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    Archived pages: 770 . Archive date: 2014-01.

  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: AUCTIONS.. POETRY & PROSE.. Regina.. Noakes.. P O E T R Y P R O S E.. Deal With It - 6/10/01.. two hands: white and black.. Bernadette Geiser.. 2001.. all these faces.. these faces and these words.. in this street-lit room.. some are smiling.. I have mixed feelings--.. like a drink?.. or a salad?.. I want to cry with empathy.. I am  ...   It makes you wonder about life--.. this energy and cycle--.. what mortality have we inherited through our.. cells and how amazing that there is also a.. part that is contained within us that can.. comment on our inheritance, that can comment on its own.. fibre--repetition reproduction--the process.. that digs into the waves.. changes the tide.. June 28, 2001.. Site Design & Maintenance by..

    Original link path: /poem.html?18
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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Karen.. Rechtschaffen.. Beyond the Surface - 4/29/01.. Body Language.. After Buneul & Dali's 'Un Chien Andalou'*.. Elizabeth Marino.. In his dreams.. she would find safety beside him,.. would ignore the flash of.. passing strangers in darkened storefronts.. In his dreams they would.. go back to her place, turn a single lock.. enter the plush darkness of her.. apartment, and he'd easily.. draw her to him.. without her turning quickly.. to light a small lamp, to glance.. over and through the clear vinyl shower curtain.. and draw the deadbolt, pull the latch and..  ...   out onto her back porch.. her face washed in silver by the full moon.. And when he'd stroke her right cheek.. she wouldn't flinch, and when he nuzzled.. the nape of her neck, all that he'd feel.. would be the soft syllable.. "OH".. without the slight stiffening and soft.. "Shit" and sigh.. In his dreams.. he could offer her.. night's endless possibilities.. and she would stroke him.. till her heart was more than full.. *forthcoming in.. From the Heart to the Earth.. , an Anthology of Midwest Latina Poets.. May 18, 2001..

    Original link path: /poem.html?13
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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Jude.. DiPaolo.. Editor.. Nina Corwin.. Only you know the flaws in the poem.. A blemish concealed with a cool beige foundation,.. at the cheekbones a rosy smear of blush.. (Revlon or Cover Girl, one rung up.. on that ladder of price and desperation).. Ever the petulant editor of yourself.. dabbing and smearing, pinching and.. painting.. Frowning in the mirror.. at the rough patch, worrying the pimple.. Tweaking a word, here, an inflection, there.. A cosmetic cover-up, adjusting for grammar.. and style, for the way it looks to the squinting.. circle of eyes: a critical father, the tenuous lover,.. those colleagues as reluctant to share a space.. on their small and  ...   morning only.. to fade in the bleeding afternoon.. when skin cells shed invisibly in the sweat.. of expected scrutiny.. And the blemish begins to give itself away.. Or you can't help asking, pointing.. a finger at the almost imperceptible cellulite.. And now they can see what you're talking about.. In fact it begins to stand out and salute,.. a mispronunciation, an irritant,.. eyesore to the ear, inkstain on the page.. Now you're back at your desk.. reading under your breath, tweezing out the tired.. and tortuous words, you lean into the bathroom mirror,.. Peering at your face under the freakish light,.. tugging at wrinkles, smearing and dabbing.. dabbing and smearing..

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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Catherine.. Wiesener.. Girls.. Denise Rector.. She said.. don't even try it.. and.. her tone was like corn when.. you rip the husk, the rich sound of.. sawing it off the cob.. Smoke rises from.. the card game where her.. now, he.. gonna-he was up all close.. belongs, growing easy like something green over a game of.. spades, laughter making the drinks and the fold-up table jiggle with.. like.. this dude was trying to talk to me,.. and she can be anywhere, so she's.. coming home from school on the back.. of the bus, more like her friends.. than their uniforms show.. These same girls who always..  ...   they cross the street.. their breasts bounce safely in cups.. that make tulips look empty,.. and they grow, forcing satin and lace.. against their white T-shirts.. And they become women who snap.. what.. at one child while tying.. another's shoe, fingers absentmindedly.. rouge, pearled or pink among the strings.. And later, when she's.. please, I am not.. the one,.. her daughter knows her body.. because she is small on the floor.. between her mother's legs, plastic parts.. her scalp, a warm finger follows.. the curve of her hair to oil her scalp.. And she listens to get to where.. her mother is, to learn that voice..

