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What Kind of Princess are You? - Beautiful Artwork

The Noble Princess You are just and fair, a perfectionist with a strong sense of proper decorum. You are very attracted to chivalry, ceremony and dignity. For the most part you are rather sensible, but you are also very idealistic.Role Models: Guinevere, Princess Fiona (of Shrek)You are most likely to: Get kidnapped by a stray dragon.
Take this quiz!

National Poetry Month is almost over

Yep, NPM is nearly over, and my whole poem-a-day idea has been a wash. I did find a lot of great poems, though. Maybe I'll just share them as the mood strikes me. I'm discovering I'm not real good at the whole follow through thing. Oh, well.

I chose this month's last poem because I actually know the artist and it's very sensual and evocative. So there.

Philly Treat

by -Walsh

Fingertip across
my bottom lip
and I think of my mother's salsa:
cebollas
y cilantro
lying among fragrant folds
of deep red tomatoes
and chiles,
made with love
and Mexican soul…
Ay, esta salsa!
I murmur
as the conductor
bellows 30th St. Station!
while the R5
sighs with relief
and slides to a stop.
Fingertip to hip
and I check the smooth schedule
in my pocket
and wait,
Wait!
Mira, este Papi Chulo!
toasted almond,
syrup swirled butter pecan,
sweet, sensual brother
swaggering down the aisle
to the seat in front of me…
he meets my gaze,
smiles
then sits.
Fingertip back to lip
and I think about
salsa
y merengue, Ay!
hands holding hands
hands across backs
hands on hips
hips swaying back and forth
and back…
I lean forward,
tap, tap, tap with my fingertip,
lick my bottom lip
and wait to meet this Philly treat
who so rudely interrupted thoughts
of my mother's salsa.

Friday, April 28, 2006

Wikiquote

I talked about Wikiquote before, but this is the first time I've liked one enough to commemorate it:

Wikiquote of the day:

  "War: first, one hopes to win; then one expects the enemy to lose;
  then, one is satisfied that he too is suffering; in the end, one is
  surprised that everyone has lost." -- Karl Kraus

 
Deep, yes?

Friday Random 10 - and one to grow on

Yeah, yeah. I'm a terrible blogger.
Remember that poem-a-day thing? Hey, that's hard work!
Remember that Friday-Random-10 thing? Hey, here it is!

1. The Doves -- Last Broadcast
I bought *this* album (The Last Broadcast) on the strength of another album that I never bought (the "About a Boy" soundtrack). It's good, very catchy, but mellow. In fact, it's bordering on *too* mellow. Kind of like this song...

2. The Verve -- Bitter Sweet Symphony
This is just an incredible song, there are no two ways about it. It's almost perfect.

3. Weezer -- My Best Friend
Weezer is a strange case. I almost always like their radio songs; I really want to like their albums (I keep buying them, after all), but I almost never do. I never *dislike* their albums, I just don't listen to them. Anyway, this is one of those songs that are completely unobjectionable and pleasant, but I probably wouldn't *choose* to listen to.

4. Elvis Costello with Brian Eno -- My Dark Life
Another song from the X-Files TV soundtrack. It's about 50/50. About half of the songs are really, really good and the other half are pretty mediocre. Though I love EC, this is one of the latter.

5. Blur -- Song 2
The prototypically perfect pop song.

6. Destiny's Child -- Bills, Bills, Bills
IIRC, this was DC's 'breakout' song. It still holds up. Plus, it's pretty funny.

7. Cake - Pretty Pink Ribbon
Cake is the DH's favorite band. I like a lot of their songs and find a lot of them virtually unbearable. Like this one.

8. James -- Born of Frustration
It would be no exaggeration to say that this song, and this album, saved my life. Well, maybe a *little* bit of an exaggeration. It was the end of my sophomore year; I was in a crappy dorm, my circle of friends was disbanding and rolling on and I began to realize that I hadn't escaped lonliness, I'd just outrun it for a while. I bought the album (Seven) on the strength of this song and the combination of optimism and existential malaise was just what I needed to keep me sane on those dark, depressing and lonely college days.

9. Youssou N'Dour -- Touba - Daru Salaam
It's World Music (whatever that means). This song is very bubbly and joyful and not *quite* my cup of tea; but it's interesting.

10. Pizzicato Five -- Readymade FM
This one doesn't really count cuz it's only 13 seconds long, so on to...

11. Wyclef -- Street Jeopardy
You know, I really like this CD (The Carnival), but this is probably my least favorite song on it. Go figure.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Modest Mouse Quote of the Day

Life handed us a paycheck and we said,
"We worked harder than this!"
 
