Generations Passing

Generations Passing

I remember now, the first time I noticed.

She was stooping low,

But not bowed.

It was the stoop

Of an old woman.

Her laughter was the same,

But her eyes

Had the ancestors in them now,

I remembered that look from PawPaw

And marveled that it had come

So soon to her.

Maybe she had summoned them

With her gait,

Moving swift as a youngster.

Her gray hair recounted every sorrow

Born in sleepless nights,

Waiting on prodigal children

Who did not understand

What power

She possessed.

Counting every sin against her,

Youth slipped away into the bend in her back,

Heavy with grief

That is only eased

With tears and shouting.

Her gardens became paradise,

A way to survive in the winter

While she cultivated her soul.

The dirt was her best friend.

Her students thought her brilliant—

She is, but not from books

As they supposed.

Her wisdom

Comes from the ages

Of listening

Being listening to

Stopping her ears

When she could stand no more.

She complained, but not whining.

Life deserved a good complaint.

She knew the lyrics to the song

Sang it a few times

Revised it for her children.

I remember now, the first time I noticed.

© 1995 Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]
This poem appears in the award-winning collection, In Search of Warriors Dark and Strong and Other Poems

Memories - 1996

Memories

Memories of you flood my mind

like sunlight over the Georgia mountains

warming the dew into day.

You beckon me to play among the wildness

of your eyes, your fingers, your breath

beckoning me to love.

And I remember every touch, the heat

that overtakes me every time you’re near

and I cry remembering.

I remember when I am sleep

dreaming you are nearby,

breathing in rhythm,

loving me on the covers,

holding my heart in your hands.

You bleed into my life

                                    slowly

                                                            sweetly

                                                                                    methodically.

I remember your laughter

Sharp and guttural calling,

beckoning a smile

and charming me into your arms.

I remember your arms

strong and gentle

enwrapping me,

securing a future,

a life we can live.

I remember every detail.

The words escape me,

but not the outline of your love

overshadowing me.

The words, some of them are gone,

but not that gaze of desire or delight.

I remember your delight

heightening in my presence,

beckoning, inviting me.

And your eyes, and your lips, your lips.

And your dreams commingling

in our unified pain and hopes.

I remember our hope of a world, safe

For everyone who needs it.

Safe, I say, to love each other, safe.

I remember your love, safe and inviting

            honest

                                    fierce

piercing my disguise, daring me

to be real,

                        to be really

                                                to be me, to be.

I remember well the details.

© Valerie Bridgeman

1996

The Dead Only Visit the Crazy

The dead only visit the crazy

© Valerie Bridgeman

April 7, 2012

DRAFT

The dead only visit those of us crazy

enough to answer them back when they talk—

the living who stop to acknowledge

that business did not end because a car

wrapped itself around a tree, 
metal and wood fusing, pinning passengers

against branches as 90-mile-a-hour prayers

screamed last goodbyes

and the dead note that we forget to mention—

that until that very moment of crush and crash,

that tree had held its ground for decades,

maybe centuries, before door handles and windshield

picked apart its limbs, causing sod

to loosen its grip on roots

You died young; at least that is the story we

tell about you as we recount the times

you irritated us with your antics.

stories too numerous, but we try

to catalog them against the

fact that you are not here to

defend yourself

But you, looking over my shoulder,

try to correct our details, you want

to be remembered rightly

yet you have been dead long enough now

to know that the living prefer our lies.

