The Body by Boston Gordon

The Body by Boston Gordon – Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics.

The Body

By Boston Gordon
March 16, 2015

There is of course the cutting of the body.
Lean away from that for a minute. Stand
in the middle of a shack on fabric row
and browse the cardboard bricks wrapped
in lace and taffeta. You can feel the taffeta
like the bustle skirt thrown at you from stage
at the burlesque show. Where you sweat
under orange show lights and notice the ordinary
nature of breasts—watch the sequins swept aside.
The breasts are bags of wine. Your breasts
are hanging hunks that you often relate to cutting.
Because people you know sometimes cut theirs
off so as not to look like you. You being a bust
and ass and legs that make a man say Ahem,
miss what’re you trying to tell me with those legs?


You’re shocked because your boyfriend fucks
you like a real man, but everyone is looking
at your hormonal fat, your body like a melting
sculpture. So you tie your shoes or lock your bike
and look down and think about the cutting.
Think that even in another body, even after
that barter with the mud wasp and surgeon,
you would still not be settled. Not just this
body, but all body. So in the fabric store
the shears make that good sound like rubbing
two nickels together and you’re back
to the six yards of burlap unfolding
on the countertop and the body steps away
from cut. Cut. It refuses to be just a body.

 

The Pond by Gregory Orr

The Pond by Gregory Orr : The Poetry Foundation.

Snapping turtles in the pond eat bass, sunfish,
and frogs. They do us no harm when we swim.
But early this spring two Canada geese
lingered, then built a nest. What I’d
heard of, our neighbor feared: goslings,
as they paddle about, grabbed from below
by a snapper, pulled down to drown.
                                                                   So he stuck
hunks of fat on huge, wire-leadered hooks
attached to plastic milk-bottle buoys.
The first week he caught three turtles
and still there are more: sometimes he finds
the bottles dragged ashore, the wire
wrapped several times around a pine trunk
and the steel hook wrenched straight as a pin.

Gregory Orr, “The Pond” fromThe Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems(2002: Copper Canyon Press, 2002). http://www.coppercanyonpress.org

 

Tupperware boxes

They never come back
like lost socks, hair-ties, countless ballpoint pens
Tupperware boxes handed out after parties
for that morning snack, extra mithai, tomorrow’s lunch

Monday night jolted me
Searing pain
A little boy in ‘trash pack’ pyjamas
“You be brave”
“No, you be brave”
“Do you think they will keep you here forever?”
“I will stay forever with you here”

As they placed the oxygen mask
I looked at him
His eyes were like saucers
“Now is not a good time to take a selfie”
Breathe

Wednesday afternoon and I’m still foggy
Sleep comes and goes
I feel tranquil
You tasty temptress morphine
Clock hands, that’s all I remember, and a coiling blue orchid

Silent stones they call them
Not now, not now, not now

One by one
Pasta, cham-cham, dhokla, crackers, kruidkoeks
These boxes keep showing up at the door
Ringing the bell
Making themselves at home on the sofa
Pouring cups of tea

“Stop interrupting me.”

By Soraya Chemaly / alternet.org

“Stop interrupting me.” 

“I just said that.”

“No explanation needed.”

[..]

“Parents interrupt girls twice as often and hold them to stricter politeness norms. Teachers engage boys, who correctly see disruptive speech as a marker of dominant masculinity, more often and more dynamically than girls.”

Soraya L. Chemaly writes about feminism, gender and culture. She writes for the Huffington Post, Feminist Wire, BitchFlicks and Fem2.0 among others.

The Blossom on the Bough by Anne Dowden

Last year at the ISA (located in Amstelveen) I bought this second-hand book. The book was last issued from the library in 1995 and they had decided to part with it. I paid very little for it.

Firstly, I love botanical drawings. The precision with which they are made is stunning. My pictures veer more towards kawaii, anime, folk art, lacking realism and aiming more for abstraction, exaggeration (not as much as caricature) and sometimes color. Botanicals remains a field I am greatly attracted towards and can not replicate. I love the work of Marjolien Bastin and Beatrix Potter. In my dream house I often imagine a stark plain white wall corridor of botanicals ranging from the Mughal botanicals to the more modern works of Vera Scarth-Johnson, with a Bastin squirrel here and a Potter rabbit there, and at the end of the corridor you would find a cottage garden with a pond and warm welcome corners, and butterflies.

Secondly, what attracted me to this book were the library cards at the back. While studying in Delhi, in school, in college and at the British Council Library I remember using library cards. The stamp on the book a reminder of when the book was due but what I liked reading most (apart from the text) were the several names before me who had read the book, and my name and date there present with the rest, marking my place in the history of that book. When we moved to Dubai in 2004 I got a digitised card to the library and this sojourn with names I did not know ended, well almost, once I found a bus ticket in a book, a postcard in another, my mind trying to weave tales around these forgotten objects. When I chanced upon the website Forgotten Bookmarks imagine my joy and relief that there were other people like me.

I had written earlier about my love-hate relationship with electronic reading devices, I think this might well be one of the reasons the acceptance has been a hard one. Anyhow, I leave you to enjoy the pictures of this book, which has brought me much joy.

Anne Dowden’s The Blossom on The Bough 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 605 other followers