Written by
Marilyn Hacker |
It is the boy in me who's looking out
the window, while someone across the street
mends a pillowcase, clouds shift, the gutter spout
pours rain, someone else lights a cigarette?
(Because he flinched, because he didn't whirl
around, face them, because he didn't hurl
the challenge back—"Fascists?"—not "Faggots"—Swine!
he briefly wonders—if he were a girl .
.
.
)
He writes a line.
He crosses out a line.
I'll never be a man, but there's a boy
crossing out words: the rain, the linen-mender,
are all the homework he will do today.
The absence and the priviledge of gender
confound in him, soprano, clumsy, frail.
Not neuter—neutral human, and unmarked,
the younger brother in the fairy tale
except, boys shouted "Jew!" across the park
at him when he was coming home from school.
The book that he just read, about the war,
the partisans, is less a terrible
and thrilling story, more a warning, more
a code, and he must puzzle out the code.
He has short hair, a red sweatshirt.
They know
something about him—that he should be proud
of? That's shameful if it shows?
That got you killed in 1942.
In his story, do the partisans
have sons? Have grandparents? Is he a Jew
more than he is a boy, who'll be a man
someday? Someone who'll never be a man
looks out the window at the rain he thought
might stop.
He reads the sentence he began.
He writes down something that he crosses out.
|
Written by
William Strode |
Hath Christmas furr'd your Chimneys,
Or have the maides neglected,
Doe Fire-balls droppe from your Chimney's toppe,
The Pidgin is respected,
Looke up with feare and horror,
O how my mistresse wonders!
The streete doth crie, the newes doth flie,
The boyes they thinke it thunders.
Then up I rush with my pole and brush,
I scowre the chimney's Jacket,
I make it shine as bright as mine,
When I have rub'd and rak'd it.
Take heed, ten groates you'le forfeit,
The Maior will not have under,
In vain is dung, so is your gun
When brickes doe flie asunder:
Let not each ****** fright ye,
When threepence will me call in,
The Bishopps foote is not worse than soote
If ever it should fall in.
Up will I rush, etc.
The sent, the smoake ne're hurts me,
The dust is never minded,
Mine Eyes are glasse men sweare as I passe
Or else I had bin blinded,
For in the midst of Chimneys
I laugh, I sing, I hollow,
I chant my layes in Vulcan's praise
As merry as the swallow.
Still up I rush, etc.
With Engines and devices
I scale the proudest chimney,
The Prince's throne to mine alone
Gives place, the Starrs I climb ny.
I scorne all men beneath me
While there I stand a scowring,
All they below looke like a Crow,
Or men on Paules a tow'ring.
Then downe I rush, etc.
And as I downeward rumble
What thinke you is my lott then?
A good neat's tongue in the inside hung,
The maide hath it forgotten:
If e're the wanton mingled
My inke with soote I wist not,
Howere the neate and harmless cheate
Is worth a penny, is't not?
Still doe I rush, etc.
Then cloth'd in soote and ashes
I catch the maides that hast out,
Whos'ere I meete with smutt I greete,
And pounse their lipps and wastcote:
But on the Sunday morning
I looke not like a widgin,
Soe brave I stand with a point in my bande
Men ask if I be Pidgin.
Yet will I rush, etc.
Mulsacke I dare encounter
For all his horne and feather,
Ile lay him a crowne Ile roare him downe,
I thinke heale ne'er come hether.
The Boyes that climbe like Crickets
And steale my trade, Ile strippe them,
By priviledge I, growne Chimney hy,
Soone out of towne will whippe them.
Then will I rush, etc.
|
Written by
Anne Killigrew |
ARise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise,
Thy sully'd Habitation leave,
To Dust no longer cleave,
Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies.
[Page 83]
Thy native Beauty re-assume,
Prune each neglected Plume,
Till more than Silver white,
Then burnisht Gold more bright,
Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.
II.
The Bird to whom the spacious Aire was given,
As in a smooth and trackless Path to go,
A Walk which does no Limits know
Pervious alone to Her and Heaven:
Should she her Airy Race forget,
On Earth affect to walk and sit;
Should she so high a Priviledge neglect,
As still on Earth, to walk and sit, affect,
What could she of Wrong complain,
Who thus her Birdly Kind doth stain,
If all her Feathers moulted were,
And naked she were left and bare,
The Jest and Scorn of Earth and Aire ?
III.
The Bird of Paradice the Soul,
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