the truth hurts our teeth,

and we devise legends over against the brutality

of details about when you walked home, barefoot

because you were too drunk to remember

where you left your shoes

or we recoil for the harsh and bitter words you

once used to cuss out the whole lot of us,

and walked away triumphant

while we struggled to figure out

what the next thing out of our mouths

should be, how we ought to answer you

and you mocked us with your wit—

cigarette hanging from the corner of your lips,

black from years of gin and smoking

you mock us still, even as you waver

in ethereal spaces between this world

and another that we do not know

me, the one listening to dead people talking,

hear you as you explain that death

is not what we imagined

you tell me we would do well

to pay attention to our children and

the games they play,

to hear the conversations

they hold with imaginary friends

to watch the way they stare

out into the night, heads cocked,

ears up, face glistening in the moonlight

you tell me—as I struggle to hear

your mother’s story about the day you were born—

that we ignore the children who can teach us

much about the dead and about the living

you tell me they have come, our children,

fresh from the place where the newly born

greet the newly dead as they pass

one another on their way

you, dead as dead can be, love talking to me

and I have not figured out how not to be crazy

to listen to truth as you speak

from beyond the grave

© Valerie Bridgeman

April 7, 2012


Edited/updated May 10, 2012

DRAFT

SEXUAL ASSAULT AWARENESS MONTH

I am posting these 7 poems, written years ago and never published, in recognition of Sexual Assault Awareness Month. I blogged about one of the incidences on my In This Place We Flesh blog, "I Didn't Call it Rape, Then." You can read it there. But here are poems, raw,  in need of editing and honing. Maybe one day I will. But today... in recognition that rape is a daily reality, and a constant threat to physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being, I offer these words for those who have not figured out how to "say it out loud." Not all of these are my personal stories, but they are common enough to stories I've told or heard over and over again. "Enjoy" is not the word I mean. But I do mean: let these truth-bearing poems speak. And share them. Thank you.

Kissing Cousins

She loved laying her head on his chest,

just under his chin.  Kissing cousins

is what people called them, and

they didn’t mind.

He always walked with his arm,

strong and tight around her waist. 

She felt safe in his world,

until the day, alone in a house

usually filled with laughter,

he wrapped his fingers around

her wrist and wrestled her

playfully, even gently, to the floor.

Her 13-year-old mind was dulled

by an aching pain--his knees

crushing into her inner thigh,

pinning the sorrow

into her nerves.

No!  She screamed, then whispered,

into the ear she had always trusted,

but there was no one to hear.

His face, the face she loved,

the face she often ran her finger

along the line of would-be

side burns--that face

was steel, with deadly eyes,

threatening her, daring her

to tell.  So she slept,

curled as in her mother’s womb,

with his semen running, thickening

to her knees, silent.

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

Date Rape I

Bitch, he said.

Tonight, you gonna

fuck, fight, or

hitchhike, and she

got out of the car,

started walking

miles from home,

or any lights.

They were in deep

back woods country.

He could rape me,

kill me, she thought.

And no one would

know where to find me.

Terror covered her

like the darkness,

cloaking her with

a sickness that

reached her soul.

It was a football game

and a soda, she thought.

Not an invitation.

He drove off, kicking

gravel, hoping her fear

would be an aphrodisiac,

making her yield.

Twenty minutes later,

he returned to that road

and saw her, walking

hard like an angry woman,

her nostrils flaring with

a righteous fire.

She had decided

it would be a fight.

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

Date Rape II

The months of hanging out

had eased into a “thing,”

and they knew a comfort

with each other neither

had found with anyone else.

So, when he took her

to his mother’s house

and in ten minutes

threw her hard against

the stereo, her back

jarred by the searing

sensation flowing

up and down her spine --

and the hard rock music

pulsing, loud through

her body, his tender hands

becoming a vise, his breath

fierce, his eyes nothing.

His fingers ripping

her panties, his knees

spreading her reluctant legs,

and terms of endearment

converting into threats,

menacing, carrying every

intent of harm if she did

not comply.

He doesn’t know, or care,

that she might have said

yes to him, that he did

not have to force her,

but it was too late to say

yes, and the music took root

in her heart, promising her,

things would never

be the same.

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

Walking Sexy

She pounds the ground with her stride

in near-military fashion, walking hard,

so hard that each step jars her knees.

She walks fast as if the distance

between where she is and her

next destination will increase

in unmanageable increments.

She walks with her fingers curled

in an unconscious fist,

crossing streets when she is faced

with recognizable strange men.

She stopped gliding like liquid chocolate,

or flowing like gentle brooks

the day after the dangerous he

gripped her wrist, first playful,

then persistent saying, she asked for it.

It was obvious in the way

her mini-dress flirted with her thighs

as she approached him, walking sexy.

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

Bruises

Bruises told her that the nightmare

had been real.  The bruises on

her thighs, where he pressed

his knees then his hands, then

his manhood were deep,

wide, purple,

the bruises on her wrist

were like bracelets,

two of a kind,

dark and brooding,

the bruises across her lip

where he clamped

his hand to hush her

crying was a faint ring,

but just as painful,

the bruises on her back

and hips where he

handled her like a

rag were broad

and titled,

the bruises on her soul,

imperceptible.

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

How Many Times?

For Women

How many times have you been raped,

she asks, but I know she wants only

to know the times some man succeeded

in forcing himself into me — a cousin,

a family friend, a lover, a stranger . . . .

Not the near rapes where I fought

for my life, or the time Troy stopped

the elevator between floors and said:

when I see you, I don’t see married

or preacher, I see all woman,

then lay his suffocating body up

against me with the rise in his pants

thickening in my struggle.

