Build Your Body Like A Poem
Written by Kelly on November 12th, 2009I have a thundering heart, the heart of a poet. I wonder where it comes from. My mother is as literal as her lipstick. My father as solid as a scientist. They do not go to art museums or watch foreign films. They have no desire to ever visit Europe. My childhood was as sturdy as a tool belt, as homogenized as my mother’s activity in the local PTA. It is a wonder that they ever produced a child such as me.
We took the children hiking yesterday. 2.8 of the most lovely miles. My daughter’s little legs still learning the terrain grew tired. I swung her on my hip and carried her like a romance. While we walked, I whispered language in her ear, snatches of song lyrics, Sexton poetry, Shakespeare. If there is a hidden and primordial language that can release the wilderness inside of us, surely it is in the form of poetry. For a stretch of mile, my daughter and I were quiet. This is what nature does. It reminds you to be still. Lately, I have been too busy crashing into things just to note the bruise. I held my daughter against me, my legs pushed through decomposing leaves. Swoosh-swoosh-swooshing. We are the sound of dry waves slapping ground, a pulsing fetal heartbeat. We are the memory of when my daughter grew inside me.
When you become a woman, you’ll be a poet. I tell this to my daughter and she smiles. I wonder if this is fair. Women who write feel too much. Sexton said and allowed herself to be seduced by carbon monoxide in the year before I was born. I have no suicidal tendencies. I am not weighted by depression, but I can mourn like a caged bird sings sometimes. Would it be easier for my daughter to grow up like a cardigan sweater with perfect pearl buttons that only her husband would ever touch? What burdens am I passing on to my daughter when I love her fierce as lightening with my aching crooked heart?
I once followed a mother in a museum. She stood her small children in front of a Matisse and asked them to tell her a story in the blue bending of his bodies. I watched her secret as a spy to learn all the ways my own mothering could be. I should teach my daughter to be practical. Instead, I carry her on my hip deep inside a forest. This is what I tell her.
There is a metaphor in your mouth. Swallow. Do not fear the simile of your powerful thighs. Bear down on what lies between them. Look at your own breasts as they flower. Do not turn away from the gaze of your self. Play your own cunt like a love song. You are the most magnificent symbol of all. Baby, build your body like a poem.Welcome any lover who comes.
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Wow, wish I’d had you as a mother and yes, I know I’m older:)
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LOL! What deb said.
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last paragraph. all the way.
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Holly hell my mother never taught me that Kel… and oh how I wish someone would have.
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Lately I have been only noticing the bruises as well. Time to slow down with my creative journal.
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I love your eloquent writing. And a little vulgarity at the end too. Lol.
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But that is just the thing. Cunt is only vulgar if you give it the power to be. There is no vulgarity in my body, your body, any womens’ body. My god my body is art. I think here the word cunt is rather beautiful when it tips off of my fingers or spills from my mouth as gift to my beautiful daughter.
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I sometimes feel as if I have a schism in my mind–part scientist and part artist. I hope that your daughter listens to you.
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Only an american would find a contradiction in practical minds/foreign films. Which movies do you think people watch in other countries – i.e places where american films are foreign?
There is a whole world out there! and the usa is not the center!
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My very favorite thing is when someone takes a beautiful post and attempts to sully the soul of it by making it about them in the comments.
This was lovely, whether foreign films are American or not.
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I haven’t written here before. But I have read for a while. And I am glad that you’re so happy. Your writing is burning on fire and bubbling all at the same time, and your happiness is such a pleasure to read lately!
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Oh Flutter: Ha!!!!!
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This is beautiful.
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Beautiful. As usual. I love the idea of teaching your daughter live passionately, like a poet. There is nothing to regret about feeling deeply. And you’re right. Cunt is only vulgar if we allow it to be.