Read Circles on the Water Online

Authors: Marge Piercy

Circles on the Water (10 page)

We are equal if we make ourselves so, every day, every night

constantly renewing what the street destroys.

We are equal only if you open too on your heavy hinges

and let your love come freely, freely, where it will never be safe,

where you can never possess.

8.

When we mesh badly, with scraping and squeaking,

remember that every son had a mother

whose beloved son he was,

and every woman had a mother

whose beloved son she wasn’t.

What feels natural and easy is soft murder

of each other and that mutant future

striving to break into bloom

bloody and red as the real rose.

Periodic, earthy, of a violent tenderness

it is the nature of this joining

to remain partial and episodic

yet feel total: a mountain that opens like a door

and then closes

like a mountain.

The spring offensive of the snail

Living someplace else is wrong

in Jerusalem the golden

floating over New England smog,

above paper company forests,

deserted brick textile mills

square brooders on the rotten rivers,

developer-chewed mountains.

Living out of time is wrong.

The future drained us thin as paper.

We were tools scraping.

After the revolution

we would be good, love one another

and bake fruitcakes.

In the meantime eat your ulcer.

Living upside down is wrong,

roots in the air

mouths filled with sand.

Only what might be sang.

I cannot live crackling

with electric rage always.

The journey is too long

to run, cursing those

who can’t keep up.

Give me your hand.

Talk quietly to everyone you meet.

It is going on.

We are moving again

with our houses on our backs.

This time we have to remember

to sing and make soup.

Pack the
Kapital
and the vitamin E,

the basil plant for the sill,

Apache tears you

picked up in the desert.

But remember to bury

all old quarrels

behind the garage for compost.

Forgive who insulted you.

Forgive yourself for being wrong.

You will do it again

for nothing living

resembles a straight line,

certainly not this journey

to and fro, zigzagging

you there and me here

making our own road onward

as the snail does.

Yes, for some time we might contemplate

not the tiger, not the eagle or grizzly

but the snail who always remembers

that wherever you find yourself eating

is home, the center

where you must make your love,

and wherever you wake up

is here, the right place to be

where we start again.

Councils

(for two voices, female and male)

We must sit down
and reason together.
We must sit down.
Men standing want to hold forth.
They rain down upon faces lifted.
We must sit down on the floor
on the earth
on stones and mats and blankets.
There must be no front to the speaking
no platform, no rostrum,
no stage or table.
We will not crane
to see who is speaking.
Perhaps we should sit in the dark.
In the dark we could utter our feelings.
In the dark we could propose
and describe and suggest.
In the dark we could not see who speaks
and only the words
would say what they say.
Thus saying what we feel and what we want,
what we fear for ourselves and each other
into the dark, perhaps we could begin
to begin to listen.
Perhaps we should talk in groups
small enough for everyone to speak.
Perhaps we should start by speaking softly.
The women must learn to dare to speak.
The men must bother to listen.
The women must learn to say, I think this is so.
The men must learn to stop dancing solos on the ceiling.
After each speaks, she or he
will repeat a ritual phrase:
It is not I who speaks but the wind.
Wind blows through me.
Long after me, is the wind.

Other books

Whispering Spirits by Rita Karnopp
The Supplicant by Michelle Marquis
A Sunset in Paris by Langdon, Liz
Hold Your Own by Kate Tempest


readsbookonline.com Copyright 2016 - 2024