    Original link path: /poem.html?11
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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Hey, Hey, Hallelujah.. Shelley Miller.. 1998.. You've been talking to God tonight.. Said he might come over for dinner.. Throw in a pot roast and do your makeup right.. Hey mama, won't you tell me a story.. Not now, go put your pj's on.. Count your sheep or watch some tv.. Mama's got her good church dress on.. You've been talking to God for weeks.. Say your prayers and be a good girl.. Never mind that the kitchen sink still leaks.. And all the dirt under God's fingers.. He still ain't got your car working right..  ...   to God for years.. But he's never home and your baby's grown.. So pack your bags and get set to disappear.. Yeah, pack your bags and get set to fly from.. Here, here, here, he never hears you.. Here, here, get set to fly from here.. Moon Lodge performers, Shelley Miller (with guitar) and Karen Stockwell, write poems and songs separately, then layer them together into new collaborative works.. As part of the Beyond the Surface reading, their works,.. I Sing in the Dark.. , were performed in alternating stanzas, with Miller singing and Stockwell reading..

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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Linda.. Rzoska.. His Words.. Mars Gamba-Adisa Caulton.. His words were the rubber hose.. his hand in my face a Brooklyn cop's plunger.. He marched in the streets with me.. against police brutality.. but then he used their mentality on his lover.. Just what kind of future is he fighting for?.. Maybe one where  ...   does he just wanna be.. the one with the badge and the gun.. and the power to treat sisters as he pleases.. His freedom songs of protest are.. disgraced when he pumps his hand in the face of his lover.. His words.. just a jailor's rubber hose.. his hands.. a Brooklyn cop's plunger..

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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Keebler.. Karen Stockwell.. I sing in the dark while I wait for you.. The words, the tunes are fragments.. of songs I can't quite remember.. But they are all about love,.. the deep need, the longing, the desire of love.. I wait for the scent of your skin.. on the sheets, the touch of.. your hand upon my face.. The light of the  ...   they connect.. us with moments in our past.. I recall our first dance at.. the wedding and I play back the music in my mind.. I sing in the dark while I wait for you, but.. the long day's shadow surrounds me.. As I sing myself to sleep,.. the last sound I hear.. is the opening of the door as you enter the room..

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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Rainbow Eyes - A Fable.. Sharon Klopner-Masters.. Always the same question,.. mostly asked by men,.. while petulant women.. pretend not to listen.. "Your eyes," they ask,.. her green-gray eyes turning umber in the sunlight,.. then abruptly,.. "Whose child are you?".. Resolute she answers,.. "My mother's.. ".. Once a writhing fish.. hot from her mother's womb.. with those eyes wide as copper coins.. illuminating the room.. Now, husbands are not stupid,.. they know the faces of their kin and spouses kin.. So for those eyes,.. her mother paid a pretty price,.. "Whose child?".. was his question.. Imagine such a rich ancestry,.. a mother nut-brown, a father mahogany hued,.. grand-parents and great-grands.. every shade beyond  ...   with eyes of every hue,.. eyes before their time,.. with memory of all the time before them?.. What does she do for love,.. when suitors stand entranced before eyes.. that dance an ancient dance so supple and lithe,.. in orgasmic ecstasy.. they spend their seed upon the ground.. not upon her womb?.. Made goddess, made alien.. her sheets are always cool.. What does she do for food;.. denied mortality what goddess eats or drinks?.. And what of sleep,.. when all those lives are behind your eyes.. hungry for life, clamoring always.. to see, to see?.. ".. "No, whose child, whose child?".. "Yours, and yours and yours too,.. but not for long,.. not for long..

