Thursday, November 02, 2006


When I review book, I only review books by women. When I write on poems, I only write about poems by women. I am not a separatist, but I am a preferencist. My preference is for women. Yet, there are those poets that I adore. I feel I shouldn’t It’s almost taboo. Especially when in addition to being genitally blessed with a penis, they also have troubling attitudes toward women, or at the very least, they write in a real way about their relationships with women and not in a way that is always pro-feminist and conscious about patriarchy. C.K. Williams is one of those poets. I love him. Involuntarily. This from today’s Writer’s Almanac.

Poem: "Anger" by C.K. Williams, from Love About Love. © Ausable Press.


I killed the bee for no reason except that it was there and you were
watching, disapproving,
which made what I would do much worse but I was angry with
you anyway and so I put my foot on it,
leaned on it, tested how much I'd need to make that resilient,
resisting cartridge give way
and crack! abruptly, shockingly it did give way and you turned
sharply and sharply now
I felt myself balanced in your eyes—why should I feel myself so
balanced always in your eyes;
isn't just this half the reason for my rage, these tendencies of
yours, susceptibilities of mine?—
and "Why?" your eyes said, "Why?" and even as mine sent back my
answer, "None of your affair,"
I knew that I was being once again, twice now, weighed, and this
time anyway found wanting.

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