American Male

buys his coffee at 7/11

finds dinner under the heat lamp

at the local gas station

backpacks his belongings

dons shorts on forty degree days

to go with flip flops and white ankle socks

shaves close every morning

to avoid being mistaken for homeless

reads a daily newspaper in the library

calls his mother on Christmas day

cleans his cousin’s office after dark

day dreams about his ex

carries a picture of his infant daughter

in his wallet even though she’s an adult

who refuses to answer his phone calls

pawns his graduation watch when he’s short

sometimes sleeps at the airport

doesn’t smile much–bad teeth

and gray moods that dim the day

admires Robert DiNiro for keeping it real

fondly recalls the old neighborhood

is certain things will get better

and heads to the dollar store for toothpicks

and the stale candy bars he eats before sleep

to help him dream of soft sheets

and waking to the aroma of frying  bacon

which started each day of his childhood

before he left home to be a man

Ask

Ask and you shall receive.

Is that true?

Sometimes a question simply roils the waters

or the answer provided is not an answer at all.

You can ask for too much,

more than your share,

or you might ask for too little.

You may have no right to ask

or you may have an obligation to inquire.

Did Adam ask Eve, “That apple taste good?”

Did Adam ask God, “Why did you expel us?”

Did Adam ask himself, “Did I get a raw deal?”

Did Abel ask Cain,

“Don’t you realize I’m the older brother?”

Does the Pope know everything—or nothing at all?

Are answers more important than questions?

Can we talk about that?

Reflections on the Patio

she grew up with friends who hold government offices

drinks with people who’ve risen to public heights

dines with church vicars administering large sees

former lovers run schools

and relatives control radio empires

while she wades in the backwaters of the urban maze

she sighs with blunted ambition but realizes she also

knew a man who ate his gun

a woman who died homeless on an airport bench

and a once garrulous political heavyweight

who now wears an orange jump suit in early retirement

she pats the hands of those robbed of their past by dementia

and regrets alcohol and drugs have overwhelmed

uncles and aunts and cousins cold in the ground

while the waves of modern life wash away

the footprints of her feckless life

as she stares at the horizon

with puzzled wonder

her life has been

so ordinary

Sunbathing on the Rocks

You lay in the sun

on the rocks bordering the lake,

motionless, like a lizard,

your brown, bare-breasted skin

soaking up the bright

promise of July.

You looked up to find my smile

dusting your curves with desire.

Your calm delight at my gaze

brought me to your side.

You sat up, your palms brushing

your nipples as you lifted the

top of your bikini over your breasts.

I sat down and we crooned

a familiar song of deliberate seduction.

All around us on the rocks,

sunbathers watched our mating

dance like nervous gulls,

edgy at our greedy lust.

I looked back to you

and licked my lips.

You pulled your thong

into the slit between your legs,

took my hand,

kissed my fingertips,

stared into the blue irises

of my balding fantasies,

and asked, “Are you ready?”

I leaned forward

and answered with a kiss,

my tongue probing yours

and the dark distance between us,

while our hearts pounded

with the dangerous tension

that vibrates risky romantics

with terror and bravado.

My Classroom

The room was a garden

filled with young shoots

and waving branches

listing to the sun of

my smile.

The parade of history,

the constellations of numbers.

the periodic table of elements

waved alluringly in fertile fields

of age-ripened wisdom

and my students took

root as I watered the soil

of their quivering, vibrant minds

so they could rise

to inhabit their seedling dreams.

glasses

you forgot your glasses today.

i had mine to offer, fully knowing 

that they wouldn’t work for you.

i wanted to feel a spark with you,

yearning for a singular interaction

that connects our minds together.

you reached for my glasses, and

your hand slightly brushes mine,

sending a whirlpool down my stomach

that makes me slightly dizzy. 

i want to run my fingers through

the curls of your hair, letting the tips

of my fingers attract to your mind.

i can hear your voice loud and clear

behind me, and as your baritone timbre

cuts through everyone else’s, ringing

the bones inside my ears, i listen.

i analyze, i process, and i love.

my soul will always love the way

your eyes move when you speak,

darting to every person listening to you,

and when they latch onto mine,

i hope you can see my love for you.

Then She Said

“Look at this BS on the TV,” cried Riley from the sofa, scoffing at the cable news report one evening before supper.