                                                               -- from "Bury Me With It"

Monday, April 17, 2006

Poem a Day?

I've been pretty abysmal with the whole poem-a-day thing. So here's one I re-discovered today. I first heard of Mohja Kahf on good-ol' Muslim Wake Up. I found this poem again on this blog.

One day I will buy her book of poetry "E-Mails from Scheherazade."

Little Mosque Poems

By Mohja Kahf

In my little mosque
there is no room for me
to pray. I am
turned away faithfully
five
times a day

My little mosque:
so meager
in resources, yet
so eager
to turn away
a woman
or a stranger

My little mosque
is penniless, behind on rent
Yet it is rich in anger
every Friday, coins of hate
are generously spent

My little mosque is poor yet
every week we are asked to give
to buy another curtain
to partition off the women,
or to pave another parking space

I go to the Mosque of the Righteous
I have been going there all my life
I have been the Cheerleader of the Righteous Team
I have mocked the visiting teams cruelly
I am the worst of those I complain about:
I am a former Miss Mosque Banality

I would like to build
a little mosque
without a dome
or minaret
I'd hang a sign
over the door:
Bad Muslims
welcome here
Come in, listen
to some music,
sharpen
the soul's longing,
have a cigarette

I went to the mosque
when no one was there
and startled two angels
coming out of a broom closet
"Are they gone now?" one said
They looked relieved

My great big mosque
has a chandelier
big as a Christmas tree
and a jealously guarded
lock and key
I wonder why
everyone in it
looks just like me

My little mosque
has a bouncer at the door
You have to look pious
to get in

My little mosque
has a big sense of humor
Not

I went to the mosque
when no one was there
The prayer space was soft and serene
I heard a sound like lonely singing
or quiet sobbing. I heard a leafy rustling
I looked around
A little Quran
on a low shelf
was reciting itself

My little mosque has a Persian carpet
depicting trees of paradise
in the men's section, which you enter
through a lovely classical arch
The women's section features
well, nothing

Piety dictates that men enter
my little mosque through magnificent columns
Piety dictates
that women enter
my little mosque
through the back alley,
just past the crack junkie here
and over these fallen garbage cans

My little mosque used to be democratic
with a rotating imam
we chose from among us every month
Now my little mosque has an appointed imam
trained abroad
No one can dispute his superior knowledge

We used to use our minds
to understand Quran
My little mosque discourages
that sort of thing these days
We have official salaried translators
for God

I used to carry around a little mosque
in the chambers of my heart
but it is closed indefinitely pending
extensive structural repairs

I miss having a mosque,
driving by and seeing cars lining the streets,
people double-parking, desperate
to catch the prayer in time
I miss noticing, as they dodge across traffic
toward the mosque entrance between
buses and trucks,
their long chemises fluttering,
that trail of gorgeous fabrics Muslims leave,
gossamer, the colors of hot lava, fantastic shades
from the glorious places of the earth
I miss the stiff, uncomfortable men
looking anywhere but at me when they meet me,
and the double-faced women
full of judgment, and their beautiful
children shining
with my children. I do

I don't dream of a perfect mosque
I just want roomfuls of people to kiss every week
with the kisses of Prayer and Serenity,
and a fat, multi-trunked tree
collecting us loosely for a minute under
its alive and quivering canopy

Once, God applied
for a janitor position at our mosque,
but the board turned him down
because he wasn't a practicing
Muslim

Once a woman entered
my little mosque
with a broken arm,
a broken heart,
and a very short skirt
Everyone rushed over to her
to make sure
she was going to cover her legs

Marshmallows are banned
from my little mosque
because they might
contain gelatin derived from pork enzymes
but banality is not banned,
and yet verily,
banality is worse than marshmallows

Music is banned
at my little mosque
because it is played on
the devil's stringed instruments,
although a little music
softens the soul
and lo, a hardened soul
is the devil's taut drumskin

Once an ignorant Bedouin
got up and started to pee against a wall
in the Prophet's Mosque in Medina
The pious protective Companions leapt
to beat him
The Prophet bade them stop
A man is entitled to finish a piss
even if he is an uncouth idiot,
and there are things
more important in a mosque than ritual purity

My little mosque thinks
the story I just narrated
cannot possibly be true
and a poet like me cannot possibly
have studied Sahih al-Bukhari

My little mosque
thinks a poem like this must be
written by the Devil
in cahoots with the Zionists,
NATO, and the current U.S. administration,
as part of the Worldwide Orientalist Plot
to Discredit Islam
Don't they know
at my little mosque
that this is a poem
written in the mirror
by a lover?

