Now I Am A Woman


A shooting pain, here

behind my eyes

inside my nose

at the back of my throat.

Shifting fires...

in my belly!

-Where. Show me where.

I have told you,

beneath the weight of my arms

in the palms of my hands,

the soles of my feet,

Where I imagine

a black box

heartless

and void.

My pulse shortens

as I lie in mother’s bed,

but still I feel it

down my back, up my legs

in my thighs.

Sometimes there is a darkness

there are moments of darkness,

when I feel nothing at all.

* * *

Playing in the sand

on the street

I know this is my land

this is my heat

on which my father’s men

my mother’s women

have strived against defeat.

Jumping into the air

lifting on amber wind

my legs shown bare

I come back down again

stomping the earth

that knows my worth,

The dust covering me

lithe and free.

Jumping rope with my sisters

who hold the ends silently

shifting on feet full of blisters.

I let my skirt fly above my knees,

as they wrap their skirts closely

around their softer bodies.

They are much too tame,

saying they will not enter

in my tomboy games.

'We were already

bathed in the Nile'-they said.

'Given dresses and jewels

gifts and glory.

Just wait awhile;

before you are wed

you too will know these days

when you shall receive such praise,'



-in a back room

young legs opened wide

where others have cried

destroying their pride.

They did not tell me to hide

would not confide

how they had died

somewhere deep inside-


They lied.


My eyes closed by women’s fingers

my screams hushed by women’s voices

Soft women, open women

torn from the dust

and purified women.



My arms restrained by men’s arms

my belly cinched by men’s hands

full men, circumcised men

born from the dust and cleansed men.



Playing in the sand

I am covering my belly

I am covering my feet

I am covering my eyes

I am covering my

* * *

I say I am nothing

though I feel all.

A foot brush my ankle,

a hand rush against my side,

my husband’s breath blows through me;

the lashes of weeping women

fall across my face.

(Prompted by the ongoing practice of female genital mutilation where the clitoris, considered to be a masculine attribute, is removed)
EDM

Títeres de sombras Shadow Puppets


Noche Night

y día and day

con o sin with or without

luz light

mi hermana crea my sister creates

vida life

y muerte, and death,

sonido sound

y silencio, and silence,

forma y fantasía, form and fantasy,

cuerpo y alma, body and soul,

presencia y ausencia, presence and absence,

necesidad e indiferencia, necessity and indifference,

crecimiento y decaimiento. growth and decay.

Estructuras Structures

que no pueden proteger that cannot protect

ni soportar; nor support;

mundos sin dimension, worlds without dimension,

verlos, to see,

pero no tocarlos but not to touch

Efímeros Ephemeral

como espiritus. as spirits.

Todovía, en mi memoria Still, in my memory

son tan solidos they are as solid

como sus manos, as her hands,

tan firmes as firm

tan fuertes as strong

tan reales as real

tan verdaderos. as true.

EDM

A letter to poetess Adrienne Rich
concerning her refusal of the National Medal for the Arts

July 3, 1997
“I believe in art’s social presence—as breaker of official silences, as voice for those

whose voices are disregarded, and as a human birthright...I have seen the space for the

arts opened by movements for social justice, (but) Over the past two decades I have

witnessed the increasingly brutal impact of racial and economic injustice in our

country...art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds

it hostage. A President cannot meaningfully honor certain token artists while the

people at large are so dishonored.”- Adrienne Rich

Dear Adrienne Rich,

I am just one person affected by your words

and your ways.

This was not an act confined to letters.

You have caused me to think a great deal about art and justice:

What role does the U.S. government play?

It acts against

and in support of art,

just as artists support

and act against the U.S. government.

As for the times when artists have acted against the government to

verbally, physically, or literarily protest

the continued manufacturing and implementation of mines,

the increase in defense spending,

the recent immigration law which has forced thousands of potential

citizens from our country,

the exploitation and domination of developing countries,

the “don’t ask, don’t tell” sexual discrimination policy in the military,

all forms of racial, gender, and age discrimination, (due to protestation,

we now have laws protecting the people)

censorship, and any breach within the freedom of speech,

to name just a few.

Critics have asked

“should the government subsidize its own subversion?”

But subversion is the wrong word,

because it suggests conspiracy

sabotage, treason, destruction.

Your written and vocal work

and the act of sit-ins, strikes, picketing, questioning,

and refusing to be silent,

are not destructive;

they are enabling, enlivening, inspiring, encouraging.

