harlequins and horns?
are we not more than color and drums?
are we not more than anger and dance?
give me courage so I can spread it
over my face and mouth.
we are the shakers
walking from top to bottom in a day
we are like Shango
involving ourselves in acts
that bring life to the middle
of our stomachs
we are coming towards you madmen
shredding your death talk
standing in front with mornings around our waist
we have inherited our prayers from
the rain
our eyes from the children of Soweto.
red rain pours over the land
and our fire mixes with the water.
give me courage so I can spread
it over my face and mouth.
Poem for Some Women
Poem for Some Women
By Sonia Sanchez
Huh,
I'm alright.
I say, I'm alright.
What you looking at?
I say, I'm alright.
doing okay,
I-I-I'm still writing, producing
on the radio.
Who I foolin?
I'm a little ill.
Now I just got a little jones,
Jones, jones, habit, habit.
Took my seven-year-old to the crack house with me on Thursday.
beautiful little girl,
prettiest little girl her mama done ever seen.
Took her so she understands
why I late sometimes
with her breakfast, dinner, bedtime
needings, bedtime love.
Wanted her to know how hard it is for me.
You know, a single woman,
out here on her own.
You know, so I took her to the crack house
where this man, this dog, this former friend of mine lived.
Wouldn't give me no crack,
no action.
Even when I offered my thighs
to give him some again for the umpteenth time,
he said no.
All the while,
looking at my baby,
my pretty little baby.
And he said,
"I want her. I need a virgin.
Yo' pussy's too loose.
You had so much traffic up your pussy,
you could park a truck up there
and still have room for something else."
And he laughed,
this loooonnng laugh.
And I looked at him
and the stuff he was holding in his hand.
You know, I couldn't remember my baby's name.
He held out the stuff to me,
and I couldn't remember her birthday.
I couldn't remember my daughter's face.
And I cried as I walked out that door.
What's her name?
Pudd'n'Tang.
Ask me again,
I'll tell you the same thing.
Couldn't even hear her screaming my name,
as he tore into her pretty little panties.
Prettiest girl you done ever seen.
Pretties little mama's baby you done ever seen.
Bought my baby this pretty little leather jacket off the street.
When I went to pick her up on Sunday,
seven days later,
walked right up to the house,
opened the door,
saw her sitting on the floor.
She said,
"Mama! Where you been? Mama, I called for you.
Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!
They hurt me something bad.
I wanna go home!
Mamaaaa!"
Mama's little baby
loves shortening, shortening.
Mama's little baby loves shortening bread.
Put on the jacket.
Put on the jacket.
Mama's little baby loves shortening bread.
When we got home
she wouldn't talk to me.
She just sat and stared,
wouldn't even watch the TV
when I turned it on.
When we got home,
She just stared at me with her eyes,
dog-like,
just sat and looked at me with her eyes
'til I had to get out of there.
You know,
my baby ran away from home last week.
My sweet little shortening bread
ran away from home last night.
And I dreamed she was dead,
dreamed she was surrounded by panthers
who tossed her back and forth,
nibbling and biting,
and tearing her up.
My little shortening bread
ran away from home last week.
Peek-a-boo.
Peek-a-boo.
Peek-a-boo.
I see you
and you
and you
and yoooou.
By Sonia Sanchez
Huh,
I'm alright.
I say, I'm alright.
What you looking at?
I say, I'm alright.
doing okay,
I-I-I'm still writing, producing
on the radio.
Who I foolin?
I'm a little ill.
Now I just got a little jones,
Jones, jones, habit, habit.
Took my seven-year-old to the crack house with me on Thursday.
beautiful little girl,
prettiest little girl her mama done ever seen.
Took her so she understands
why I late sometimes
with her breakfast, dinner, bedtime
needings, bedtime love.
Wanted her to know how hard it is for me.
You know, a single woman,
out here on her own.
You know, so I took her to the crack house
where this man, this dog, this former friend of mine lived.
Wouldn't give me no crack,
no action.
Even when I offered my thighs
to give him some again for the umpteenth time,
he said no.
All the while,
looking at my baby,
my pretty little baby.
And he said,
"I want her. I need a virgin.
Yo' pussy's too loose.
You had so much traffic up your pussy,
you could park a truck up there
and still have room for something else."
And he laughed,
this loooonnng laugh.
And I looked at him
and the stuff he was holding in his hand.
You know, I couldn't remember my baby's name.
He held out the stuff to me,
and I couldn't remember her birthday.
I couldn't remember my daughter's face.
And I cried as I walked out that door.
What's her name?
Pudd'n'Tang.
Ask me again,
I'll tell you the same thing.
Couldn't even hear her screaming my name,
as he tore into her pretty little panties.
Prettiest girl you done ever seen.
Pretties little mama's baby you done ever seen.
Bought my baby this pretty little leather jacket off the street.
When I went to pick her up on Sunday,
seven days later,
walked right up to the house,
opened the door,
saw her sitting on the floor.
She said,
"Mama! Where you been? Mama, I called for you.
Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!
They hurt me something bad.
I wanna go home!
Mamaaaa!"
Mama's little baby
loves shortening, shortening.
Mama's little baby loves shortening bread.
Put on the jacket.
Put on the jacket.
Mama's little baby loves shortening bread.
When we got home
she wouldn't talk to me.
She just sat and stared,
wouldn't even watch the TV
when I turned it on.
When we got home,
She just stared at me with her eyes,
dog-like,
just sat and looked at me with her eyes
'til I had to get out of there.
You know,
my baby ran away from home last week.
My sweet little shortening bread
ran away from home last night.
And I dreamed she was dead,
dreamed she was surrounded by panthers
who tossed her back and forth,
nibbling and biting,
and tearing her up.
My little shortening bread
ran away from home last week.
Peek-a-boo.
Peek-a-boo.
Peek-a-boo.
I see you
and you
and you
and yoooou.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)