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Best Famous Marge Piercy Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Marge Piercy poems. This is a select list of the best famous Marge Piercy poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Marge Piercy poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Marge Piercy poems.

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by Marge Piercy | |

The Friend

 We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking at things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.
Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
it rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.
I love you, I said.
That's very nice, he said I like to be loved, that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?


by Marge Piercy | |

A Work Of Artifice

 The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he whittles back the branches the gardener croons, It is your nature to be small and cozy, domestic and weak; how lucky, little tree, to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures one must begin very early to dwarf their growth: the bound feet, the crippled brain, the hair in curlers, the hands you love to touch.


by Marge Piercy | |

Barbie Doll

 This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said: You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent, possessed strong arms and back, abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy, exhorted to come on hearty, exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on, a turned-up putty nose, dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.


by Marge Piercy | |

The Woman in the Ordinary

 The woman in the ordinary pudgy downcast girl
is crouching with eyes and muscles clenched.
Round and pebble smooth she effaces herself under ripples of conversation and debate.
The woman in the block of ivory soap has massive thighs that neigh, great breasts that blare and strong arms that trumpet.
The woman of the golden fleece laughs uproariously from the belly inside the girl who imitates a Christmas card virgin with glued hands, who fishes for herself in other's eyes, who stoops and creeps to make herself smaller.
In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry, a yam of a woman of butter and brass, compounded of acid and sweet like a pineapple, like a handgrenade set to explode, like goldenrod ready to bloom.


by Marge Piercy | |

To the Pay Toilet

 You strop my anger, especially
when I find you in restaurant or bar
and pay for the same liquid, coming and going.
In bus depots and airports and turnpike plazas some woman is dragging in with three kids hung off her shrieking their simple urgency like gulls.
She's supposed to pay for each of them and the privilege of not dirtying the corporate floor.
Sometimes a woman in a uniform's on duty black or whatever the prevailing bottom is getting thirty cents an hour to make sure no woman sneaks her full bladder under a door.
Most blatantly you shout that waste of resources for the greatest good of the smallest number where twenty pay toilets line up glinty clean and at the end of the row one free toilet oozes from under its crooked door, while a row of weary women carrying packages and babies wait and wait and wait to do what only the dead find unnecessary.


by Marge Piercy | |

Winter Promises

 Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby's buttocks, 
eggplants glossy as waxed fenders, 
purple neon flawless glistening 
peppers, pole beans fecund and fast 
growing as Jack's Viagra-sped stalk, 
big as truck tire zinnias that mildew 
will never wilt, roses weighing down 
a bush never touched by black spot, 
brave little fruit trees shouldering up 
their spotless ornaments of glass fruit: 

I lie on the couch under a blanket 
of seed catalogs ordering far 
too much.
Sleet slides down the windows, a wind edged with ice knifes through every crack.
Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers: I want to believe every promise, to trust in five pound tomatoes and dahlias brighter than the sun that was eaten by frost last week.


by Marge Piercy | |

Toad Dreams

 That afternoon the dream of the toads 
rang through the elms by Little River
and affected the thoughts of men, 
though they were not conscious that 
they heard it.
--Henry Thoreau The dream of toads: we rarely credit what we consider lesser life with emotions big as ours, but we are easily distracted, abstracted.
People sit nibbling before television's flicker watching ghosts chase balls and each other while the skunk is out risking grisly death to cross the highway to mate; while the fox scales the wire fence where it knows the shotgun lurks to taste the sweet blood of a hen.
Birds are greedy little bombs bursting to give voice to appetite.
I had a cat who died of love.
Dogs trail their masters across con- tinents.
We are far too busy to be starkly simple in passion.
We will never dream the intense wet spring lust of the toads.


by Marge Piercy | |

The Neighbor

 Man stomping over my bed in boots 
carrying a large bronze church bell 
which you occasionally drop: 
gross man with iron heels 
who drags coffins to and fro at four in the morning, 
who hammers on scaffolding all night long, 
who entertains sumo wrestlers and fat acrobats--
I pass you on the steps, we smile and nod.
Rage swells in me like gas.
Now rage too keeps me awake.