Friday, February 1, 2013

poem for Ann



Column on Ann Menebroker






Do not refer to me as "poetess" —

I earned the right of leaving off
that ghost-burdened appellation; 

I am a poet, damn it — 
my haunted eyes and ink-stained fingers 
my proof, my badge of honor — 

I am not some silly, frilly maiden from Victorian days 
"who knew her place", who dared not leave its cumbersome chambers,
loose its sharp-edged, barbed chains and venture forth 
into the wilderness, unchaperoned.

I walked into those smoke-filled dens 
filled with surly men unafraid, but not boisterous. 
I had confidence without need or desire to cause a scene. 

They accepted my presence, for the most part; 
those who voiced disapproval were swiftly hushed 
by others who tipped their hats, a courtly gesture by those 
who had seen displays of my quiet. unearthly prowess and power, 
who had felt the burn of lava as it roiled down mountainsides, carving creations — 
covering the very spot where Sisyphus spent monotonous centuries, 
straining to lift a single rock, over and over again.

I am not yet Legend, perhaps, but well on my way
to the secretive, hallowed halls gilded with portraits 
of sacred giants whose names are only whispered  
partly in admiration, partly in fear.