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Three poems by Marge Piercy
The Woman in the Ordinary, Winter Promises, Some Things Return in Spring
Marge Piercy
The Woman in the Ordinary
The woman in the ordinary pudgy downcast girl
is crouching with eyes and muscles clenched.
Round and pebble smooth she effaces herself
under ripples of conversation and debate.
The woman in the block of ivory soap
has massive thighs that neigh,
great breasts that blare and strong arms that trumpet.
The woman of the golden fleece
laughs uproariously from the belly
inside the girl who imitates
a Christmas card virgin with glued hands,
who fishes for herself in other’s eyes,
who stoops and creeps to make herself smaller.
In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry,
a yam of a woman of butter and brass,
compounded of acid and sweet like a pineapple,
like a handgrenade set to explode,
like goldenrod ready to bloom.
Winter Promises
Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby’s buttocks,
eggplants glossy as waxed fenders,
purple neon flawless glistening
peppers, pole beans fecund and fast
growing as Jack’s Viagra-sped stalk,
big as truck tire zinnias that mildew
will never wilt, roses weighing down
a bush never touched by black spot,
brave little fruit trees shouldering up
their spotless ornaments of glass fruit:
I lie on the couch under a blanket
of seed catalogs ordering far
too much. Sleet slides down
the windows, a wind edged
with ice knifes through every crack.
Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers:
I want to believe every promise,
to trust in five-pound tomatoes
and dahlias brighter than the sun
that was eaten by frost last week.
Some Things Return in Spring
The brave spears of the garlic
rustle in the damp hair of the wind
off the marsh brushing them:
a sound you will never again hear.
The maple is waving little russet
hands. Long brown scaled buds
line the beech twigs. Spring
explodes into hundreds of daffodils
on the hillside that was yours.
Tulips strut their brilliance bowing
to the sun where you will no
longer pass. My tears are
brief years after you died. Still
my thoughts are bouquets like
the red tulips I can never lay
on your invisible grave.
Marge Piercy
Marge Piercy (b. March 31, 1936) is an American feminist poet and novelist who has written 17 books of poetry, including The Moon Is Always Female (1980), which is considered a feminist classic. Piercy identifies as a Marxist and an activist for numerous progressive causes, including anti-war and environmental issues. Her poetry is often personal, written largely in free verse and focuses on social and feminist issues of the day. Her later poems also reflect a growing interest in the cultural and religious dimensions of her Jewish roots.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Three poems by Marge Piercy
The Woman in the Ordinary, Winter Promises, Some Things Return in Spring
Three poems by Marge Piercy
The Woman in the Ordinary, Winter Promises, Some Things Return in Spring
Marge Piercy
The Woman in the Ordinary
The woman in the ordinary pudgy downcast girl
is crouching with eyes and muscles clenched.
Round and pebble smooth she effaces herself
under ripples of conversation and debate.
The woman in the block of ivory soap
has massive thighs that neigh,
great breasts that blare and strong arms that trumpet.
The woman of the golden fleece
laughs uproariously from the belly
inside the girl who imitates
a Christmas card virgin with glued hands,
who fishes for herself in other’s eyes,
who stoops and creeps to make herself smaller.
In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry,
a yam of a woman of butter and brass,
compounded of acid and sweet like a pineapple,
like a handgrenade set to explode,
like goldenrod ready to bloom.
Winter Promises
Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby’s buttocks,
eggplants glossy as waxed fenders,
purple neon flawless glistening
peppers, pole beans fecund and fast
growing as Jack’s Viagra-sped stalk,
big as truck tire zinnias that mildew
will never wilt, roses weighing down
a bush never touched by black spot,
brave little fruit trees shouldering up
their spotless ornaments of glass fruit:
I lie on the couch under a blanket
of seed catalogs ordering far
too much. Sleet slides down
the windows, a wind edged
with ice knifes through every crack.
Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers:
I want to believe every promise,
to trust in five-pound tomatoes
and dahlias brighter than the sun
that was eaten by frost last week.
Some Things Return in Spring
The brave spears of the garlic
rustle in the damp hair of the wind
off the marsh brushing them:
a sound you will never again hear.
The maple is waving little russet
hands. Long brown scaled buds
line the beech twigs. Spring
explodes into hundreds of daffodils
on the hillside that was yours.
Tulips strut their brilliance bowing
to the sun where you will no
longer pass. My tears are
brief years after you died. Still
my thoughts are bouquets like
the red tulips I can never lay
on your invisible grave.
Marge Piercy
Marge Piercy (b. March 31, 1936) is an American feminist poet and novelist who has written 17 books of poetry, including The Moon Is Always Female (1980), which is considered a feminist classic. Piercy identifies as a Marxist and an activist for numerous progressive causes, including anti-war and environmental issues. Her poetry is often personal, written largely in free verse and focuses on social and feminist issues of the day. Her later poems also reflect a growing interest in the cultural and religious dimensions of her Jewish roots.
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