Maybe these critics should instead be asking,

“should the government subsidize those who rebel,

who are defiant,

who resist,

who seek revolution?”

Yes, because as artists we seek to create

not destroy.

And because that is what a democracy stands for.

And still I understand why you did not accept this subsidy:

“When men suffer, they become politically radical;

When they cease to suffer, they favor the existing order.”

(Walter Prescott Webb, Plains Historian)

How then could you accept?

Do art and justice exist as one?

As united as music and poetry

as indivisible as freedom is from life,

as inseparable as life from blood,

as blood from the soil?

Or do art and justice

struggle alone,

aware of,

but estranged from the other?

Artists must not get too comfortable.

It is the hunger for growth and change

that keeps us aware and searching for something better.

Does the National Endowment for the Arts

simply provide much needed funds

for the most necessary of endeavors?

Though the NEA fosters the arts and indirectly supports

the causes they uphold and defend,

does it also create an artistic hierarchy

impenetrable by the working masses?

Who is upheld,

who is defended?

I do not know.

I can say that I believe artists are workers

in the spirit of community service,

as much as the nurses, the doctors,

the environmentalists, the teachers,

the welders, the farmers, the cooks, the feeders,

the scientists who seek the future,

as well as the craftswomen and craftsmen

who humbly cultivate their heritage.

As a service to this country,

it is also an artists’s right

to go against the precepts of tradition and heritage,

which can stifle and challenge creative and intellectual pursuits.

One such precept is to humbly accept the gifts we are given

and to graciously say ‘thank you.’



Some gifts are more difficult to accept…

You have showed me

that it is also an artist’s profound privilege and honoras

much as a congressperson or state representativeto

speak for those who would speak,

if only they could.

You have spoken for many.

I find as a young and hopeful writer

that it is my duty to listento

those who do speak and do make a difference.

Thank you for making me think.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis

The Missionary


A young woman travels to

Malaysia, Budapest, Hong Kong, Japan

Russia, Mongolia, India, Pakistan

Africa, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Iran…

When she teaches the child, the woman or the man,

she can be spontaneous, and other at times she has a plan.

She wades through several seas

and strides across spawning sands.

She is not afraid to make her mark on any land-

Cuba, Venezuela, Columbia, Paraguay

Ecuador, Brazil, Bolivia, and Uruguay.

For their souls she does not offer to pray.

And it is not their gods she is seeking to betray.

On an average day,

she shows several students the way

to travel to the U S of A,

by teaching them to say

the English alphabet.

It is about what she can give, not what she can get.

She has sold all of her belongings and gone into debt,

She has survived droughts, and floods,

Quicksands and mud,

piranhas,

and gigantic iguanas

earthquakes, volcanoes,

storms of hail, lightning and snow.

31

But most importantly she knows

where to go during times of war.

When she was a young girl, her mother plead,

“Don’t travel the world, you may end up dead.

Foreign countries are dirty, there’s no telling where the people have tread.

Anyway, if you go, how will you wed?

Stay here with me and have a family instead.”

“But the world will be my family,” the girl said,

pushing herself up out of her bed.

“What of the famines, and the wars, all those genocides,

all those poor?” her mother roared.

“I don’t want to hear you talk of traveling anymore.”

But the little girl knew in her heart and her head,

that people were just as likely to end up sick or dead,

hungry or underfed in her own country.

There were just as many weapons displayed on the streets,

As there were racists, hookers, crooks and deadbeats.

There were bombs dropped on buildings and explosives underground.

She could not ignore these screaming facts; her mind was filled with these sounds.

She felt less protected when her roots were forced into the earth,

Than if the ocean carried her roots to places of new birth.

And because she got dizzy standing still,

She longed to swim for her life.

In her conviction to teach English diction,

To the countries of the world, she became a wife.

The woman who has two languages


speaks through two mouths

sees through four eyes

feels two sensations with the stroke of one hand

hears the speech of her peoples

through many ears

and believes that her soul might also be divided.

But that woman has only one heart;

Though her senses may be broken apart,

she is still one woman, indivisible.

And still,

when she feels joy, it is two-fold.

When she feels pain,

she sometimes believes that it is more unbearable

than the pain of a woman of one language.

When she gives birth, it is through two wombs

and that singular child

is as two

formed by the duality of his mother.

* * *

55

When she rises, she rises twice.

When she falls, she falls with the weight of two women.

When she dreams,

she prefers to do away with language altogether,

so that she can rest with silent visions of her life,

without names

without nouns

without words.

When she recalls the dream upon waking

she fears that she will derive two separate meanings.