My little mosque
is fearful to protect itself
from the bricks of bigots
through its window
Doesn't my little mosque know
the way to protect its windows
is to open its doors?

I know the bricks of bigots
are real
I wish I could protect my little mosque
with my body as a shield

I love my dysfunctional little mosque
even though I can't stand it

My little mosque loves Arab men
with pure accents and beards
Everyone else is welcome
as long as
they understand that Real Islam
has to come from an Arab man

My little mosque loves Indian
and Pakistani men with Maududi in their pockets
Everyone else is welcome because as we all know
there is no discrimination in Islam

My little mosque loves women
who know that Islam liberated them
fourteen hundred years ago and so
they should live like seventh-century Arabian women
or at least dress
like pre-industrial pre-colonial women
although
men can adjust with the times

My little mosque loves converts
especially white men and women
who give 'Why I embraced Islam' lectures
to be trotted out as trophies
by the Muslim pom-pom squad
of Religious One-up-man-ship

My little mosque faints at the sight
of pale Bosnian women suffering
across the sea
Black women suffering
across the street
do not move
my little mosque much

I would like to find a little mosque
where my Christian grandmother
and my Jewish great-uncle the rebbe
and my Buddhist cousin
and my Hindu neighbor
would be as welcome
as my staunchly Muslim mom and dad

My little mosque has young men and women
who have nice cars, nice homes, expensive educations,
and think they are the righteous rageful
Victims of the World Persecution

My little mosque offers courses on
the Basics of Islamic Cognitive Dissonance
"There is no racism in Islam" means
we won't talk about it
"Islam is unity" means
shut up
There's so much to learn
Class is free and meets every week

I don't dream of a perfect mosque, only
a few square inches of ground
that will welcome my forehead,
no questions asked

My little mosque is as decrepit
as my little heart. Its narrowness
is the narrowness in me. Its windows
are boarded up like the part of me that prays

I went to the mosque
when no one was there
No One was sweeping up
She said: This place is just a place
Light is everywhere. Go, live in it
The Mosque is under your feet,
wherever you walk each day

Parts of this poem have been published in Azizah Magazine.

It all started with Gandhi

The Universe is trying to tell me something again. This time it's about India.

We started watching the movie Gandhi in class last Wednesday. That evening, I went to happy hour with the DH, his friend from work and that friend's wife. Guess where she is going this week for work? Yep, India!

The next day, I found a blog entry, quite randomly through Feministe, about a woman shopping for a sari in India. Then, this past weekend, I happened to stumble upon a British movie called " Nine Hours to Rama" about Gandhi's assassination. It could have been good; it was actually quite interesting, but I got tired of all the white-folks-dressed-in-brownface they got to play the Indians and didn't finish it. The thing, though, was that it was filmed in India in the early '60s, so it was gorgeous.

Add in that my co-worker just recently told me about her desire to see Goa and it seems there's something about India. But what does it all mean, hmm? Anything or nothing?


Should I move to India? Visit there? Read a book on it? Maybe I should start doing yoga again or move to an ashram, or, or...

Monday, April 10, 2006

Poem for April 10

Happy National Poetry Month!

I don't remember how I first came across this next one, but I like it. It tries to do for love in words what painters do in pictures.

Venus Transiens

Tell me,
Was Venus more beautiful
Than you are,
When she topped
The crinkled waves,
Drifting shoreward
On her plaited shell?
Was Botticelli's vision
Fairer than mine;
And were the painted rosebuds
He tossed his lady,
Of better worth
Than the words I blow about you
To cover your too great loveliness
As with a gauze
Of misted silver?
For me
You stand poised
In the blue and buoyant air,
Cinctured by bright winds,
Treading the sunlight.
And the waves which precede you
Ripple and stir
The sands at my feet.

-- Amy Lowell

Poem for April 9

I know, I know; I'm a slacker. I planned to 'catch up' this weekend, but doing my hair took a lot longer than I anticipated yesterday. And then I forgot.

Langston Hughes was probably the first poet I could say I liked. His was the first poem I ever memorized ("Dreams: Hold fast to dreams/for if dreams die/life is a broken winged bird/that cannot fly).

This next poem sticks with me though, because of what it says of the things that black folks still know (and most white folks still don't) about the lessons that black children still learn.


CHILDREN'S RHYMES

By what sends
the white kids
I ain't sent:
I know I can't
be President.

