Saturday, May 1, 2010

PYA: CHAPTER SEVENTY


To begin reading this sci-fi novel or for background information, go to my Chapter One post here. To read about the background of the first novel, read my post here, which will also direct you to appendices.

For more detailed information, posted elsewhere on this blog are:

Pya Dictionary from Skenish to English (complete up to present chapter), with some cultural notes included
Pya Cast of Characters (complete up to present chapter)
Owl Manage on Saya Island, original plans
Saya Island Eastern End After Development
Map of Pya with Description of Each Island
Map of Skene (but not Pya)
Map of Saya Island and Environs When Pyosz First Arrived
Map of Saya Island, Teppe and Pea Pods Environs After Development
Skene Character Lineage at Midway Through Pya Novel
Skene, Chapter One (With Cultural Notes in Links)

CHAPTER SEVENTY

It was the first week of Kall in what had already been an unusually cold autumn and winter. One of the empty bedrooms upstairs had been fitted with special lamps offering heat and light for starts, but everyone agreed it was too early to plant even there. The ground had frozen twice, and there were no more greens or cabbage to be salvaged from the tillage. What little fresh produce the Manage required came from ejida greenhouses via Gitta's mark-up. Mostly they ate stews and casseroles which daily whittled away at Qala's shining rows of jarred bounty from last summer.

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Friday, April 30, 2010

"WOMEN DON'T RIOT" by Ana Castillo


April, otherwise known as Poetry Month, is now over but I still have one favorite lined up to share, so consider this lagniappe. Tomorrow I'll return to posting daily quotes instead.

WOMEN DON'T RIOT

by Ana Castillo

Women don't riot, not in maquilas in Malaysia, Mexico, or Korea,
not in sweatshops in New York or El Paso.
They don't revolt
in kitchens, laundries, or nurseries.
Not by the hundreds or thousands, changing
sheets in hotels or in laundries
when scalded by hot water,
not in restaurants where they clean and clean
and clean their hands raw.

Women don't riot, not sober and earnest,
or high and strung out, not of any color,
any race, not the rich, poor,
or those in between. And mothers of all kinds
especially don't run rampant through the streets.

In college those who've thought it out
join hands in crucial times, carry signs,
are dragged away in protest.
We pass out petitions, organize a civilized vigil,
return to work the next day.

We women are sterilized, have more children
than they can feed,
don't speak the official language,
want things they see on TV,
would like to own a TV--
women who were molested as children
raped,
beaten,
harassed, which means
every last one sooner or later;
women who've defended themselves
and women who can't or don't know how
we don't--won't ever rise up in arms.

We don't storm through cities,
take over the press, make a unified statement,
once and for all: A third-millennium call--
from this day on no more, not me, not my daughter,
not her daughter either.

Women don't form a battalion, march arm in arm
across continents bound
by the same tongue, same food or lack thereof,
same God, same abandonment,
same broken heart,
raising children on our own, have
so much endless misery in common
that must stop
not for one woman or every woman,
but for the sake of us all.

Quietly, instead, one and each takes the offense,
rejection, bureaucratic dismissal, disease
that should not have been, insult,
shove, blow to the head,
a knife at her throat.
She won't fight, she won't even scream--
taught as she's been
to be brought down as if by surprise.
She'll die like an ant beneath a passing heel.
Today it was her. Next time who.


(Written 1998, Chicago; for N.B.S.)

Thursday, April 29, 2010

'WE ARE ALL LESBIANS"


In 1973, the year I graduated high school, Violet Press (which I think was mostly Fran Winant) published a chapbook-sized anthology called We Are All Lesbians. It was the first lesbian poetry anthology in America and likely the world. I got a copy in around 1974 which I still own.

It was mostly handwritten with line drawings and press-on type titles. You simply can’t comprehend the impact of early works like this if you didn’t live through those times. It was like getting a letter from the future.

The entire anthology is available online via the Lesbian Poetry Archive. I’m copying below three of the poems which affected me the most then and have stood up through the years.

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HUBBLE THURSDAY 29 APRIL 2010

(Jet in Carina)

Every Thursday, I post a very large photograph of some corner of space captured by the Hubble Space Telescope and available online from the picture album at HubbleSite, followed by poetry after the jump.

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Tuesday, April 27, 2010

(Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, and Basket)

21

by Gertrude Stein

I love my love with a v
Because it is like that
I love my love with a b
Because I am beside that
A king.
I love my love with an a
Because she is a queen
I love my love and a a is the best of them
Think well and be a king,
Think more and think again
I love my love with a dress and a hat
I love my love and not with this or with that
I love my love with a y because she is my bride
I love her with a d because she is my love beside
Thank you for being there
Nobody has to care
Thank you for being here
Because you are not there.
And with and without me which is and without she she can be late and then and how and all around we think and found that it is time to cry she and I.

(from Before the Flowers of Friendship Faded Faded)

LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUND-UP 27 APRIL 2010

Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there -- including, back with a vengeance here on the front page, our own little gator.



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THREE BY ROBERT FROST


I don't typically write in rhyme, mostly because such poetry won't get published, but those who do it well are justly on the list of immortal greats. To do it well, you must possess not only a virtually unlimited vocabulary but, even more, the skill to hear and flawlessly replicate meter and rhythm as it occurs in tne marrow of speech. Few do it better, or make it look more easy, than Frost. He's hard to get enough of.

Below are three of his best, all deceptively short, with short words, structurally perfect, which deal with extremely complicated and often contradictory ideas. Again, worth memorizing: Having them in your head, to repeat to yourself at certain times, will serve you in ways you cannot imagine. And they'll become brand new to you again.

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Monday, April 26, 2010

POEMS AND FRAGMENTS BY SAPPHO

(Sappho, painted by Charles Mengin, 1877)

Despite my mother flooding our house with books as much as she was able, we often lived in places without libraries and for me they were magnetic, magical places. (Still are.) When I went to college, I went to the massive university libary every day. I often simply wandered the stacks, pulling out volumes whose title looked interesting, stacking them in heaps at my carrel to browse or check out. I looked up "lesbian" and "gay" in the card catalogue but was still too frightened to check one of these books out, even from the women I suspected were all dykes at the front desk.

Until one day, I was walking along a dimly lit, dusty row and a small red volume literally fell off the shelf in front of me. I was startled, and glanced inside before returning it to its place: It was a tiny collection of Sappho's poetry. I felt cold run down my spine, and looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed this. But nobody was near. I stood there and read until a fragment, about a red dress, sent more shivers through me. After that, I was able to find the courage to check out "lesbian" books, always stuffed between several other innocuous tomes.

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Sunday, April 25, 2010

SPRING AND FALL: TO A YOUNG CHILD by Gerard Manley Hopkins

(An old tree from Tanzania, photo by Diego Goldberg)

When I was nine, I memorized this poem by Hopkins because it had my name in the first line and because it made me cry for reasons I couldn't understand.

SPRING AND FALL: TO A YOUNG CHILD

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By & by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep & know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.