“What is it?” asked Tricia, pausing in front of the set to stare at the female anchor.

Riley snorted “Some nonsense about rape.” he replied, pausing to drink from what was his fourth bottle of beer. On the screen, the anchor was relating the story of the forcible rape of a starlet by a fellow actor.

“Why is it nonsense?” queried his wife.

Riley’s face assumed a look of contempt. “Because that’s what it is,” he retorted with some heat. “Forcible rape! Look it,” he said, “not a mark on her. Now, if it was statutory rape, then I could see it, but heck, she’s at least nineteen, if she’s a day. And look as who she’s accusing. Jason Jax is a handsome movie star. He can have all the babes he wants who are better looking than Jan Jeffers.”

“Just because she’s not beat up doesn’t mean it wasn’t forced.”

He shook his head, unconvinced. “Don’t believe it,” he said. “If a woman wants to, she can prevent a man from raping her. Don’t all women take some self-defense class these days? She could have stopped him.” He took another drink of beer.

Riley rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, Trish. She gave it to him.”

“Next you’ll be saying she asked for it based on her movie roles or how she dressed.”

He shrugged. “You saying I’m wrong?”

“You’re living in a dream world, Riley,” she asserted. “Just because a woman isn’t covered in black and blue doesn’t mean she wasn’t forced to have sex.” She looked pointedly at her husband.

“What’re you,” he asked skeptically, “an expert on rape all of a sudden?”

“I did date men before I met you, you know,” she pointed out cryptically.

The effect was instantaneous. “We’re you raped!” he said, his voice rising a little.

“It’s happened more than once before and after we got married,” she told him with a nonchalance that he found infuriating. He stared angrily at her, as though he might next accuse her of responsibility for the assaults.”

“Before I knew you a date got me drunk and raped me while I was unconscious. I didn’t file charges because I didn’t think I’d be believed, and I was afraid of the reaction of people who think like you.”

“Who raped you after we got married?”

“I’ll tell you,” she said, “but you have to promise you won’t hurt him.” He started to strenuously object, but seeing the look of determination on her face, he inhaled a breath of surrender and nodded.

“The only other man who has ever forced me, against my will, to have sex with him… is you.”

The silence hung heavy in the air for some moments, before he responded.”Trish, I never….”

She nodded her head. “Yes, Riley, you have.” He stared at her, disbelieving. “Both times it’s happened, you’ve been drunk. As much as you drink, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened more times.”

“Then why don’t I remember it?” he insisted. “Because I don’t remember a thing, and….”

“I remember,” she said simply. “You don’t think I’d make up something like this, just to make a point or to win an argument, do you?” He shook his head no. “I can only guess that you blacked out the experience because you were so loaded, or your brain won’t let you remember. I read up on it. You don’t form memories when you are blackout drunk. But,” she went on, “you wanted sex and you were going to have it. You didn’t hurt me, much, but for the emotional damage.” There was deep sorrow and regret in Riley’s eyes.

“God,” he said, with self-loathing, “you must hate me. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“The first time it happened, when we were first married last year. Then, when it happened again over July 4th weekend. Both times, you’d been drinking. The first time, I told you I wasn’t in the mood, but you held me down and forced me. You hurt me. The second time I said no, but knew better than to fight. I asked my sister about it. She’s been married twice and said that’s never happened to her either time she’s been married. I was going to ask Mom but I was afraid she’d tell Dad and what he might do.” Riley gave her a hang dog look. “I love you, Riley, and I couldn’t let anything happen to you,” she said. “I was embarrassed, not sure you’d believe me. I’ve wanted so badly to….confront you about it. I wasn’t sure how.”

When Riley didn’t say anything for a long moment, Tricia broke the silence. She asked him, “What are you thinking?”

“I was remembering, when I was just a kid,” he said. “My brother and I used to listen to my Mom and Dad having sex in their bedroom. It was so loud! I remember thinking; he was forcing her to do it. I didn’t want to accept it and anyway, by the time I was a teenager, it had stopped.” She touched his shoulder. “Dad used to drink a lot, too,” he said quietly. He went on, “He also used to buy those magazines–you know, Penthouse, Oui, all the others. They’d have stories and letters and it always made it sound like the girl wanted it, she was a tease, and had a ‘rape fantasy’ I think they called it. I guess that was pretty stupid, huh? While we are being honest, I should tell you that I’ve been warned about coming into work drunk.”

