Pretty women wonder where my secret lies I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size But when I start to tell them They think I'm telling lies. I say It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips The stride of my steps The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me.
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please And to a man The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees Then they swarm around me A hive of honey bees. I say It's the fire in my eyes And the flash of my teeth The swing of my waist And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me.
Men themselves have wondered What they see in me They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say It's in the arch of my back The sun of my smile The ride of my breasts The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me.
Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say It's in the click of my heels The bend of my hair The palm of my hand The need for my care. 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally Phenomenal woman That's me.
To music!
WHEN YOU HAVE A MOTHER.
When you have a mother who cares so much for you that anything you want becomes her desires When you have a mother who is so understanding that no matter what is bothering you she can make you smile When you have a mother who is so strong that no matter what obstacles she faces she is always confident in front of you When you have a mother who actively pursues her goals in life but includes you in all her goals you are very lucky indeed Having a mother like this makes it easy to grow up into a loving, strong adult Thank you for being this kind of wonderful mother.
I searched for a Lee Maracle website but found none. I did find an amazing essay on Christopher Columbus which I will post over on my other site. From I Am Woman-A Native Perspective on Sociology and Feminism
I want to heal your spirit and...awaken that which keeps trying to come alive in you. I can see it under the veneer you have covered it with. I can feel it in your rage and in your meaness at all times. I can see it in the sadness on your face. The heartache written there was not put there by me or you. It is maintained by your succumbing to it.
Reflections From The Summit
I am not a rose in your lapel I am an annoying dandelion. Useful to you should you want to bring love to your community.
I am useless to a middle-class aspirant. Harmful to someone who wants to live above the poverty line, enjoy luncheons on Friday and dine out twice monthly.
I subtract from your ability to vacation once per annum. I stand in the way of your need to be only half there.
I am an asset to the man who seeks liberation from the death colonialism is. Valuable to a man who seeks escape from the lonely castles built for the elite.
I am passion, bright red and turbulent, vehemently cutting a swath through this brick, steel and concrete tundra.
I am compassion, soft, warm and winsome, pleadingly coaxing gentleness from the burning anger of your spirit.
Lee Maracle was born in 1950 and raised in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. After dropping out of school to join the hippie subculture and to work as a political activist, she attended Simon Fraser University. Besides being a professor at the University of Toronto, she has also been the Stanley Knowles Visiting Professor in Canadian Studies at the University of Waterloo. She was one of the founders of the En'owkin International School of Writing in Penticton, BC (1981); a learning institute with an Indigenous Fine Arts Program and an Okanagon Language Program. In 2001, Maracle was appointed Distinguished Visiting Professor of Canadian Culture at Western Washington University to engage in activities focused on promoting Canadian culture and awareness. She is a member of the Red Power Movement and Liberation Support Movement. Maracle has been the Traditional Cultural Director of The Centre for Indigenous Theatre and has worked as an instructor of dramatic composition and theatrical representation. Maracle's works reflect her antipathy toward racism, sexism, and white cultural domination.
Books by Lee Maracle:
Maracle, Lee. Bent box Penticton, B.C. : Theytus Books, 2000. Genre: Poetry Description: 128 p. ; p., 23 cm. Audience: Adult ISBN: 0919441890 Maracle, Lee. Daughters are Forever Vancouver, BC : Raincoast Books, 2002. Genre: Fiction Description: 250 pages This novel depicts the transformation of a Salish woman who feels alienated from her culture and family. She heals herself by rediscovering her roots and culture and by reconciling with her daughters. Audience: Adult ISBN: 1551924102 Maracle, Lee. I am woman : a native perspective on sociology and feminism Vancouver, B.C. : Press Gang Publishers, 1996. Genre: Biography Description: 142 p. ; 22 cm. Indian women--British Columbia--Biography. ISBN: 0889740593 Maracle, Lee. Ravensong Vancouver, B.C : Press Gang Publishers, 1995. Genre: Fiction Description: A novel set in a Native community of the Pacific Northwest in the 1950's. Audience: All Ages ISBN: 0889740445 Maracle, Lee. Sojourner's Truth. Vancouver : Press Gang , 1990. Genre: Short Stories Maracle, Lee. Sundogs : a novel Penticton, B.C. : Theytus Books, 1992. Genre: Fiction Description: 214 p. ; 21 cm. Audience: Adult Maracle, Lee. Will's Garden Pentictan, BC : Theytus Books, 2002. Genre: Fiction Description: 7.7 x 5.1 x 0.5 inches; 224 pages People and Places--Mutlicultural Stories--Native People (Canada) Audience: Youth ISBN: 1894778022
Since it was Kara who tagged me I just had to play along and this tied in to her post about picking up a book randomly and reading the first thing you see while remaining open to the lessons it holds for you whether you like them or not. I had The Essential Rumi on my desk to choose a quote from for the new writing book I start every year and figured I would just roll them all into one... Here are the 'rules'...