What don't bug
them white kids
sure bugs me:
We know everybody
ain't free.

Lies written down
for white folks
ain't for us a-tall:
Liberty And Justice —
Huh! For All?

-- Langston Hughes

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Late night Henna

You may be wondering what I'm still doing awake at nearly midnight.

No, it's not a round of hearty partying. I'm henna-ing my hair. Of course, since I'm not one to start anything at a reasonable hour, I'm still waiting for it to do its magic at a quarter to 12. I decided to leave it on for two hours.

This isn't the first time I've henna-ed my hair, but it is the first time I've gone all red.

When I first did it last year, I chickened out and used Lush's Marron henna, sort of a brownish red. Of course, since my hair is black, all I got were some reddish-brown tints that were barely noticible.

I'm sure that's all I'll get this time, except it'll be straight-up reddish tints. Which is fine by me. I'm excited to see it. Plus I love the way Lush's henna smells, but I may be in the minority there.

I meant to take a picture of my hair pre-henna, but of course I didn't think of that until just now. I'll put up a post-henna pic tomorrow.

Wish me luck!

Poem for April 8 - National Poetry Month

Just under the wire!

I also don't remember where I first read/heard this poem. It just strikes me as kind of absurd but poetic. But I guess you could say that about a lot of William Carlos Williams' poems.

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

-- William Carlos Williams

Friday, April 07, 2006

Poem for April 6 (and 7)

I know, I know, I didn't post the poem for the sixth day of National Poetry Month on the actual sixth day. I also didn't publish a poem for days 1 through 3; so sue me.

Anyway, I will try to catch up today with a link to: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot.

Like practically every other American high school student, I had to read Prufrock in English class. I can say with pride (?) that it was the first 'literary' poem that I actually liked. I tried to memorize it once. I didn't get very far, as it is quite long.

The above link has the poem as well as links to the relevant footnotes at the appropriate places.

Since I am playing catch-up and Prufrock is so long, I will give you a short poem for today, April 7. It is "Limited" by Carl Sandburg.

I don't remember where I first heard it, but I do remember that it struck me as sad and creepy and funny all at the same time. It still does.

Limited

I AM riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: “Omaha.”

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Poem for April 5

I found this poem many years ago during the wild west days of the internet, when it seemed like information was everywhere, if only you knew where to look.

Seriously, I've had a printout of this poem for something like 10 years.

I think it's very clever. I know absolutely nothing else about it.



It Also Needs a Title


When (something something ...) in my beating heart,
(Insert a line about a summer's day)
(Allude to love but only make it part
Of something else that you intend to say.)
Your (something else) is like a (something else...)
(Explain yourself in sweet romantic words)
(Say something like you won't forgive yourself
If love like this should ever go unheard.)
You'll always be (a bunch of other lines...)
Together (put a list of things you'll do...)
(A little bit of rhythm and some rhymes
Will guarantee their love belongs to you.)
(Then as you finish write something clever)
Until we (something finally...) ever.


David Astley

The Male Gaze

This is going to be something of a long, rambling post because my thoughts are pretty jumbled, but here goes. It was inspired by a link I found on Feministe about the male gaze in comic books. It was ironic that I came across this link today, because I had my first 'aha' moment this morning about it.

I was driving to work and saw a woman walking along the sidewalk. She was attractive, tall and slim with a pretty face. She was wearing  jeans and a long-sleeve tunic top, but I definitely had a 'wow, she's sexy' moment. Then I felt bad for her that she was probably being leered at by the guys driving by and would probably get a horn honked or a 'hey baby' yelled at her. Then I thought, 'why would she dress like that' before I realized that she a. wasn't dressed particularly sexy or hoochie-like and b. was probably on her way to work or something. 'Why can't a woman walk down the street without having to be on display?'

Then I thought about myself, walking to school and knowing that I'm the object of judgment of my physical characteristics even though I'm not doing anything to invite it.

All that in the course of like, 30 seconds.

Now, I'm a straight woman, but I automatically looked at this stranger as I would if I were a man. I judged her by her physical attributes and found her appealing. Then, because I am a woman, I felt bad for her having to be subjected to my and other's stares. And then, of course, I blamed her for eliciting or encouraging those stares before I came to my senses and realized that other than being pretty, she wasn't doing anything but walking to work (or wherever).

The default gaze is 'male,' even for women. We judge other women by a man's standards. The 'male gaze' is the default one. The old cliche is that women dress for other women, but we are all dressing for invisible men.