The woman who has two languages

believes in two gods,

one who walks by her side,

and another who looks down upon her

from such a great distance.

But these are the same god,

and she knows that her languages can be as much the same.

One to embrace and retreat inside of,

the other with which to grow and gain experience.

She may speak through two mouths,

but the sentiment is the same.

She thinks with one heart,

and within that heart

her mind struggles to come together.
EDM

 

Her Poems Were Her Children

For Olga Cabral-who said she never had any children

Her poems were her children,

delivered through the palms of her hands,

bodies wound through the womb of a pen,

guided to the tip of a pencil.

She let them leave her,

let them dull her sharpened edges

Her children have skin as black as ink

smooth as graphite;

it is the darkness that dares

to confront the light.

Just as Noah’s wife Namaah,

who wore an apron

sewn with so many pockets

to collect the seeds

of all the plants and trees,

This daughter

gathered the darkness

in the pocket

of her seamless heart

Until it was time

to deliver.

Exposed to the light,

her children come alive

and continue to grow

in our eyes,

And yet they live

entirely on their own.
EDM

The Frontier

They were gypsies in search of a home,

one they would never find in their own lifetime,

but one which would exist for their tired child

who was born with more hunger for stability

than a thirst for mystery.

Those who became Texans,

did not care if they made it to the Pacific Ocean.

With a horizon that could be seen fourteen miles across,

they had all the stability and mystery

they could ever want.

With a sky full of wild winds and water

that delivered itself when it was good and ready,

they learned that the best things come

when they had to wait to take a drink.

That was when it got too painful to think.

Then all they could do was feel.
EDM

We Wait

We wait for it to come each month,

to show its full face,

to our own,

the one deep inside us,

the darker earth

only the moon

knows how to see,

the eyes

only the moon

can pry open

and shine through,

and gently close again,

healing the path it treads

as it falls away

And we wait for it to come again.

Our bodies follow the moon,

the way it seems

the three wise men followed the north star,

trusting a thing so far,

the way they trusted their dreams.

the way the gypsies

in their endless climb

rely on the sky to tell their time.

EDM

blood oranges

these virginal muscles

sore and vulnerable

are like the rugged rind

of firm, acrid fruit

broken into,

the round, wet pulp

still breathing in its skin,

sharp unseen pains

like pointed seeds pushed aside

by practiced hands.

* * *

‘Am I bleeding?’ I ask.

No, she says,

you are not

bleeding.

Today, she is my mother

and I am expecting her

to deliver me

again.

Please, I pray silently,

give me the privilege

of a woman’s body,

so that I may appreciate

what others have given me

and what I can no longer receive.

* * *


She tells me to eat meat,

red meat,

rare meat,

meat with the blood still in it.

Live meat

with a face

a texture

to be held between the gums

and squeezed still with life.

Beef steaks,

hamburgers,

calf’s liver,

pot roasts

and stews.

But I prefer,

the beet’s dark juices,

the apples with red skins,

warm freckled strawberries,

and the blushing burgundy oranges

thick with flesh,

and so like blood,

I will trick my body

into bleeding.

* * *

A Woman’s Hands

My body has been explored by women,

before it has been explored by men.

It has not been explored by men,

but it will be, as it must be

I am told.

I am told that a woman’s body

can not be explored

by a woman,

that you cannot force

the puzzles pieces

that do not fit.

I have cut my conscience

reduced my body

trimmed my mind

to fit

where nature would have me:

An odd piece

for display

Thin and curved

holes in each side

waiting to be filled.

2


I am afraid.

She stays

so long

her fingers

have left their mark,

the way breath blackens

the walls of a cave

and the slighest

touch

disintegrates

the most stoic

of structures.

3

One palm

on my belly

kneading me

like fresh dough

unrisen

one palm

blinded by

the hollow

my mother

taught me to make

by folding the dough

inside of itself

blending the flour yeast

and eggs

into one warm

uniform mass

to be set aside

and allowed to rise.

* * *
 

This body

is less infinite,

collapsible

shrunken

after its frontiers

have been explored

and forgotten.

the cervix

the uterus

the ovaries

foreign worlds

where wars have been fought

their casualties

less intimate

than the deaths

read about in the papers

and seen on t.v.-

Here, blood is not spilled

breath is not silenced

land is not taken away.

This body

is as a country of natives

who can no longer go home,

yearning

to bleed

to breathe

to claim itself

anew


5

cervix

It does not lead

to the heartland

the center

the hollow

the quicksand

the ultimate depth

the strength I have left.

