Circles of Men

Motherhood

• The bravest battle that ever was fought!
• Shall I tell you where and when?
• On the maps of the world you will find it not;
• 'Twas fought by the mothers of men.
• Nay not with the cannon of battle-shot,
  With a sword or noble pen;
  Nay, not with eloquent words or thought
  From mouth of wonderful men!
• But deep in a walled-up woman's heart -
  Of a woman that would not yield,
  But bravely, silently bore her part -
  Lo, there is the battlefield!
• No marshalling troops, no bivouac song,
  No banner to gleam and wave;
  But oh! those battles, they last so long -
  From babyhood to the grave.
• Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars,
  She fights in her walled-up town -
  Fights on and on in her endless wars,
  Then silent, unseen, goes down.
• Oh, ye with banners and battle-shot,
  And soldiers to shout and paise!
  I tell you the kingliest victories fought
  Were fought in those silent ways.
• O spotless woman in a world of shame,
  With splendid and silent scorn,
  Go back to God as white as you came -
  
  The Kingliest warrior born!

Excerpts from “LETTER TO THE FRONT”

by Muriel Rukeyser from The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser, eds. J.E. Kaufman & A.F. Herzog, 2005, University of Pittsburgh Press.

Women and poets see the truth arrive.
Then it is acted out,
The lives are lost, and all the newsboys shout,
Horror of cities follows, and the maze
Of compromise and grief.
The feeble cry Defeat be my belief.
All the strong agonized men
Wear the hard clothes of war,
Try to remember what they are fighting for.
But in dark weeping helpless moments of peace
Women and poets believe and resist forever:
The blind inventor finds the underground river.

They called us to a change of heart
But it was not enough.
Not half enough, not half enough
For all their bargaining and their art.
After the change of heart there comes
The savage waste of battlefield;
The flame of that wild battlefield
Rushes in fire through our rooms.
The heart that comes to know its war
When gambling powers try for place
Must live to wrestle for a place
For every burning human care:
To know a war begins the day
Ideas of peace are bargained for.
Surrender and death are bargained for—
Peace and belief must fight their way.
Begin the day we change and so
Open the spirit to the world.
Wars of the spirit in the world
Make us continually know
We fight to continually to grow.
…
I hear the singing of the lives of women,
The clear mystery, the offering and pride.
But here also the orange lights of a bar, and an
Old Biddy singing inside:
          Rain and tomorrow more
          They say there will be rain
          They lean together and tell
          The sorrow of the loin.
          Telling each other, saying
          “But can you understand?”
          They recount separate sorrows.
          Throat.  Forehead.     Hand.
          On the bars and walls of buildings
          They passed when they were young
          They vomit out their pain,
          The sorrow of the lung.
          Who would suspect it of women?
          They have not any rest.
          Sad dreams of the belly, of the lip,
          Of the deep warm breast.
          All sorrows have their place in flesh,
          All flesh will with its sorrow die—
          All but the patch of sunlight over,
          Over the sorrowful sunlit eye.
…

These years know separation.     O the future shining
In far countries or suddenly at home in a look, in a season,
In music freeing a new myth among the male
Steep landscapes, the familiar cliffs, trees, towers
That stand and assert the earth, saying: “Come here, come to me.
Here are your children.”    Not as traditional man
But love’s great insight—“your children and your song.”
Coming close to the source of belief, these have created
Resistance, the flowering fire of memory,
Given the bread and the dance and the breathing midnight.
Nothing has been begun.    No peace, no word of marvelous
Possible hillsides, the warm lips of the living
Who fought for the spirit’s grace among despair,
Beginning with signs of belief, offering in time of war,
As I now send you, for a beginning, praise.

Sarah, mater dolorosa

 Website with poems & songs
http://www.poemsforfree.com/happym.html

…

WHO AM I?

by Craig Azoff, March 26, 2006

Look in the mirror, what do I see?
Your eyes reflecting right back at me.
Make a decision, figure out what to do
Before I choose, I try to think just like you.
Something important, exciting about to start
Feel my blood pulsing from the pounding of your heart
Life events leaving us shaken with fear
Complete sadness, as I shed your tears

When I am by myself in parts of life unknown
I hear your voice, picture your face, I am never alone
When I ask myself who am I in this life
The answer is simple,
I am not me if not for my loving wife.