Now, due to my upbringing, I find it very discomforting to be the object of unwanted male attention. The fact that I'm not seeking it out, but am subject to it anyway is unpleasant to me. Of course, I have a friend who enjoys it and invites it and doesn't mind at all, so to each his own.

I just found it interesting that I immediately looked at this woman as a sex object, even though I'm not particularly interested in her sexually.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

NPM

I first discovered this poem on bookish, after last year's London subway bombing.

The night falls over London. City and sky
Blend slowly. All the crowded plain grows dark.
The last few loiterers leave the glooming park
To swell that mighty tide which still sweeps by,
Heedless save of its own humanity,
Down to the Circus, where the staring arc
Winks through the night, and every face shows stark
And every cheek betrays its painted lie.

But here through bending trees blows a great wind;
Through torn cloud-gaps the angry stars look down.
Here have I heard this night the wings of War,
His dark and frowning countenance I saw.
What dreadful menance hangs above our town?
Let all the great cities pray; for they have sinned.

-Geoffrey Faber

Monday, April 03, 2006

National Poetry Month

While it's true that I'm not a huge poetry fan, finding it out that it's National Poetry Month made me realize that there are quite a few poems out there that I do like. Like all good English majors, I studied poetry in college, of course. I've also come across quite a few in my Internet travels.

In honor of NPM, I thought I'd post a poem a day of some poems that I like.

This first poem is from a poet I was introduced to on Planet Grenada about a year ago. I don't usually like 'long' pieces, but this one moves fast and it impressed me on first reading, always a must for a Poem I Like. I don't have much patience. And no, I don't understand most of the Spanish, but I can figure most of it out.

Enjoy!


Nigger-Reecan Blues
by Willie Perdomo (for Piri Thomas)


Hey, Willie. What are you, man?
No, silly. You know what I mean: What are you?
I am you. You are me. We the same. Can't you feel our veins drinking the
same blood?
-But who said you was a Porta Reecan?
-Tu eres Puerto Riqueno, brother.
-Maybe Indian like Gandhi Indian.
-I thought you was a Black man.
-Is one of your parents white?
-You sure you ain't a mix of something like
-Portuguese and Chinese?
-Naaaahhh. . .You ain't no Porta Reecan.
-I keep telling you: The boy is a Black man with an accent.
If you look closely you will see that your spirits are standing right next to
our songs. You soy Boricua! You soy Africano! I ain't lyin'. Pero mi pelo es
kinky y kurly y mi skin no es negra pero it can pass. ..
-Hey, yo. I don't care what you say - you Black.
I ain't Black! Everytime I go downtown la madam blankeeta de madesson
avenue sees that I'm standing right next to her and she holds her purse just
a bit tighter. I can't even catch a taxi late at night and the newspapers say
that if I'm not in front of a gun, chances are that I'll be behind one. I wonder
why. . .
-Cuz you Black, nigger.
I ain't Black, man. I had a conversation with my professor. Went like this:
-Where are you from, Willie?
-I'm from Harlem.
-Ohh! Are you Black?
-No, but-
-Do you play much basketball?
Te lo estoy diciendo, brother. Ese hombre es un moreno!
Miralo!
Mira yo no soy moreno! I just come out of Jerry's Den and the
coconut
spray off my new shape-up sails around the corner, up to the Harlem
River and off to New Jersey. I'm lookin' slim and I'm lookin' trim
and when my homeboy Davi saw me, he said: "Como, Papo. Te
parece como
un moreno, brother. Word up, bro. You look like a stone black
kid."
-I told you - you was Black.
Damn! I ain't even Black and here I am sufferin' from the young
Black man's plight/the old white man's burden/and I ain't even
Black, man/a Black man/I am not/Boricua I am/ain't never really
was/Black/like me. . .

-Leave that boy alone. He got the Nigger-Reecan Blues
I'm a Spic!
I'm a Nigger!
Spic! Spic! No different than a Nigger!
Neglected, rejected, oppressed and depressed
From banana boats to tenements
Street gangs to regiments. . .
Spic! Spic! I ain't nooooo different than a Nigger.

If Only

I just returned from one of my infrequent lunchtime constitutionals. While walking along the trail, I saw a bench sitting under a big shady tree ( I should have taken a picture of it, but it didn't strike me that I should do so until I'd already passed it). I had the thought that if I could just sit in that bench, under that tree long enough, I could figure IT out.

I feel that way a lot, that if I just had more *time* I could get to the bottom of things. More time and less things to do, if you know what I mean.

But who doesn't feel that way, I guess? Welcome to the human race.