Came across some of Warsan Shire’s poetry last week, and immediately spent the next four hours reading everything I could find, and then ordering her book on Amazon.
I have a crush on her, for real. Like, it’s a problem.
Excerpt:
“you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.”
― Warsan Shire
This poem has kind of been stuck in my head since my sister read it to me last year. I like it because it’s funny (also, accurate and factual), and it reminds me of her. The last stanza is my favourite.
The Female of the Species
WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other’s tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!
But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!
So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
– Rudyard Kipling
A few lovely things for a very rainy night in Cambodia.
A few lovely things for today, when I am in Chiang Mai, probably meeting my elephant soulmate as you’re reading this.
A few lovely things for the first day of May, after a very busy but very fun April.
A few lovely things because it’s Friday, and because I said so.
Love this poem:
We Who Are Your Closest Friends
The Wild Rose
Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and in trust
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart.
Suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose blooming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only shade,
and once again I am blessed, choosing
again what I chose before.
-Wendell Berry
Today is 4 years since I met the boy. Love you D, xx.
A few weeks ago I was struck by inspiration, and as usual, a burning need to get started at that exact moment. I decided my house was boring and needed something really special, and that I would like to be surrounded by beautiful words at all times. I decided to pick my favourite piece of writing and transcribe it and paint it onto the awkward stair wall in my kitchen.
This was a bit of a predicament because I wanted to get started as soon as I had the idea, but also I couldn’t decide which quote or poem to use. I thought about just choosing one quote, but then I pictured myself writing that out over and over 400 times and decided against it.
After flipping through a few of my favourite books and bugging some friends for inspiration, I decided on one of my favourite poems, I Have Loved Hours at Sea by Sara Teasdale, and set to work. Coincidentally (or completely on purpose, if it’s not him reading this) the boy was at work so I was determined to finish it before he got home so I could surprise him. And so that he wouldn’t be able to stop me from doing it. But mostly so I could surprise him.
I realized quickly that one poem wasn’t going to be enough, since I was less than half way down the skinniest part of the wall and was almost finished, so I picked another poem to add.
It quickly became apparent that that wasn’t going to be enough either, so I added in my favourite Neruda Sonnet, one that was read at our wedding. In the end, I also added in my favourite Alice in Wonderland quote, and finally made it to the end.
It only took me about 2 hours to get all of the writing on the wall, so I figured I was well on track to finish before the boy got home from work. It turns out, painting takes a lot more time than just scribbling with pencil, who knew?
I finally finished painting almost a month later, although after the first weekend of almost 6 hours of working on it, I took about two weeks off to regain my will to live.
Derek walked in on that first day and found me on the floor tired, stiff and covered in pencil lead and paint.He took one look at the wall, one look at my bedraggled, exhausted face and proclaimed “I love it! And I love you! Let’s go take a nap.” He is nice, I like him.
It was definitely worth all of the work it took to finish, it makes me happy every time I look at it, and makes me feel like this is really my house. I am basically Harold and the Purple Crayon, but older and a girl.
It’s definitely not perfect, I generally have serial killer handwriting at the best of times, but nobody will ever be able to think it is a stencil, or that I didn’t put my own blood, sweat and tears into it. It’s kind of amazing to be able to just randomly draw all over the walls whenever you feel like it without worrying about getting in trouble with anyone. Sometimes being a grown up is a pretty great.
loveliness. 