Muriel Rukeyser Poems
|2.||The Speaking Tree||12/15/2011|
|4.||Then I Saw What The Calling Was||12/15/2011|
|5.||Waiting For Icarus||12/15/2011|
|6.||The Poem As Mask||12/15/2011|
|8.||From A Play: Publisher's Song||12/15/2011|
|10.||George Robinson: Blues||12/15/2011|
|11.||Haying Before Storm||4/22/2010|
|22.||Metaphor To Action||12/15/2011|
|23.||Boy With His Hair Cut Short||4/22/2010|
|24.||The Book Of The Dead||12/15/2011|
|25.||[murmurs From The Earth Of This Land]||12/15/2011|
|26.||Elegy In Joy||12/15/2011|
|29.||The Conjugation Of The Paramecium||1/20/2003|
|31.||Reading Time: 1 Minute 26 Seconds||12/15/2011|
For that I never knew you, I only learned to dread you,
for that I never touched you, they told me you are filth,
they showed me by every action to despise your kind;
for that I saw my people making war on you,
I could not tell you apart, one from another,
for that in childhood I lived in places clear of you,
for that all the people I knew met you by
crushing you, stamping you to death, they poured boiling
water on you, they flushed you down,
for that I could not tell one from another
only that you were dark, fast on your feet, and slender.
Not like ...
In the cave with a long-ago flare
a woman stands, her arms up. Red twig, black twig, brown twig.
A wall of leaping darkness over her.
The men are out hunting in the early light
But here in this flicker, one or two men, painting
and a woman among them.
Great living animals grow on the stone walls,
their pelts, their eyes, their sex, their hearts,
and the cave-painters touch them with life, red, brown, black,