poem for today - Here Is What She Loves Deeply (Steinbergh)
Many months ago I was reminded of this poem. I thought it would be nice to share on LJ. Problem was I hadn't read the poem in years, didn't know the title, couldn't remember who wrote it, in fact couldn't remember much of it at all. Just the image of a web of friends, keeping one from falling, helping one soar. Hard to do a google search for that.
With those obstacles, it took a bit of hunting to find a copy. Fortunately I knew where I'd first read it - the poem was included in early editions of Our Bodies, Ourselves. Unfortunately, it is not in the newest edition. But then fortune smiled again. As I recently browsed a friend's bookshelves, lo & behold, there was the same edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves that I used to own. Searching the book showed my why I had such a hard time finding the poem. It's not included in the contents or the index, it doesn't have a title (that I've found), the author's name is spelled different ways in different places, and even Our Bodies, Ourselves doesn't credit it in any way, shape, or fashion. Okey dokey then.
I will admit to being disappointed, reading this poem again after 15 years away, to see that when the author talks about supportive friends, she specifies female friends. I have wonderful female friends in my life, but some of the most important parts of my support network are male. So much for societal gender roles. Since I don't have a right to edit the poem, I'll just add this- to all my friends, whatever your sex or gender, I am grateful for the many many times you have offered (and presumably will again offer) me support. This poem's for you
Here is what she loves deeply
her work she drives into with the sun
polishing wet roads to chrome,
her son who waits, feigning sleep
in his crib until he can caress her face,
her golden-haired, blue-eyed, hell-bent,
anti-authoritarian daughter who says
shit at the right time
her husband who has left her
here is what she loves, but once removed
her men with tongues, who put their mouths on hers,
who make her laugh deeply into the night, who take her
to bed during sesame street, who take her children
to school, or haven't met her children, or never
met a child at all, her men who juggle, who paint
day after day landscapes that have never left the mind,
who walk her on winter beaches, and fly her into chambers of coral reefs.
here is what she likes with an embarrassing relish
the luminescent stars and comets she's stuck on her
ceiling, the thought of toads in her husband's lover's
bed, her bell bird clanging a pottery sea bell sound,
her shells, colored powders, beach stones, sheep bones
ropes of feathers, long Indian skirts, filmy violet scarves,
snow over the lakes to ski on, her children's bare bodies,
summer with a wind in the moors, the stitching of night
with the loon's painted sound
here is what she needs and keeps her
a net of women so strong that when she falls
from the tightrope she walks day after day
sometimes with easy precision, sometimes
with wire cutting her feet into bands,
sometimes with a fatigue so great
her dreams have to hold her, that when she falls,
her women friends tighten their almost
invisible web, and she bounces and breathes,
bounces and weaves every fiber of their strength
into her own body, bounces and is free in a way
that will let her bounce against them again,
she bounces and soars, a dark bird
against the stadium lights, swoops to the crowd
and is off, a speck in the cranberry dawn.
poem by Judith W. Steinbergh
included in earlier editions of The New Our Bodies, Ourselves
©1992 by The Boston Women's Health Book Collective
With those obstacles, it took a bit of hunting to find a copy. Fortunately I knew where I'd first read it - the poem was included in early editions of Our Bodies, Ourselves. Unfortunately, it is not in the newest edition. But then fortune smiled again. As I recently browsed a friend's bookshelves, lo & behold, there was the same edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves that I used to own. Searching the book showed my why I had such a hard time finding the poem. It's not included in the contents or the index, it doesn't have a title (that I've found), the author's name is spelled different ways in different places, and even Our Bodies, Ourselves doesn't credit it in any way, shape, or fashion. Okey dokey then.
I will admit to being disappointed, reading this poem again after 15 years away, to see that when the author talks about supportive friends, she specifies female friends. I have wonderful female friends in my life, but some of the most important parts of my support network are male. So much for societal gender roles. Since I don't have a right to edit the poem, I'll just add this- to all my friends, whatever your sex or gender, I am grateful for the many many times you have offered (and presumably will again offer) me support. This poem's for you
Here is what she loves deeply
her work she drives into with the sun
polishing wet roads to chrome,
her son who waits, feigning sleep
in his crib until he can caress her face,
her golden-haired, blue-eyed, hell-bent,
anti-authoritarian daughter who says
shit at the right time
her husband who has left her
here is what she loves, but once removed
her men with tongues, who put their mouths on hers,
who make her laugh deeply into the night, who take her
to bed during sesame street, who take her children
to school, or haven't met her children, or never
met a child at all, her men who juggle, who paint
day after day landscapes that have never left the mind,
who walk her on winter beaches, and fly her into chambers of coral reefs.
here is what she likes with an embarrassing relish
the luminescent stars and comets she's stuck on her
ceiling, the thought of toads in her husband's lover's
bed, her bell bird clanging a pottery sea bell sound,
her shells, colored powders, beach stones, sheep bones
ropes of feathers, long Indian skirts, filmy violet scarves,
snow over the lakes to ski on, her children's bare bodies,
summer with a wind in the moors, the stitching of night
with the loon's painted sound
here is what she needs and keeps her
a net of women so strong that when she falls
from the tightrope she walks day after day
sometimes with easy precision, sometimes
with wire cutting her feet into bands,
sometimes with a fatigue so great
her dreams have to hold her, that when she falls,
her women friends tighten their almost
invisible web, and she bounces and breathes,
bounces and weaves every fiber of their strength
into her own body, bounces and is free in a way
that will let her bounce against them again,
she bounces and soars, a dark bird
against the stadium lights, swoops to the crowd
and is off, a speck in the cranberry dawn.
poem by Judith W. Steinbergh
included in earlier editions of The New Our Bodies, Ourselves
©1992 by The Boston Women's Health Book Collective