Here's the idea : Find the nearest book. Name the book The author Turn to page 123 Go to the fifth sentence on the page Copy out the next three sentences and post to your blog. Tag three more folks.
There are only 5 lines on page 123...
Are you jealous of the ocean's generosity? Why would you refuse to give this joy to anyone?
Fish don't hold the sacred liquid in cups! They swim in the huge fluid freedom.
As I had this song stuck in my head ALL day on my birthday the above was too fitting...
"Swandive"
cradling the softest, warmest part of you in my hand feels like a little baby bird fallen from the nest i think that your body is something i understand i think that i'm happy, i think that i'm blessed
i've got a lack of inhibition i've got a loss of perspective i've had a little bit to drink and it's making me think that i can jump ship and swim that the ocean will hold me that there's got to be more than this boat i'm in
'cuz they can call me crazy if i fail all the chance that i need is one-in-a-million and they can call me brilliant if i succeed gravity is nothing to me, moving at the speed of sound i'm just going to get my feet wet until i drown
and i teeter between tired and really, really tired im wiped and im wired but i guess its just as well because i built my own empire out of car tires and chicken wire and i'm queen of my own compost heap and i'm getting used to the smell
and i've got a lack of information but i got a little revelation and i'm climbing up on the railing trying not to look down i'm going to do my best swan dive in the shark-infested waters i'm gonna pull out my tampon and start splashing around
'cuz i don't care if they eat me alive i've got better thing to do than survive i've got a memory of your warm skin in my hand and i've got a vision of blue sky and dry land
i'm cradling the hardest, heaviest part of me in my hand the ship is pitching and heaving, my limbs are bobbing and weaving and i think this is what i understand i just need a little vaccination for my far-away vacation i'm going to go ahead boldly because a little bird told me that jumping is easy, that falling is fun up until you hit the sidewalk, shivering, stunned
and they can call me crazy if i fail all the chance that i need is one-in-a-million and they can call me brilliant if i succeed gravity is nothing to me moving at the speed of sound i'm just gonna get my feet wet until i drown...
I still dont know about this tagging thing though....I still havent really ventured out into blogland and it is too late to start tonight. I will come back to it though I have a few people in mind...is that cheating?
Life and Jah are one in the same. Jah is the gift of existence. I am in some way eternal, I will never be duplicated. The sigularity of every man and woman is Jah's gift. What we struggle to make of it is our sole gift to Jah. The process of that struggle becomes, in time, the Truth.
I havent been finding the time to write here and at my other blog daily though I have lots I want to add here it will have to wait a little longer. I have such an absurdly large collection of quotations that I can definitley manage to post one a day though. Here's one from Henry Rollins anarchist wordsmith extrodinaire, I think this one is pretty relevant for this indulgent time of year...
Go without a coat when it's cold; find out what cold is. Go hungry; keep your existence lean. Wear away the fat, get down to the lean tissue and see what it's all about. The only time you define your character is when you go without. In times of hardship, you find out what you're made of and what you're capable of. If you're never tested, you'll never define your character. - Henry Rollins
I wrote this the night before reading a post about following your bliss which I have also written on @ the centre I thought I would post it over here instead...just for variety.