Biting her bottom lip, Tricia only nodded. “There have got to be some changes, Riley,” murmured Tricia. He nodded gravely. She took a deep breath, released it. “Wash up, time for supper,” she said, walking back towards the kitchen. “Want another beer with supper?” she asked, turning back.

He shook his head no. “No,” he said, shaking his head no. “No,” he said. “That’s just one of the changes we’re going–I’m going to–have to make.”

…

My mother

Eyes that saw the test of life

Meaningful, meaningful words

Her hair that has been damaged by the night

But his heart is the sun, he sheds no tears

One day the dream will come true

The waters of the spring are crashing,

Then sing the nightingale, sing your best

All the flowers are scattered in it

Trees lead the way to the goal

My mother goes to Makka with smiling faces

Bibikhanifa Jumanazarova, daughter of O’ktam, was born on May 15, 2007 in Zomin district of Jizzakh region. She has more than 50 international certificates. Her articles have been published in different countries. She has a B2 certificate in English. She is currently a 11th grade student.

Examine a close reading of Excerpts from Amar Jiban with textual references and critical perspectives.

The bildungsroman heroine’s feminism and womanhood distinctly enlightens revolutionary iconoclasticism in this canonical colonial third world cosmos reechoing resonances foreshadowed by the lion of literary and social London, Mary Wollstonecraft’s polemical treatise A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Unladylike pursuits overwhelms diabolical fretters of patriarchy and misogyny into obscuration and oblivion through overarching radical free thinking intellectualism pioneered by the foundational wave of feminism and advocacy of womens’ rights movement. Dethroning the quintessence of manhood from the legacy of thronedom and the exilic banishment of masculinity creeps as gothic macabre to androgynous imperialism. Commodification of women as reproductive machinery is the penultimate masculinist subjectivity of the object of male gaze, viewing womanhood and femininity through the polarizing lens of fetishization and/or voyeurism.

Manhood cannot penetrate into the kingdom of womanhood being a stingless bee drudge and thus cease into the brink of annihilation. As a cornerstone and milestone of women writing, autobiographical excerpts from Amar Jiban, chronicles the opportunity of education; ushering emancipation and liberation of femininity and womanhood from being entangled and mired by subservience and servitude within the hearths and parlours of the domesticity and/or domicile. Responsibilities and obligations ought to be performed as a coalition of egalitarian fraternity and gendered pluralistic solidarity. Women possess their freedom and liberty vis a-vis men and thus the otherization of gender stereotyping shouldn’t relegate them through subjugation and subordination, subservience, servitude and servility.

Entitlement to their feminist identity bears testimony of individuality which must be preserved even after wifedom and maternity. Stagnation of a conservative microcosmic milieu inextricably, nonetheless handicaps this female empowerment phenomenon into the quagmire of dormancy. Bolstering economic independence of training female workforce and contraceptive pills for preventive birth control measure policies in case of incessant bondage of child-bearing were to be fought in the then contemporary reactionary revolution.

Oftentimes women are perennially perpetrated into the rigidities of flesh trade for the sustenance of her soul as relevant still today. Overwork from overtime work at night and wage inequality underpay status quo exacerbate inhumane working conditions chilled by cold and exhausted by heat, subjected to the perils of unguarded machineries and poisonous fumes. Then the leisure and pleasure of married life’s housekeeping and homemaking, unfortunately strikes catastrophic consequences of fatalistic dowry and/or widowhood.

Advancing intellectual professionalism of females visavis the progressive career orientated educated males is inevitable for the companionship furthering continuity of the human race. Observant and sensible daughters, affectionate and empathetic sisters, faithful and chaste wives and reasonable and tenderhearted mothers idolizes womanhood and femininity which the author lionized through the characters and settings of her novel that alludes to Vindication of the Rights of Women: idiolect of feminism: “I do not wish women to have power over men but over themselves” and “it is not empires, but equality and friendship which women want” through exerting womanliness in context of truth, freedom, education, wealth, experience and knowledge of life.

