Nor forget, the mind, while storing,

We must educate the heart, –

Teach it hatred of oppression,

Truest love of God and man;

Thus our high and holy calling

May accomplish His great plan.

Not the great and gifted only

He appoints to do his will.

But each one, however lowly,

Has a mission to fulfill.

Knowing this, toil we unwearied,

With true hearts and purpose high; –

We would win a wreath immortal

Whose bright flowers ne’er fade and die.

Charlotte L. Forten Grimké

from The Emulation

They fear we should excel their sluggish parts,

Should we attempt the sciences and arts;

Pretend they were designed for them alone,

So keep us fools to raise their own renown.

Thus priests of old, their grandeur to maintain,

Cried vulgar eyes would sacred laws profane;

So kept the mysteries behind a screen:

Their homage and the name were lost had they been seen.

But in this blessèd age such freedom’s given,

That every man explains the will of heaven;

And shall we women now sit tamely by,

Make no excursions in philosophy,

Or grace our thoughts in tuneful poetry?

We will our rights in learning’s world maintain;

Wit’s empire now shall know a female reign.

Come, all ye fair, the great attempt improve,

Divinely imitate the realms above:

There’s ten celestial females govern wit,

And but two gods that dare pretend to it.

And shall these finite males reverse their rules?

No, we’ll be wits, and then men must be fools.

Sarah Egerton

we misread ‘language’ as ‘lavender’

gather symbols and sounds from the garden,

rub the buds between palms,

let it sit and dry before use.

distil oils from homegrown morphemes,

let them sooth the hurts, the burns

scoop a mantra into muslin sachets,

tuck into the skull’s dark corners

to quiet the moths.

when nights are bad neighbourhoods

and dawn is not home,

scatter lexemes under your pillow.

let a story grow

and dream into it.

In the morning,

keep breathing. It’ll be there.

watch phrases buzz, drowsy,

scent-drunk, until something catches and

clings on, holding faith in fragile things.

Christy Ku

Poem

A poem stays awake long after midnight

talking you from room to room,

does not care that walls have ears,

las paredes oyen

A poem prefers tin to silver,

silver to gold,

gold to platinum

Every year

a poem tosses a young woman from the cliffs

to the rocky sea below

A poem accidentally sends the entire letter f

off to Florence

but keeps the letter t

in a matchbox, like a tiny contraband tortoise

Sometimes

a poem is your only daughter

busy and happy in the world,

China or Spain,

abundancia de riqueza

Like the partial Angel Gabriel

in Santa Sophia

a poem is a half-god, half-invisible

A poem will do things in England

she’ll never do in France

It will take more than the ten thousand lakes

for which Minnesota is famous

to drown a poem

The poem pauses now and then

to look at nothing-much-in-particular