A couple of days ago I found Dave reading some old poems of mine from a little book that didn't get much press. Most of the poems were written in the early 70s. When I came in the room he waved the book at me and said, "You must have been angry, babe."
Was I angry? I don't remember being angry. But frustrated? Yes.
As I looked over these poems I remember being, more than anything else, exhausted. Way too much going on and that lasted for decades. I had four little kids and a husband who, while he told me every day he loved me, always had other fish to fry while, at the same time, being extremely high maintenance. But, in addition to family, I was also working, writing and going to school. I was frustrated with "the system;" bosses, professors, the church and, as a card carrying feminist, men in general.
So when I reread the poems I said to Dave "I guess you're right. Maybe I was a little angry." It's now 40 years later and I'm finally rested up. But I still "own" the poems.
Here's one I love. The frustrating classroom situation helped me so much in my career as a platform speaker and consultant. I was determined to have the truth arise from the group. I still experience this as the best way to learn.
THE CLASS (written in 1974)
He perpetrated his monologue,
While the challenging views of 20
fertile minds,
Were artfully suppressed,
Being afflicted as he was,
With that malignant academic
disease called,
"Covering the material."
And then.
Like a great mysteriously orchestrated
"happening,"
The ideas spilled out,
Quickly at first, with each voice picking up where the
other left off,
Rejecting, challenging, supporting,
Until finally,
The room was so "electric,"
That even he lit up.
Ah yes the inmates are taking
over the asylum,
And it's working!
***
Was I angry? I don't remember being angry. But frustrated? Yes.
As I looked over these poems I remember being, more than anything else, exhausted. Way too much going on and that lasted for decades. I had four little kids and a husband who, while he told me every day he loved me, always had other fish to fry while, at the same time, being extremely high maintenance. But, in addition to family, I was also working, writing and going to school. I was frustrated with "the system;" bosses, professors, the church and, as a card carrying feminist, men in general.
So when I reread the poems I said to Dave "I guess you're right. Maybe I was a little angry." It's now 40 years later and I'm finally rested up. But I still "own" the poems.
Here's one I love. The frustrating classroom situation helped me so much in my career as a platform speaker and consultant. I was determined to have the truth arise from the group. I still experience this as the best way to learn.
THE CLASS (written in 1974)
He perpetrated his monologue,
While the challenging views of 20
fertile minds,
Were artfully suppressed,
Being afflicted as he was,
With that malignant academic
disease called,
"Covering the material."
And then.
Like a great mysteriously orchestrated
"happening,"
The ideas spilled out,
Quickly at first, with each voice picking up where the
other left off,
Rejecting, challenging, supporting,
Until finally,
The room was so "electric,"
That even he lit up.
Ah yes the inmates are taking
over the asylum,
And it's working!
***
