poetry
HOW MADWOMEN SURVIVE
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud.
Strong women with determined resiliency,
open minds, and hands that knew no idleness.
A great grandmother who became accustomed
to the whiskey-colored breath of strangers
in order that her children be fed.
A grandmother who captured and killed
the white chickens of neighbors
for the same reason.
And a mother who tried and failed
and tried and failed and tried and failed
and tried and failed to understand the reasoning
behind the lies of men who said they were her lovers.
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud.
There is a difference in madness and craziness:
Craziness causes one to twirl and twirl until a great breath
sucks her spirit home leaving her mind and body to laugh on their own.
Madness allows the mind and body to function
while the spirit dances to the heartbeat of the stars.
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud.
Women who folded their shame
into the gathers of their pride
wrapped them both around their ankles
and continued to dance, letting everyone know
they were not afraid to dance backward if it meant survival.
I come from a long line of madwomen and of this, I am proud
©2005 from Confessions of a Madwoman
TO CELEBRATE NOT EXPLAIN THE MYSTERY
And I heard a voice
a silvery voice wrapped
in secrets of red and purple
telling me to go deep, deep inside myself
deep to the deepest part where the light lay
in the center of the darkness
that it would be here
I would find the celebration
of who I am, why I exist,
where I come from and where I am going
and in this celebration I would find
the explanation that requires no explaining
the knowledge that requires no knowing
the answer that requires no questioning
and then I would understand
and then I would not understand
and then it would not matter.
©1997 from Spirit Voices of Bones
Emma Kate Jaynes
Age 4
© 2009
Everyone Needs Someone
My granddaddy was Cherokee
with eyes and hair black as tar
and shiny as a crow's back.
My Irish grandmother said
I looked like him.
I hoped so because I liked him
I liked the way his voice sounded
like soft running water over smooth pebbles
whenever he would tell me to ignore
the poor black children living down the road
whenever they would laugh, point at us and demand,
"Talk some Mexican!"
"Sometimes,"
he would tell me,
touching my crying eyes with a copper-colored hand,
"it's better not to claim you're Indian
in these parts of Tennessee.
Everyone needs someone to look down on.
Everyone."
But Granddaddy died long before I learned
the truths behind stockade forts made of greed
thousands of tears trailing in the snow
unwanted lands reserved
the ridiculous act of termination
and the never-ending stings of discrimination.
Long before he finished telling me the stories
of how our family had to hide out in the caves
of western North Carolina.
Long before the Cherokee blood in my veins
began to truly overflow the Irish.
And when he died
his eyes no longer shone, his hair was dirty, matted,
and the smooth stones in his voice were muddied gravel.
Granddaddy died drunk and alone
speaking his language to the stars.
©1995
BALANCE
He likes sounds
like trees whispering to each other
like rains gathering to make music
like bells tinkling to remind him how
she likes profound silence
like when the whole world takes a deep breath
and holds it.
©2005 from Confessions of a Madwoman