It is only the

beginning

the brink

the edge

the march

the boundary

the ledge

the fringe

the extremity

the fear

the border

I surrender

to search the new frontier.
 

 
(The above poem was written several years ago, after my first gynecological exam, which was traumatic for me.  I had not had my menstrual cycle for a year, and the doctor instructed me to eat meat and rest. After I moved back to Texas (from New York City), my cycle returned like clockwork.  I will never forget that. EDM)

There is a temptation to stay too long in the desert,


A desire to stand in the sun and become scorched like the earth,

A need to return to the beginning of our beings.

There is a coolness in the hollow of our bodies that saves us everytime.

We are blessed, though we are foolish,

In love with the flowers of Spring

As much as we love the fire that will reduce them to ashes.

Our breath is the breath of life;

Our will is that of the wind.

Our whispers begin the echoes of the sky

issued forth from our roots,

where a shifting silence spreads

our eternal, hidden truths.

Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis~Mayorca

Wildflowers are sometimes called weeds.

They have been mowed over,

Stepped on,

Poisoned

And torn from the soil-

All in an effort to extinguish them from the earth.

Somehow, they continue to grow,

and are stronger the second time around.

Standing erect,

Bearing seeds,

They are unconsciously proud.

Their beauty is constant;

Their faith undying.

Because their existence is uncertain,

They create their own certainty,

by spreading their influence across the land.





Drought ‘96

This long-winded, chain-smoking, curly-headed, small-assed waitress in NYC

serving fried cheese and other sandy sweating foods to wetted thirsty couples,

she says

‘they are big-boned, beef-bred, back-sassin’,

shorthanded, tall tales tellin’,

long-haired, hard-hearted and ruddy-faced,

those women from Texas;

You should know.’

But I am not of that breed and she can tell

just by looking at me.

Her Albanian boss says

the tight-skirted, cat- tatooed,

nose-ringed cupie doll

needs a big man to squeeze her

‘pretty girl like you’

can’t keep his large green cotton hands

in his pressed linen pockets.



His steady Dallas girlfriend,

jet-black hair, pockmarked skin,

fringed leather jacket,

jagged gritty nails, same red as her lips

won’t give him the time of day,

but he loves his Texas woman

walking barefoot on city concrete,

on calloused heels and toes

and fat flat inner soles

all touching down

on unforgiving ground

talking slow and slurred

as if she carried the Texas heat

in her limbs,

in her lipstick,

stowed away in her purse

tucked out of sight

behind the register of the cafe.

I am waiting

just waiting

for a to-go-cup

of tap water

hoping they don’t ask

for a nickel dime

quarter even

because I’m saving my money

to get back home.

And I’ll walk if I have to.


Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis~Mayorca

(From a Trip To Big Bend in West Texas, On New Year's Eve)


A rock shaped like a house, found in the mountains

The aborigines of Western Australia believe that the

waking life is an illusion,

so they dwell inside of their dreams.

The Sephardic Jews of the 16th Century were driven from Spain,

and though they could not find a place to sleep,

they found sanctuary within their hope.

The gypsies of the world continually cross the borders

of several states and countries,

but they feel settled in the tribe they move with.

The birds of many species soar through several skies

and sleep in various branches,

but can only thrive in weather that suits their needs.

The exiled writers of various countries believe

less in the land beneath their feet,

and more in the paper that bears their words.

The frontiersman of the state of Texas continued to

explore the flat land,

though the memory of the mountains

never left their bones.

Musicians of all disciplines, travel the world in search of sounds,

though their only shelter may be

within the music that emanates from their souls.

This rock that I hold in my hands, has fallen from the

heights of the mountain I climb;

In its stillness, I am home.

* * *
 
I am climbing a mountain my own way,


marking the rocks with my feet,

toppling corners,

avoiding the spines of bushes so vast,

they could pierce through my body and upwards into the sky.

I breathe with my mouth open, like the antelope,

who moves without pause,

steady with purpose towards his prey.

But I am chasing my own demons,

who were once chasing me.

On this mountain, there is no one to warn me of my fall,

only my dreams of descent,

only my hands that hold on and pull me up out of myself.

Out of a mind that would destroy me,

and into a body that will carry me towards ecstasy.

* * *

It is my mind, more than it is a mountain.

It is small in my eyes and I can push it aside.

It is large and I cannot control it.

It has its way with me as I climb,

scratching my hands, cutting my feet.

It wants me to conquer it.

It wants to defeat me.

