Marge Piercy Poems
|2.||The cup of Eliyahu||12/1/2015|
|3.||The Secretary Chant||5/13/2015|
|4.||The Birthday Of The World||3/17/2015|
|5.||Visiting A Dead Man On A Summer Day||1/3/2003|
|7.||To The Pay Toilet||1/20/2003|
|10.||The Morning Half-Life Blues||1/1/2004|
|13.||The Cat's Song||1/3/2003|
|14.||Attack Of The Squash People||1/3/2003|
|15.||The Woman In The Ordinary||1/3/2003|
|16.||My Mother's Body||1/3/2003|
|18.||For The Young Who Want To||1/3/2003|
|19.||Implications Of One Plus One||1/3/2003|
|20.||Colors Passing Through Us||1/3/2003|
|22.||What Are Big Girls Made Of?||1/3/2003|
|23.||A Work Of Artifice||1/3/2003|
|24.||To Be Of Use||1/3/2003|
Comments about Marge Piercy
This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
The Cat's Song
Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing
milk from his mother's forgotten breasts.
Let us walk in the woods, says the cat.
I'll teach you to read the tabloid of scents,
to fade into shadow, wait like a trap, to hunt.
Now I lay this plump warm mouse on your mat.