Whitney Jones Olson

Rookie (August 14,1982 / Indiana)

Let The Circle, Canto Ii - Poem by Whitney Jones Olson

The final lecture, it has concluded, with a
scathing evaluation of its fearful leader,
and I have glided easily to the fountain of Venus
who has drawn herself on all my time here,
in academia,
as I have drawn her on my chest - Showalter -
the birth of Venus.
It is nothing short of magic, that I should be drawn to
her today, perhaps the final time that she & I will
meet as fellow residents of this mystic, timeless,
priveledged ground which I have been so thankful
to inhabit.
She is bittersweet today, as always, with
her promising, unnoticed beauty, and her silent
but moving knowledge - my oracle.
Less bitter, though, then perhaps I had anticipated
as I approached - not displeased by my leaving,
and (to her great credit, again justifying my love
for her) , clearly never willing to forget how it is that I have loved her.
I had thought I would cry, leaving her -
make melancholy like so many Juliets,
and do her an unforgivable disservice by my lack
of unbending femininity -
she and I, we are strong,
as so many well-sculpted goddesses now left alone,
to balance and carry our weight,
to exemplify those women before us made of iron,
as they have shown us unbending grace.
to honor those women before us made of sand,
as they have shown us unbreakable will.
to join those women among us made of feathers,
as they now show us how to fly.
to raise those women behind us made of clay,
as we must show them how to dream.
Today - oh! - I go with her blessing,
as she is what I have been so she is also a birth,
as I am what we must be so I am becoming what we might,
and I will carry her, on my chest,
and she will carry me, in her secrets,
And we will give one another to all
who reach for knowledge
all who live beyond their limits
all who grin at wisdom's gate,
and enter without knocking,
bearing the ripe gifts of Nature,
with outstretched hands and upturned faces,
all who share with one another,
all who pray with easy faith,
all who create to toast the sunrise,
all who color their boundless days.
And now my lips, they taste of flowers,
And my fingers leave her skin,
And I walk away in silence,
as she tells me to Begin.


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, May 2, 2006



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