Liz’s Weekend Poetry Series: Minnie Bruce Pratt

by lizard

Like many Americans, I’ve been absolutely disgusted watching how “conservative” opportunism (read: desperation) has revived the culture war to try and drown out the somewhat encouraging economic trend lines and subsequent bump in Obama’s poll numbers.

But, like Wisconsin union bashing, Republicans have once again overreached, figuratively shooting themselves in the foot by apparently forgetting this important little fact: women vote. Political idiocy? to quote the Queen of political opportunism: youbetchya!

This weekend’s poetry series features a poem from Minnie Bruce Pratt. The poem is from a collection of poetry, titled Crimes Against Nature (Firebrand Books, 1990), and was the Lamont Poetry selection for the previous year (Note: the form of the poem is slightly altered from the original). Enjoy!

*

POEM FOR MY SONS

When you were born, all the poets I knew
were men, dads eloquent on their sleeping
babes and the future: Coleridge at midnight,
Yeats’ prayer that his daughter lack opinions,
his son be high and mighty, think and act.
You’ve read the new father’s loud eloquence,
fiery sparks written in a silent house
breathing with the mother’s exhausted sleep.

When you were born, my first, what I thought was
milk: my breast sore, engorged, but not enough
when you woke. With you, my youngest, I did not
think: my head unraised for three days, mind-dead
from waist-down anesthetic labor, saddle
block, no walking either.
                                                     Your father was then
the poet I’d ceased to be when I got married.
It’s taken me years to write this to you.

I had to make a future, willful, voluble,
lascivious, a thinker, a long walker,
unstruck transgressor, furious, shouting,
voluptuous, a lover, a smeller of blood,
milk, a woman mean as she can be some nights,
existence I could pray to, capable of
poetry.
                         Now here we are. You are men,
and I am not the woman who rocked you
in the sweet reek of penicillin, sour milk,
the girl who could not imagine herself
or a future more than a warm walled room,
had no words but the pap of the expected,
and so, those night, could not wish for you.

But now I have spoken, my self, I can ask
for you: that you’ll know evil when you smell it;
that you’ll know good and do it, and see how both
run loose through your lives; that then you’ll remember
you come from dirt and history; that you’ll choose
memory, not anesthesia; that you’ll have work
you love, hindering no one, a path crossing
at boundary markers where you question power;
that your loves will match you thought for thought
in the long heat of blood and fact of bone.

Words not so romantic nor so grandly tossed
as if I’d summoned the universe to be
at your disposal.
                                          I can only pray:

That you’ll never ask for the weather, earth,
angels, women, or other lives to obey you;

that you’ll remember me, who crossed, recrossed
you,
                       as a woman making slowly toward
an unknown place where you could be with me,
like a woman on foot, in a long stepping out.

—Minnie Bruce Pratt


  1. 1 An April Feast Of Poetry « 4&20 blackbirds

    […] Minnie Bruce Pratt […]

  2. 2 Liz’s Weekly Poetry Series: Anticipating April | 4&20 blackbirds

    […] Minnie Bruce Pratt […]

  3. 3 152 Poetry Posts to Celebrate April, National Poetry Month | 4&20 blackbirds

    […] Minnie Bruce Pratt […]




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