In the Language of Women

By Charles Ades Fishman

In his second book from Casa de Snapdragon, Charles Adès Fishman focuses entirely on women — their memories, dreams, griefs, triumphs, and visions. In the Language of Women honors women’s lives and frees the voices of those who have found it difficult, if not impossible, to address actions and events that have wounded and transformed them. It is also a book of fifty-two unforgettable poems in which the distinctive journeys of more than thirty women have been rescued from oblivion and brought to vivid life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casa de Snapdragon
• Release date: Jun 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781937240998

Book preview

Sisters, the Water Is on Fire

I.

You are reading on the roof with the sea before you — how free

you feel, how freely you explore your innermost thoughts!

Unknown to me, you gaze over the open pages of your life.

*

Water runnels under your feet, and ripples in the distance

make the sea wall’s lamplight reflections dance.

Tonight, there are no stars, no glitter in the black cupola of sky

the Catalan gods have hung over slate and stone and damp brick

as you look up and slowly walk away.

*

Wind increases and boats are winched and lifted. This inlet

of the sea is nearly emptied of them: a morning’s work

in Aigua Blava, where the red and yellow flag of the Catalan nation

floats in the salt-and-sugar breeze.

*

I have traveled to this coast to write these words for you, sisters

of a brave country. Drink each day like the deep red wine

that flows at your tables, let the sun of your history embrace you.

II.

Sisters of all nations, this poem is for you. I see that now,

as flames of the night sky stream out above me.

Flames of the dawning night, turn up your brightness!

*

See, in the blue-black-green-and-carmine water, my sisters swim,

even as waves of poverty and violence seek to drown them,

even as the cresting seas of terror and ignorance rush

to blind them.

Sky, unveil your fires!

*

What is the link between poets and the sea’s scarlet lightning,

between the torturers and murderers of women and those

who love and empower them?

Let us recede, let us pull back the way the hem of a gown

flares away from an ankle, the way a wave breaks

and falls seaward.

*

Sisters, I give my voice to your memories, to honor them.

I give my words to the music of all you wish to say.

Forgotten Songs

Diwali Morning

On Diwali morning

her childhood returns: dew

on the burnt grass, birds in flight

singing, pampering by her aunts,

the rustling of new dresses,

delectable meals and sweets

prepared under Grandma’s guidance.

Joy sugared the air, as bright

as firecrackers exploding.

On a November night

the festival would arrive: the perfect

opening notes of a symphony

that would decide the fate of the planet.

moment was alive:

it was like being washed in the geyser

of memory.

She was a child then

and bathed in the glow of golden flames

that licked the sides of the anda.

In the halo of lamps that were a sacred path

for Lakshmi, and with a kumkum dot

on her forehead, she knew that she herself

was the victory of light over darkness

and the most beautiful child

in the universe.

The St. Patrick’s Day Concert

"And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, a little bit of something

you have been waiting for . . . The Devan Sisters!"

What is it that saves a person from torpor

and propels her toward delight? What kindles the flame

in her? A little talent, I think; a little luck in ancestors;

a mother who could sew beautiful dresses who once sang

with a big-time orchestra — a mother who could sew

and sing and was not jealous of her children

but held their hands gently. Something like a church

in Manchester, New Hampshire, and a sister named Peg

who kept the melody. A stage where a child who sang sweetly

could step into the spotlight and be praised:

something like the harmony of two sisters nervously

but angelically singing.

*

And what did you and Peg sing in that far-flung parish?

Catch a Falling Star and Mick McGilligan’s Ball.

Or Where the River Shannon Flows and I Believe.

So much to embrace, so much to be called to!

And wasn’t it your grandparents who had come over

from County Sligo speaking with a grand Irish brogue?

That note of joy, that groan of sadness, had been born

in the old country, a human music that warmed your throat

and filled your mouth with song.

A little bit of something grew up with you — with you

and your sister, two Irish girls waiting in emerald darkness

for the curtain to be raised.

Three Views of Harriet, 1953

I. Harriet Holds the Cat

In this image, the cat is awake

though cradled in my sister’s arms.

Harriet loves this animal

in a fierce protective way

Her face — next to the striped gray

of the cat’s vaguely composed face —

is sharply focused, her mouth

satisfied: a small oblong blotch

of reflected light paints her lower lip.

Her eyes, as always, squint

against the sun.

The cat stares into distance, aiming

to draw it near: maybe a nuthatch

or goldfinch has perched on the pitched

asphalt roof of our dad’s detached garage

Harriet doesn’t care: she has the beast

in hand, its padded paws gripped securely,

its thick-furred gray back gently supported.

My sister stands on the concrete patio

of our suburban yard. She is eight years old

and already wise: the one bright star

in this rapidly fading firmament.

II. The Cat Sleeps

In this shot, my hand seems to have

slipped: I’ve taken the top of my sister’s head off

so only the Buddha smile remains.

It must be the same day, for her short-sleeve

beige shirt is the same, the loosely fitting jeans

the same, and it’s the same gray-furred cat —

its name interred in memory — that sprawls

against my sister’s knees. Look how it ‘sits up’

with her help, its fluffed tail curled under it,

its ears in sleep-mode.

My sister holds this cat close to her body,

its heart music thrumming, the small engine

of its existence pounding. She kneels

near the back fence under the summer sky

where, finally, the box camera’s cloudy lens

has caught something worth preserving:

the cat’s lethal