In Sointu-Finnish phrase meaning within the clear note of harmony Sointu-Tone n Finnish Sointula-Place of Harmony n Finnish
i am a circle barely 24 years round my history like a stone in the pocket of my life nearly worn smooth with the ceaseless rubbing of passing days i pile the time on my face and hands each passing moment leaving it's name upon my skin memories printed with indelible ink a patchwork mosaic of loves and losses mapping dusks and dawns my testament to change holy words written in every curve and line beyond the more obvious trappings of skin and bone beats a passionate tatoo rythym pulsing in communion singing a warriors song of rebellion sounding a long sighing cry in praise of all creation
i am trying to live within that thrumming sound that bell bright ringing a redemptive calling me to arms open wide seeking that perfect note in sointu in sointula within a song of harmony
Let's have a moment of Ani appreciation who has yet to give up or in, but just keeps pushing on and out and over. Three cheers for heroes and rebels in these sanitized times. Remember: "when freedom is outlawed only outlaws will be free."-Tom Robbins
self evident
yes, us people are just poems we're 90% metaphor with a leanness of meaning approaching hyper-distillation and once upon a time we were moonshine rushing down the throat of a giraffe yes, rushing down the long hallway despite what the p.a. announcement says yes, rushing down the long stairs with the whiskey of eternity fermented and distilled to eighteen minutes burning down our throats down the hall down the stairs in a building so tall that it will always be there yes, it's part of a pair there on the bow of noah's ark the most prestigious couple just kickin back parked against a perfectly blue sky on a morning beatific in its indian summer breeze on the day that america fell to its knees after strutting around for a century without saying thank you or please
and the shock was subsonic and the smoke was deafening between the setup and the punch line cuz we were all on time for work that day we all boarded that plane for to fly and then while the fires were raging we all climbed up on the windowsill and then we all held hands and jumped into the sky
and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar looked more like war than anything i've seen so far so far so far so fierce and ingenious a poetic specter so far gone that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on and i'll tell you what, while we're at it you can keep the pentagon keep the propaganda keep each and every tv that's been trying to convince me to participate in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution perpetuate retribution even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution is still hanging in the air and there's ash on our shoes and there's ash in our hair and there's a fine silt on every mantle from hell's kitchen to brooklyn and the streets are full of stories sudden twists and near misses and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters with tales of narrowly averted disasters and the whiskey is flowin like never before as all over the country folks just shake their heads and pour
so here's a toast to all the folks who live in palestine afghanistan iraq
el salvador
here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore
here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors who daily provide women with a choice who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city just to listen to a young woman's voice
here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now awaiting the executioner's guillotine who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads to find peace in the form of a dream
cuz take away our playstations and we are a third world nation under the thumb of some blue blood royal son who stole the oval office and that phony election i mean it don't take a weatherman to look around and see the weather jeb said he'd deliver florida, folks and boy did he ever
and we hold these truths to be self evident: #1 george w. bush is not president #2 america is not a true democracy #3 the media is not fooling me cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation i've got no room for a lie so verbose i'm looking out over my whole human family and i'm raising my glass in a toast
here's to our last drink of fossil fuels let us vow to get off of this sauce shoo away the swarms of commuter planes and find that train ticket we lost cuz once upon a time the line followed the river and peeked into all the backyards and the laundry was waving the graffiti was teasing us from brick walls and bridges we were rolling over ridges through valleys under stars i dream of touring like duke ellington in my own railroad car i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches in a grand station aglow with grace and then standing out on the platform and feeling the air on my face
give back the night its distant whistle give the darkness back its soul give the big oil companies the finger finally and relearn how to rock-n-roll yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there so it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets and clear the air get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand of someone else's desert put it back in its pants and quit the hypocritical chants of freedom forever
cuz when one lone phone rang in two thousand and one at ten after nine on nine one one which is the number we all called when that lone phone rang right off the wall right off our desk and down the long hall down the long stairs in a building so tall that the whole world turned just to watch it fall
and while we're at it remember the first time around? the bomb? the ryder truck? the parking garage? the princess that didn't even feel the pea? remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?
can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!
it was a joke, of course it was a joke at the time and that was just a few years ago so let the record show that the FBI was all over that case that the plot was obvious and in everybody's face and scoping that scene religiously the CIA or is it KGB? committing countless crimes against humanity with this kind of eventuality as its excuse for abuse after expensive abuse and it didn't have a clue look, another window to see through way up here on the 104th floor look another key another door 10% literal 90% metaphor 3000 some poems disguised as people on an almost too perfect day should be more than pawns in some asshole's passion play so now it's your job and it's my job to make it that way to make sure they didn't die in vain sshhhhhh.... baby listen hear the train?
Welcome to the house my hands built. This mama's hands make things of beauty and functionality-finding the art in the everyday. These hands whip up triple chocolate vanilla bean cheesecakes with ease at 10 pm and hurry on to stitch and paint until the wee hours of the morning. My hands care for and protect the ones I love, holding them safe in these troubled times; soothing hurts, wiping tears and giving solace is their work. They get out of control sometimes and make huge messes but then come right along to clean them up. They can type out a poem or make a shopping list with easy facility. These hands are a marvel-sometimes they seem to belong to someone else and they certainly wish there was more hours in a day. This is the accounts and travels, creations and misadventures of one pair of busy mama hands. My interest in art was sparked by my New Yorker Jew fashion designer Nana whose stories of nude modeling, partying with Marlon Brando and designing clothes for Shirley Temple, Katherine and Audrey Hepburn set my busy hands on a collision course with craft before I was knee high. The rest is history.
