It was raining outside but my love still shined

 

Reading Margaret Atwood's "The Circle Game" this morning. I enjoy her poetry quite a bit, however, I've noticed a few places where I'd amend her usage of certain phrases or words. One thing that tends to bother me about some poets, no matter how good they are, is the reliance on the old tried and true for the very reason that it has proven successful in the past. I call it the whoring of words. To give an example of what I mean here: alliteration is fantastic, but sometimes enough is enough. The battered baseball cap, helpless hankering, Bonnie's blue bonnet... After six stanzas of this (no less, sometimes an entire poem of it!) I get the point. Lets be more creative, though.

Atwood, I think, makes the same mistake I have seen all too many women authors (in particular) make. When we talk about the moon, it has to be bone-white. Bones, hard bones, yes... I've made this same damn mistake too, just because it sounds so good. Bones are such a wonderful image, you can feel it in your teeth. It gets to the heart of the thing. But I'm tired of it. Lets think of another way to give the effect of something cold and naked. Strands of brittle, grey hair. A tiled kitchen floor. A porch made of brick and cement. Not stone. Brick.

I also recently purchased the word of Maurice Manning. At first reading, "Bucolics" straight up bothers me. How many times is Manning going to say the word "Boss"? I get the point -- we're converging the modern guy tongue with the poetic, but something about it clashes annoyingly. Some things clashing are nice: brown shoes and belt with black pants and shirt. You can certainly pull it off if done right. But I wouldn't necessarily jump to throw neons against pastels.

Anyway, I think I'm in-love with my neighbor. She's really a very beautiful woman. Aside from the obvious richly textured interior of her life -- as one can easily see with the countless projects she begins and finishes with artistic flare -- I find her physically beautiful as well. She is more full in the hips, and very well-built. Her shoulders are narrow, her feet are small and petite. I find myself often admiring her curvature, how it is so delicate and yet so strong. The hips truly have me. Everyone is familiar with the paintings of the romantic period, with the half-nude women and their milky skin, very white, usually with dark hair to contrast, and these wide, open hips.

I am so blessed to be a woman. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the entire world. Womanhood is layered with mystery and beauty and fantastic depth! We are in constant rotation, turning with particular rhythms, expanding and retracting. Our bodies have so many discoveries, so many portals, so much changing terrain!