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Entry tags:
[booklog 2005]
78. Loose Woman, Sandra Cisneros. collection of poems. some of it hit home, and some of it was just...unfamiliar. also an odd switch from Milosz's subtlety and dryness, all this writing about love and lust and sex and womanliness. bits that i liked:
"I'm as free for the taking
as the eyes of Saint Lucy" (from "Pumpkin Eater")
"Why not? I'm for emotions running amok tonight,
breaking china and getting fucked.
I'm a regular Notre Dame, I tell you.
Little braindoors and gargoyled gutters,
and the frothy mob with their machetes and clubs
wild about me, I tell you,
positively screaming blood." (from "Thing in My Shoe")
clips from "Las Girlfriends":
[...]
Girlfriend, I believe in Ghandi.
But some nights nothing says it
quite precise like a Lone Star
cracked on someone's head.
Last week in this same bar,
kicked a cowboy in the butt
who made a grab for Terry's ass.
How do I explain, it was all
of Texas I was kicking,
and all our asses on the line.
[...]
I tell you, nights like these,
something bubbles from
the tips of our pointy boots
to the top of our coyote yowl.
Y'all wicked mean, a voice at the bar
claims. Naw, not mean. Shit!
Been to hell and back again.
Girl, me too.
this one i think would work best read aloud, performed: "Black Lace Bra Kind of Woman"
¡Wàchale! She's a black lace bra
kind of woman, the kind who serves
up suicide with every kamikaze
poured in the neon blue of evening.
A tease and a twirl. I've seen that
two-step girl in action. I've gambled bad
odds and sat shotgun when she rambled
her '59 Pontiac between the blurred
lines dividing sense from senselessness.
Ruin your clothes, she will.
Get you home after hours.
Drive her '59 seventy-five on 35
like there is no tomorrow.
Woman zydeco-ing into her own decade.
Thirty years pleated behind her like
the wail of a San Antonio accordion.
And now the good times are coming. Girl,
I tell you, the good times are here.
and finally: "A Man in My Bed Like Cracker Crumbs"
I've stripped the bed.
Shaken the sheets and slumped
those fat pillows like tired tongues
out the window for air and sun
to get to. I've let
the mattress lounge in
its blue-striped dressing gown.
I've punched and fluffed.
All morning. I've billowed and snapped.
Said my prayers to la Virgen de la Soledad
and now I can sit down
to my typewriter and cup
because she's answered me.
Coffee's good.
Dust motes somersault and spin.
House clean.
I'm alone again.
Amen.
</lj-cut.
"I'm as free for the taking
as the eyes of Saint Lucy" (from "Pumpkin Eater")
"Why not? I'm for emotions running amok tonight,
breaking china and getting fucked.
I'm a regular Notre Dame, I tell you.
Little braindoors and gargoyled gutters,
and the frothy mob with their machetes and clubs
wild about me, I tell you,
positively screaming blood." (from "Thing in My Shoe")
clips from "Las Girlfriends":
[...]
Girlfriend, I believe in Ghandi.
But some nights nothing says it
quite precise like a Lone Star
cracked on someone's head.
Last week in this same bar,
kicked a cowboy in the butt
who made a grab for Terry's ass.
How do I explain, it was all
of Texas I was kicking,
and all our asses on the line.
[...]
I tell you, nights like these,
something bubbles from
the tips of our pointy boots
to the top of our coyote yowl.
Y'all wicked mean, a voice at the bar
claims. Naw, not mean. Shit!
Been to hell and back again.
Girl, me too.
this one i think would work best read aloud, performed: "Black Lace Bra Kind of Woman"
¡Wàchale! She's a black lace bra
kind of woman, the kind who serves
up suicide with every kamikaze
poured in the neon blue of evening.
A tease and a twirl. I've seen that
two-step girl in action. I've gambled bad
odds and sat shotgun when she rambled
her '59 Pontiac between the blurred
lines dividing sense from senselessness.
Ruin your clothes, she will.
Get you home after hours.
Drive her '59 seventy-five on 35
like there is no tomorrow.
Woman zydeco-ing into her own decade.
Thirty years pleated behind her like
the wail of a San Antonio accordion.
And now the good times are coming. Girl,
I tell you, the good times are here.
and finally: "A Man in My Bed Like Cracker Crumbs"
I've stripped the bed.
Shaken the sheets and slumped
those fat pillows like tired tongues
out the window for air and sun
to get to. I've let
the mattress lounge in
its blue-striped dressing gown.
I've punched and fluffed.
All morning. I've billowed and snapped.
Said my prayers to la Virgen de la Soledad
and now I can sit down
to my typewriter and cup
because she's answered me.
Coffee's good.
Dust motes somersault and spin.
House clean.
I'm alone again.
Amen.
</lj-cut.