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Dress in saris, wear ornaments in gold
Around your neck and on the *******;
Be a girl; be shy; be womanish bold;
Be a wife; be a cook; be spiritually good;
Adore men, especially your husband;
Be submissive; be polite; be loyal;
Be the servant of goddess lotus!
Dwell in clay; live under the water;
Show light to sun; moon and stars!
Be soft; embrace in love; fade into water!
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur.
“The Leopard,” the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

**** it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come!  Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests **** the earth’s foul peace,
And the lightning from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His long might ‘gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such ***** I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ‘gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May ******* for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace!”
Marissa Wargo Apr 2013
It is 5 AM

I just got my period.

Said no man ever.
Darkling Aug 2015
room
to room
reflections of
   youth
   the set of
things a timid under-
standing   this womanish
   body
   reverberates
the lie like sun
shine on water

domesticity   close to
home   a slick casing
left  as the pulsing
breathing thing moves
on

I'll decorate anyway
the hollow
where I dwell  and see
slivers of memory
in every picture
hung

— The End —