Tuesday, February 2, 2010

New Student Organization at UCR

The Living Poet's Society will be having one of its first meetings this Thursday from 6:00pm to 7:00pm in INTS 1006.

So why not celebrate with a poem written by a fellow southern Californian? Here is "Not Yours" by Shannon Garcia.

Not Yours.
That's what it says on my left wrist...
something i had tattooed on my flesh,
something simple to understand.
But lately, i find, when people read
they get mixed messages
jumping to conclusions and assumptions saying:
"Damn! That's mean" or
"I can see your not happy" or
"What a teeeeease!" or
"I feel sorry for anyone you've ever dated."
Not yours.
Not yours in the sense that this is not yours to interpret
because this is on my flesh and
mine belongs to my and my is I, so I am mine
and i can't possibly be yours.
Not yours in the sense that i am not an object to
contain confine possess or design...
We are women.
Born branded with the last names of men who raped our female ancestors
Wombs poisoned with their hunger
for power love and authority through acts of hatred
and yet we still bare their children
hoping that someday instead of war games
our sons will grow to choose compassion over consumption,
hugs over guns, and love
above all pride prejudice and vengeance.
And if i could doctrine a new last name it would be
NOT YOURS
and i would staple tape slap superglue it behind every woman's name
because how many times, how many times must we call our women
baby honey darlin sweet sugaaaaar bitch slut cunt whore
before we realize that this is the rape of our women's identity
a subsequent attack on her individuality
a bottle, a bow built around her insecurities
preventing her from obtaining what she is more than worthy of
bombs dropped on her mind, soul, body
because if this is the day and age of peace and equality
then i resist.
because if being a woman means
covering my flesh to help men resist temptation to rape me
with their eyes, hands...instead of proudly displaying my curves
as a dignified piece of art instead of a piece of meat
then a woman, i am not.
because if being a woman means
covering my eyes to the suffering of other women at any time
then a woman i am not.
because if being a woman means
controlling my estrogen levels is the only way to be
respected and successful
then a woman i am not
because if being a woman means raising sons that will hold guns
against other women and their babies
then a woman, i am not.
because if being a woman means i'm
a bitch because i resist any verbal or physical attack on my femininity
a slut because i refuse to marry
a dyke because i choose to love other women
and a shame because i refuse to bare children
in a world filled with chaos scorn and hatred
then a woman, i am not.
but i most definitely am
Not Yours.

.









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"It is bound to happen. You have been wandering in the Academia all day, you have seen a solid mile of painted canvas, it is the fourth, the sixth, or the eigth day and you feel as though you are swimming against a powerful current of gods, kings, prophets, martyrs, monks, virgins and monsters; that Ovid, Hesiod, the Old and New Testaments have accompanied you the whole way, that you are being pursued by the Lives of the Saints and Christian and heathen iconography, that Catherine’s wheel, Sebastian’s arrows, Hermes’s wingèd sandals, Mars’s helmet, and all lions of stone, gold, porphyry and marble are out to get you. Frescoes, tapestries, gravestones, everything is charged with meaning, refers to real or imaginary events, armies of sea-gods, putti, popes, sultans, condottieri, admirals all clamour for your attention. They whoosh by along the ceilings, look down at you with their painted, woven, sketched and sculpted eyes. Sometimes you see the same saint more than once in a day, in a Gothic, Byzantine, baroque or classical disguise, for myths are mighty and the heroes are adaptable, Renaissance or rococo, it does not bother them, as long as you keep looking, as long as their essence remains intact. So there they stand, a nation of Stone Guests, waving from the façades of churches, leaning out of the tromple-l’oeils of the palazzi, the ragazzi of Tiepolo and Fumiani race around up there, and once again St. Julian is beheaded, once again the Madonna cradles her baby, once again Perseus battles with Medusa, Alexander converses with Diogenes. The traveler draws back from all the tumult, for the moment he wants no more, just to sit on a stone seat on the embankment, and watch how a Slavonian grebe searches for its prey in the brackish, greenish, water, watch the movement of the water itself, pinch himself in the arm to reassure himself that he is not sculpted or painted." - Cees Nooteboom
 

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