Sometimes you stumble upon a really spectacular, overlooked poet in a bookstore and think to yourself, "How in the hell is this author not well-known?"
This happened to me last summer as I was browsing around in a Barnes and Noble (or was it a Borders? I never know anymore) and so I decided to write a little entry on a great poet by the name of Marge Piercy.
First of all, the title caught my eye (Moon was in the title. I couldn't resist) and the cover made me squeal with delight:
My favorite animal and my favorite celestial object in the night sky. Intuitively, I knew it would be worth the buy. Indeed it was and I wish she would have had more books there on the shelf waiting for me. I hoard books--particularly poetry and memoirs. Not to mention I'm banned from the local library from checking out books. I almost never return them on time and fail to pay my late fees. Oh well. Be a ninja.
Here is a little exerpt:
A New Constellation
We go intertwined, him and you
and me, her and him, you and her,
each the center of our own circle
of attraction and compulsion and gravity.
What a constellation we make: I call it
the Matrix. I call it the dancing
family. I call it wheels inside wheels.
Ezekiel did not know he was seeing
the pattern for enduring relationship
in the last twentieth century.
All the rings shine gold as wedding bands
but they are the hoops magicians use
that seem solid and unbroken, yet can slip
into chains of other rings and out.
They are strong enough to hang houses on,
strong enough to serve as cranes, yet
they are open. We fall through each other,
we catch each other, we cling, we flip on.
No one is at the center, but each
is her own center, no one controls
the jangling swing and bounce and merry-
go-round lurching intertangle of this mobile.
We pass through each other trembling
and we pass through each other shrieking
and we pass through each other shimmering.
The circle is neither unbroken
nor broken but living, a molecule attracting
atoms that wants to be a protein,
complex, mortal, able to sustain life,
able to reproduce itself exactly,
learn and grow.
Although, she is considered a "feminist classic", I really love her writing style. Reminds me a little bit of my favorite poet Anne Sexton. Not to mention her throwing science into her poetry is definitely a turn-on; especially for me.
Give her a read--you won't be disappointed.
Oh, Mr. Spock. You are incredibly dreamy. I have had the biggest school girl crush on you since the tender age of 4. Watching Star Trek with my father on the SciFi channel after Twilight Zone, Doctor Who and Dark Shadows was the abosolute high light of my days. You were so...suave and poised like a cat. Mmm.
Us nerdy folk know that Spock's blood was green, yes? Well, here's a question for you: What color was his sperm?
Reading a good friend's blog entry on all questions of great nerdom, that question reared it's head (Haha...) and it got me thinking. Our blood is red (let's not get into specifics about what color it is inside our bodies before it interacts with oxygen). Spock's is of course, green. Take a look at this color wheel for a moment:
As you can see from this color wheel, green is opposite of red. Red is opposite of green. If you've taken any art classes, you know that these are also called complimentary colors because they are opposites. Well, a human male's sperm is white (well, a transparent white). What's opposite of white?
Bingo! Black.
Mr. Spock's sperm must be a shade of transparent black since that is opposite of white. His fluids are probably opposite of humans (even though he is only half Vulcan).
It's motherfucking logical, damnit.
Everyone has a fetish.
Feet, Heels or boots, Piercings, Leather, etc. I could probably name a few more that are quite bizarre. Necrophilia probably being one of the most recognizable.
My personal fetish (and come on now...we all have one) would be a person's hands. There is something about hands that tell you more about a person than their eyes, at least in my opinion. The texture, bone structure, markings, lines, temperature, even color of the nail beds can tell you about a person's soul.
If you told me to remember a past boyfriend's eyes, it would actually be rather difficult. Don't get me wrong--I love eyes. A person's eyes can certainly reveal many mysteries of a person. However, I have a hard time looking into a person's eyes. It makes me uncomfortable. But if you told me to remember their hands, that is something I most certainly could do with ease. I have taken pictures of some of their hands even and sketched them later. Even if the relationships didn't work out in the end, I still admired their hands as a work of art.
My hands are actually my favorite part about myself. Something I have always admired (even though my nails are uneven, I have blue fingernail beds from poor blood ciruclation and they are quite bony looking). My mother doesn't like my hands and has often called them "ugly" even though she is only joking. It's how my mother and I function. She typically dubs them the "Tale of the Crypt" hands. For some strange reason, I have always found that to be a compliment.
Don't be ashamed of having a fetish. A fetish is a work of art and can sometimes even be beautiful. Unless it's feces, vomit, or having sexual intercourse with a corpse.