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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Silvana.. LaCreta Ravena.. Prejudice - 2/11/01.. A Mixed Message.. Tara Betts.. November 1999.. What makes me so damned tragic?.. not a fragmented exotic mystery.. jezebel born from the blood of rape.. nor child of the so called integration experiment.. I heard folks tell my momma.. How can parents put children through that.. It makes life so much harder.. I have seen my mind.. build bridges within blood.. my biology connects with ovaries & melanin.. with no capital to spare.. I explode from Nella Larsen novels.. yet somehow, I am invisible woman.. descendant of Invisible Man.. niece of an Ex-Colored Man.. I balance proud weight & independent discipline.. on scales of identity.. swinging precarious images of Pinky & Pecola.. Decades before my birth.. when certificates denied.. evident possibility.. plain as brown freckles.. across my face.. when some enjoyed the milk.. but avoided sunlight honey.. so no secrets would break..  ...   Rican.. tan white girl.. Are you from the South?.. Or the best one yet.. Are you Egyptian?.. At least when I wandered.. a continent where textbooks concealed.. land anchoring the Sphinx.. I rekindle links as I touch.. brown hands with palms.. the same shade as mine.. I find myself within.. amalgamation improvisation.. within Black.. contradicting the bubbling brew of.. unidentifiable, indecipherable.. ethnic glamor girls.. What was she anyway?.. No Concubine mistress.. nor color caste breeding.. rippin paper bag tests into confetti.. Ready to dissolve with steam rising.. from a glass of other.. I defy categories.. fill in all the gaps.. where miscegenation laws.. blotted my birth.. My voice smatters blood in the face.. of Aryan Nations.. I am what they feared.. Never passed in the world.. but passed salves over broken flesh.. reclaiming nationhood I lost generations ago.. retracing veins from history's corpse.. resounding with speech.. extending beyond.. now..

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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Eileen.. Downes.. Chicago Cherry.. Lucy Anderton.. your mouth opens deeply.. buries my eyes, orange,.. in milkscenes of red walls.. where you kissed your cement.. plaster runs down my block.. where Folks place hard won soles.. and I carve my sight of.. your body beat.. Baby.. bring the bounce of your breath.. to rest in my drink..  ...   parts of lime juice.. from rubber green skin,.. feed my bee stings.. feed me.. pink.. tongue.. yours.. slides of smile up your cheek.. fingered salt water lashed.. to the core of the apple,.. orchard eye.. mine.. splits of self.. cuts of silk.. sucked for nothing.. touching.. everything.. Chaos comes strong.. or not.. at all.. May 17, 2001..

    Original link path: /poem.html?4
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  • Title: Woman Made Gallery: Poetry & Prose
    Descriptive info: Andrea.. Ginsburg.. Sans Rhyme.. Lani T.. Montreal.. December 27, 2000.. There are things I cannot write about.. Things I've seen.. That resist metaphor.. Irony lost in rage.. In unwanted caresses.. Things that defy definition.. Meanings splattered in red.. Red dark as first menses.. Red dark as blood bathed in shadows.. These are the things I cannot.. pen into poetry.. Things that do not have rhythm.. Nor form that sway to soft air.. in the night..  ...   prey.. Snatching words from my mouth.. before they could escape.. Wrestling reason to the ground.. with hard punches and jabs.. before crushing.. Powerful claws digging into flesh.. The body of reason lies shriveled and torn.. It bleeds in my mind.. Like the scream that obliterates thought.. The scream that is held captive.. These things I cannot write about.. Because they hurt.. Because they come in the night.. And steal me from the lap of sleep..

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  • Archived pages: 770