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Rochelle Ratner

IMAGINARY WORDS: TAKING LEAVE | A WOMAN'S FACE
| LOVE CHANT | MAROON SATIN

Poet, novelist, editor, and critic, Rochelle Ratner lives in New York City. She's published 11 poetry books and chapbooks, a book of translations, two novels, and a book of criticism on women's writing:TRYING TO UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A FEMINIST, Contact/II Press, 1984 (o.o.p.) She's poetry editor ofIsrael Horizons, Executive Editor of American Book Review, and reviews regularly for Library Journal, Publishers Weekly and other publications. She's currently serves on the board of directors of the National Book Critics Circle. She's ghost written three psychiatry books for the general public, and written several medical articles. During its brief existence in 1995 and 1996, she was editor of "New Jersey Online's Reading Room," an internet site containing reviews as well as original fiction and poetry. Her latest book is titled BEARING LIFE:WOMEN'S WRITINGS ON CHILDLESSNESS from The Feminist Press at The City Univesity of New York. A list of her books in print, is as follows: Zodiac Arrest, 1995 (poems, ISBN: 1-56439-047-0, $6, The Ridgeway Press, P. O. Box 120, Roseville, Mi 48066.) Someday Songs, 1992 (poems,ISBN: 0-933532-89-X, $9.50, BkMk/ University of Missouri Press, UniversityHouse, 5101 Rockhill Rd., Kansas City, Mo. 64110-2499.) The Lion's Share,1991 (novel, ISBN: 0-918273-87-0, $10.95. Coffee House Press, 27 N. FourthSt., Minneapolis, Mn. 55401.) Bobby's Girl, 1986 (novel, ISBN: 0-918273-22-6,$9.95, Coffee House Press, 27 N. Fourth St., Minneapolis, Mn. 55401.) PracticingTo Be A Woman: New & Selected Poems, 1982, ISBN: 0-810815-10-9,$13.50 cloth, 142 pages, Scarecrow Press, Metuchen, NJ.) Combing TheWaves, 1980 (poems, ISBN: 0-914610-16-3, $6, Hanging Loose, 231 Wyckoff St., Brooklyn, NY 11217. The following poems come from her new collection © 1997, "TELLINGS," narratives written in her mother's voice.

IMAGINARY WORDS: TAKING LEAVE

Just another game. you say?
I'll keep my eyes closed.
As if I don't already know
who could walk so softly.

I toss in my sleep.
Adolph, what are you doing
up so early?
Sit and talk to your sister:
we can work it out.

This porch is the field
I've taken you to play in.
We're looking at the ground
and we find a nickel.
Another one next to it,
seven in all -- a gold mine.
We won't give them to father.
For once we'll keep them
ourselves.

Twelve years later
your hand's at my side again.
You're breaking loose,
running away
for good this time.
No, I won't waken.

Sixteen isn't so young,
you'll be okay out there.
Why, when I was your age...

but I'm older
and so is everyone else
Mother was your final chain
and she's not here now.

Your birth united our families:
by leaving you're splitting us.
Don't hold your breath,
father won't go and get you.
I can't find the words
to make you stay.

Your blue eyes turn back:
one last look.
Brown curls catch the sunlight.
Anyone handsome as you
ought to be an actor.
When you're rich and famous
write home.

A WOMAN'S FACE

I've always wanted to get married,
to have children,
to belong to the human race . . .

Thirty years old,
released from the army now,
I crouch in my seat, anonymous,
while on the screen Joan Crawford
plays out the role for me.
Friends tell me we look alike,
and yes, we look alike.

I've always wanted to get married . . .
not the voice I'm used to,
but somehow slow and sure.
Nothing will excite it,
not the numerous lovers
in film after film.
Here her face is scarred
and the men run away from her.
She's more like I am now,
only my scar's hidden.

She fondles the child
while his eyes gaze into hers
and for a moment
there's a love between them.
Against her will she succeeds
at the very thing I fail at.

What is it I really want?
I know I can't be a mother
to a child who's not my own.
I was raised by an aunt
then a stepmother
and I would be afraid always,
unable to touch all the memories.

Marriage seems so final.
There will be other boyfriends
and, if nothing else,
childhood taught me patience.
Dorothy's so different than I was:
at six she already wears anger
like a toy she's inherited.
The beach, the circus,
amusement parks --
I'm pushing to keep her beside me
until we've both run out of steam.
The part doesn't suit me.

She needs a mother who's stronger,
more confident, more assertive.
Mossy's kind and gentle --
the father she wants all for herself.
I don't blame her.

Losing myself in the movie.
Joan, you've grown up to be beautiful;
don't keep your past locked inside you.
So proud, in the doctor's office,
full face to the camera.
At last you can take off your hat,
you can stare at the sun again.

LOVE CHANT

I smile like in my wedding picture
each night when my husband comes home.
My mouth makes room for him
though my hands are busy.
My smile's a landmark.
And it will not bite, but kiss.
I feel tall as my cheeks.

I smile like in my wedding picture.
Everyone I meet
says she capped those teeth.
Though cigarettes have stained them.
I smoke even in the morning
when I swore I'd never do that.
Burns on the furniture.
I'd have thought at thirty-eight
I'd be calm of my own accord.

I smile like in my wedding picture
when I'm in the car.
No matter how fast he drives
I must not show I'm frightened.
The curves grind my teeth down.
Mother used to sit tall in her seat
and that car was the death of her.
I'm afraid to look.
He keeps only one hand on the wheel,
one arm reaches out to me.
My lips tighten into seat belts.

I smile like in my wedding picture
as I watch my daughter play.
She has more nerve than I do.
Look at her dig in the sand
while water comes straight at her.
My smile drinks it in calmly
as my lips bare themselves
to the other mothers.
I am forcing this.

I smile like in my wedding picture
if I pass a mirror.
There's my house reflected.
I saved the money myself,
my husband didn't know how much I had.

I can afford this smile.
It has a lifetime behind it:
three mothers, men I really tried to love.
But that's all water under my tongue now.

MAROON SATIN

We must be practical, my love.
Wedding gowns are foolish.
I will wear a strand of pearls
and carry orchids.

It's all here in black and white
on our marriage license:
Herman, age 29.
We laugh about how I didn't
find out your age till just now
and made myself a year younger:
28; I'm really 35.

Any woman would have done the same.
Besides, I'm going back to California
as soon as my father remarries;
how many times must I tell you that?
Subconsciously, it's as if
I were hurrying you: PROPOSE.

Ours isn't really a wedding --
there will be no bridesmaids or flower girls.
Make sure not to accept engagement gifts
for they bring bad luck, my love.
We can take no chances.

To: Bearing Life: Women's Writngs on Childlessness

Copyright © 1997 by Rochelle Ratner. All rights reserved.

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