It is my mind, more than it is a mountain.


Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis~Mayorca


Princess of Katmandu


Every time I get tired of walking

I just think about the Princess of Katmandu

who is carried from place to place

carried above sea

carried above sand

carried above her homeland

with her feet bound,

so that they never touch the ground,

so that they never make a sound.

Feet that can not breathe

Feet that cannot feel

Feet that are no more real

than porcelain kept in a glass case.

Though they say her feet are the most beautiful

of all the women in town,

her life must be dull.

No matter the rule

there are times when a woman must be put down.

Her feet can have no more grace,

than a face that has never seen the sun,

and are more likely to be deformed.

I have been warned.

Now when I get tired of walking

I run.

And when I am done with sighing

I dream that I am flying.
 
EDM

A loved woman does not fear to love

A kept woman fears the coming of a storm,

but a wet woman does not fear the rain.

A feverish woman fears to touch the flames,

but a cold woman seeks out the fire.

Free women have been afraid to speak,

but a silenced woman dreams only of hearing her own voice.

A clean woman is afraid of filth,

but a tarnished woman is not afraid of getting dirty,

A proud woman may not welcome help when it is offered,

but a humble woman will graciously accept.

A cynical woman fears having faith,

but a hopeful woman searches for her spirit.

A successful woman fears mediocrity,

but a struggling woman must utilize her own simple greatness.

A provided for woman may forget how to take care of her own needs,

while a forgotten woman must learn to take care of herself.

An unsteady woman fears her own feet,

while a balanced woman walks closer to the edge.

A waiting woman sometimes forgets her own purpose,

but a purposeful woman is not afraid to wait.

An untouched woman fears affection,

but a loved woman is not afraid to love.


Elizabeth Dañiel Marquis~Mayorca

The leaves are clapping…


The leaves are clapping as hands do

To applaud the wind

The sun

The coming rain

Clapping like the sound of laughter

Rising up out of grief

Leaves clapping like hearts beating

Full with color

And with the pumping of life

The leaves are reaching out

The way a hand reaches out to break a fall.

The leaves are falling

the way dreams fall from broken hearts

I would gladly trade the tears streaming down my face

For freckles frolicking on my skin

The way the changing leaves freckle the sky

Creating points of light

Like shooting stars.

What should I wish for?

In the past, I saw my wish

And I sent it back up into the sky

Hoping it would one day float back down to me.

But now, I will let these decaying leaves

fall into the core of me

making fertile ground

to grow my seed of desire

so that it will emerge like a tree,

rooted to its purpose.
EDM



Cypress


Not intimidated by the bulk of bare chests

Not affected by the sun’s glare against dark eyes

(not unlike my own)

Shivers do not run down my spine from fevers

spent watching sweat shimmer off backs

beaten beasts of burden

Odors of a long day’s work

hang like a heavy rain in a hot southern blaze.

The sun threatens to set in pants

all too tight to walk in.

Dare I blink at the mocking smile

revealed through thick puckered lips

salted, once supple

teeth set all with gold and stark white?

Beyond their skin, which is like the sun’s brazen shadows

They too are men.

Fullbodied, broken, just breaking and bold.

Hands as rough and as dark

as the bark of the fearless oak

encircle its trunk

guiding the slaughter.

Amen in the sight of destruction.



Bleached white shirts reflect stained red faces

behind the window of an old pickup truck.

The driver counts the races

his rack in place, mind afright;

Will they be gone before night?

The ground is barren exposing them all.

Ropes tied loosely,

they tighten at one man’s call.

The cutting is done,

One tree left to fall.

Their labor is unsteady now.

Once, they stood with conviction,

Seven stoic men to see the glory of the job’s completion.

They now stand

Uncertain

Where the white man’s tree

Will land.
EDM

Guardian Angels


Arms like wings reaching out;

The span of their love embracing the sky

the way they must embrace each other.

Their spirits fly in patterns

like birds migrating to a warmer climate.

They send signals to one another

for directions to the next generation,

knowing they will return.

Even winged creatures are rooted to the earth

that once released them.

They whisper their love in thousands of breaths,

creating winds that carry weight and water,

pushing rivers into mountains

and mountains into rivers,

turning the sun into the moon

and the moon into the sun,

Dispersing seeds into the earthen flesh

that is our bodies.

The nakedness of the world

is fertile ground for this nourishment.

As a butterfly seeks the center of a flower

and our feet sense the molten core of the earth,

so our hearts reach out

to touch the opening

in the mind of God.