“One of the philosophizing serpents that we have in our bosom” and “hyena in petticoats” alludes to the then contemporary anti feminist perspectives in view of gynocentric transgressions. However, holistic betterment of mankind essentializes the vis a-vis coexistence of manhood and womanhood as an egalitarian ethos and thus womanliness is not enmeshed within subjection of objectivity and fragmentation of selfhood. Material, financial, intellectual and emotional bursaries prolifically transform feminine empowered individuals to prosper and progress whether the public discourse of political philosophy or the private discourse of domesticity.

Rassundari Devi’s prose narrative is the embodiment of persistently tenacious girlhood, maidenhood, womanhood transcending the recalcitrant barriers of patriarchy’s misogynist locked room adversities. Her bold rage and fiery temper are shrewd and poignant to subvert the enslavement of housewives as reflected in these rhetorics: “Is this my fate because I am a woman? … Just because I am a woman does it necessarily mean that trying to educate myself is a crime?” To Rassundari Devi’s histrionic protest, bondage and imprisonment forthrightly laments powerlessness and captivity of womankind.

Misfortunes of widowhood furthermore exacerbates the drudgery of existentialism in case of women like her as vindictive in the prolific denunciation of widowhood: “Toward the end of my life I have been widowed. I feel ashamed and hurt by the realization that even if a woman has lived her life fully, has brought up her children and lives behind her sons and daughters to carry on, her widowhood is still considered a misfortune.” Rassundari Devi inexplicitly abolishes conservative widowhood custom to eradicate funebrial crisis associated with survival instincts of women’s individuality.

Predicament of womenfolk always coerces womankind and relegates them to the status of a caged bird or fish caught in a net. The protagonist is grief stricken and frozen hearted as epitomized by the state of an elegiac plaintiff; who has been engulfed by the blazing forest until Lord of the Heavens’ celestial grace bestows “womenfolk to get together and study books”.

Further Reading, References and Endnotes

Rassundari Devi’s Amar Jiban: Challenging the Norms, Dr. Ritambhara, Notions, Vol. 6, No. 3, pp. 1-6

Feminism and the Economic Independence of Woman, Guoin Griffis Johnson, The Journal of Social Forces, May 1925, Volume. 3, No. 4, pp. 612-616, Oxford Journals.

Chapter Title: Introduction to Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, 1891 New edition, London: T. Fisher Unwin Ltd, 2-30, Book Title: Millicent Garrett Fawcett, Book Subtitle: Selected writings, Book Editor(s): Melissa Terras, Elizabeth Crawford, Published by: UCL Press. (2022)

Chapter Title: Style as Noise: Identity and Ideology in A Vindication of the Rights of

Woman, Book Title: Feminist Theory, Women’s Writing, Book Author(s): Laurie A. Finke

,Published by: Cornell University Press, pp. 1-41.

Reconceptualizing Gender, Phule, Brahminism and Brahminical Patriarchy, Uma Chakravarti

Rassundari Devi Amar Jiban pp. 1-13

https://ananenglishliterature.wordpress.com/…/rassunda…/

Let Me Relish the Drizzle, the Dude

I get the feeling that every once in a while

You drum up something special just for me,

Whether mundane or whether a minor miracle.

I’m scorching in the field, raking and weeding,

Blinded in buckets of my own sweat. Tired.

Out of nowhere, a cooling drizzle blows in.

I’m helping a friend move a clunky armoire,

And we can’t heft the damn thing into the truck.

Then a biker dude pops out of the hedges to assist.

Is this from You for me? Or am I making it up?

Am I so desperate to find a hint anywhere

Of kin and kindness to ease my aloneness?

However You work, let me think my pleasure.

Let me delude and amuse myself. Let me relish

The drizzle, the dude, and smother You in thanks.

Into Your Folds

There’s a song You sang as a bird flew near.

She heard it and plummeted into Your folds,

Never to be seen again.

Please, can You start over? Repeat it just once?

I only caught the first faint notes,

And am circling back.

World, hush – all thoughts, loves, woes, worries.

I drift into the winds of silence.

There! It begins again.

Delicate chimes strike high above a hum of hope.

The tones beckon, entice, captivate.

I must get closer.

Not All Your Answers

Ill at ease, squirmy,

Sick to my stomach,

Heave-ho.

Anything for relief –

But no, it’s You, Lord,

Replying.

