Today’s poetry practice is a new form to me. It is called the trenta sei- which bacically means thirty-six. It has thirty-six lines, six stanzas of six lines each.The first line begins the first stanza. then the second line of the first stanza is the first line of the second stanza. And then you take it from there. There is a a ababcc rhyme scheme. John Ciardi, the poem is based on a quote he is alleged to have said about women poets always wearing their ovaries on their sleeves. (Imagine steam emitting from my nostrils. Yep, that was my reaction.) Today’s poem takes his form and responds to the alleged commnet about women poets.
Dear Mister Ciardi,
I can admit to a certain prejudice
against a man who disparaged women,
for having the biological gaucheness,
not all to say, just those jumped up gibbons,
those poets who will go wear their ovaries
on their sleeves, writing brownies and babies.
Against a man who disparaged women
and that category viewed as 'poetess',
or applied arcane masculine doctrine
as to who is fit for poetry's practice,
that having a pair should disqualify
shirt sleeves unless they are styled for guys...
For having the biological gaucheness
of being the chicken with all the eggs,
it riles me up to make a fuss and cuss,
because women poets ought not have to beg
for a place in academe's pantheon
or be a glass ceiling phenomenum...
Not all to say,just those jumped up gibbons,
those who have the nerve to speak about blood,
other things all messy and feminine,
beat breasts, tear hair, wrend garments, defame studs.
That is what will become of poetry
written by people who have ovaries.
Those poets who will go wear their ovaries
spilling their ink on a monthly basis
can write, breastfeed, push the baby buggy
(sometimes with an intense, driving fierceness)
out from under the stairs, out through the door,
turning up on time, sign at the bookstore.
On their sleeves, writing brownies and babies,
the spit up and societal sickness,
is the red badge of all our popped cherries.
Women need the teeth and claws of tigress.
The gloves have come off, Mr. Ciardi.
I am out and proud of my ovaries.
Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.
Featured image is from Andelino’s Weblog