Not all Your answers

Come dripping in joy.

So be it.

A clap of thunder –

A horse rears and bolts.

I hold.

A Trail of Suitcases

I find a trail of suitcases

Stretches out behind me.

Each is broken and drips

Madness and mistakes.

I find my clenched hands

Hefting two new suitcases

Heavy with my sad stories,

Packed full with tragedy.

I find my fingers weaken

And loosen and intertwine.

The suitcases fall away,

Bang, crack, and splinter.

I find my hands reach up

In a prayer for the end

Of all suitcases, trunks,

Storage sheds, and attics.

I find I stand up straight;

I stop staring at sidewalks

And see the clarity of sky.

I find that I beg for love.

Sky Diving Full Naked

I can only relax,

I can only unwind,

I can only laugh,

When I know I’m giving everything.

My seconds to You, Lord,

My days to You, Lord,

My life to You, Lord,

When I know I’m begging for more.

Sky diving full naked,

Topping the Alps full naked,

Sitting silent full naked,

When I know I’m blasting beyond.

Now I do anything,

Now I walk anywhere,

Now I greet anyone,

When I know I’m all of me for You.

DK Jammin’ is 73 years old and lives in Colorado. He graduated from Yale University with a law degree, raised a daughter, and worked at the Texas Legislative Council in Austin. He is the supervisor of the Words Department for the Center of The Golden One. 

His poetry publishing credits include: “The Coffee Maker” in Macrame Literary Journal, “A Landing” and “A Fly Comes Your Way” in The Accendo Review, “As I Imagine” in Soul Poetry, “She Sails Our World” in Metapsychosis Journal, and “Goddess of My Inner Joy” was published in the Men’s Poetry Journal, “Enkidu.” He has been a playwright, lawyer, and a psychotherapist, but recently he has been inhabited with the muse of poetry and cannot stop writing.

For the last year or so, poet/tech sorceress Sanya Khurana and I (Annie Finch) have been developing the meter app Poetcraft. Poetcraft will include the first AI in the world able to scan and teach a range of different English meters. I am deeply excited about this project, which aims to move the English language back towards the core human magic of metrical diversity and, to my mind, nudge the world onto a more sustainable, joyful path.

Poetcraft will be trained on 4000 scanned lines of poetry, 1000 in each of four different meters. We have now finished collecting these lines, and we are seeking people who love meter and have experience with scanning to help bring the app to the next step as volunteer Scanners. All scansions will use the classic system of scansion introduced in my workbook How to Scan a Poem and in my classes and online videos. They will use the following symbols: wands, cups, edges, and–as needed—half-wands, ghost cups, and rests.

I am excited about this project and hope you might want to be part of it as a volunteer Scanner.

Q AND A

How will the process work?

Scanners will choose a poem from the project’s Google Drive and scan it on a computer using standard keyboard techniques (forward slash and backslash for wands and half-wands, lower case u for a cup, hashtag for a rest). After saving the scanned version on the Drive, you will mark the poem as scanned on an Excel sheet. That’s it!

How many poems will each scanner need to scan?

As many as you like. We expect each scanner to scan, on average,100-500 lines.

Will I have any support?

Each scanner will be given access to a “cheat sheet” created by me that summarizes the method of scanning used in the project and the use of each of the 6 symbols, and also suggests simple hacks to help you scan faster and more efficiently—and will also soon have access to a brief video going over the same material.

How good will I need to be at scansion to participate?

You should be an experienced scanner, but you don’t need to be a complete expert.

As you go, you will find that the experience of scanning many poems will raise your skills to another level.

What if I get stuck and can’t figure out how to scan a line or passage?

If you get stuck, leave the line unscanned and type a note next to it saying COULDN’T SCAN. All scansions will be doublechecked by an expert scanner, and finally triple-checked by me personally, so we will catch it.  

What is the timeframe?

You can start anytime. We hope to finish most of the scansions during the spring and to wind up no later than July 1.

Is there any compensation?

As a gesture of gratitude, all scanners will be offered six months free use of the Poetcraft app (value of projected cost is $99/month).  We will also be proud to list the names of all Scanners on the Poetcraft website (if you prefer not to be listed, just let us know).

I’m in! What’s the next step?

Please email us at scansions@poetcraft.org stating your interest, and we will get you started!