She doesn’t mean the times I had

to physically remove a man’s hand

from my breasts because my

drop-dead look didn’t work.  In fact,

he said it turned him on.

Or, when I was 100 pounds, short

and sexy like Tony Braxton at the time,

feeling eyes undress me and make

love to me against my will.

Or, the times I went home and took

long showers trying to wash the filth

of a state hospital social worker

off my body.

He pushed himself up against me

from behind, and I turned around

swinging.  Get over it, chaplain.

This is the world, he said.

And I promised him that if he so much

as look at me wrong again, I would

start sexual harassment charges.

He laughed, called me crazy as

the inmates, said I needed to

grow up, be a big girl,

but he never touched me again.

She doesn’t mean the time I

reached to comfort a friend

who then tried to force a kiss

while groping up and down

my leg.

So, how many times

have you been raped?

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

Stunning Revelations

A girl child ain’t safe in a house (world) full of men.

                        — Sophie, in The Color Purple

The first time I heard

Sophie say it, I was stunned,

and could not move for days.

I knew it was one of those

truths that is really true,

but rarely said.

A girl child—

of the female persuasion,

strong and weak, full

of promise, sometimes

trusting —

ain’t safe —

is always in danger, insecure

and must not let down

her guard in her own

house —

in a house —

a refuge from the pain

of living, a shelter

from dangerous

people —

full of men—

of the male persuasion,

weak and strong,

full of deception,

sometimes dangerous.

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

Lavender Moon

(I wrote this poem as a part of the Bright Writing Circle in Austin, TX. It was based on a prompt. My prompt was holding and looking at a long, green leaf)

If I say I want you,

The double-edged sword of you,

Unfolding and permeating

Into my life, would you come to me?

And,

If I tell you that I discovered your scent

Quite by accident, and that it lingered

On my fingers long after we first met,

My nose the beneficiary of that bitter-sweet moment,

Would you let me pause here, long enough

To find you in the morning mist?

If I tell you I sniffed you out like the wolf maiden

Finds the scent of blood, a lusty thirst so salty

I can taste your sweat in my dreams,

If I confess that I’ve considered the ancient, secret arts

As I howled my praises for you to the lavender moon,

And threw a party so the lunar faeries would come

And dance around your stalks,

Caress the velvet-sided crush of your arms,

The strong and pulsing rush of your blood, purple and thick,

The green and longing leaf of your face,

Would you let me linger in the fragrance

Of your gaze, a maze of historical hurts reflected

In the lavender stars you wear as eyes,

Would you watch me love your secrets well,

And tell no one that I’ve bathed in early ages

In wine made from your saliva, fermented by the passion

Of your presence?

If I say I’ll rendezvous anytime you call,

Will you call anytime you want?

© Valerie Bridgeman

circa 2001

IMAGINE

Marsha Foster Boyd, president of Ecumenical Theological Seminary, invited me to be the poet during a Women's Leadership Conference. She really wanted me to do the poetry set for this moment, when I am given words from the audience and create a poem on the spot, improvising slam-style. I usually never hear the poem again because it can never be reproduced the same and it often is not recorded. I recorded this one and will work on this piece. The audience actually gave me some good words to work with. So the words "thrown into the mix" by the audience were (in order):

Palm, Yesterday, Imagine, Ingenious, Echo, Persistent, Reach, Explore, Daylight, Quilt, Fruitful, Sisters, Possessions, Stand, Rhythm

Imagine

At the break of daylight

I remember yesterday’s conversation.

We sat underneath a palm tree

Only imagining what could have been

If we had talked years before

How fruitful our lives might have been

Had we chosen not to choose

Possessions over Tuesday afternoon tea
or pointing at outfits in the mall
that would fit one or the other
of us better

Now, we are persistent

to make truth come to light.

We have decided that the echoes

of our past have haunted us

too long and we reach

for one another, sisters

We explore how our lives ,

quilted as they are from

Our grandmothers’ stories:

We are born anew this morning

We rise in the rhythm

Of our own lives, bring them

Into harmony with one another

We stand persistent,

an ingenious love, woven pure

© Valerie Bridgeman

First draft improv/March 23, 2012

Edited version/April 7, 2012

FIRST DRAFT

FIRST DRAFT/PERFORMED IN THE MOMENT

At the break of daylight

I remember yesterday’s conversation.

We were sitting underneath a palm tree

Only imagining what it would have been

Had we had this conversation years before

How fruitful our lives might have been

Had we chosen not to choose

Possessions over one another

Here, we are persistent

To make truth come to light

We have decided that the echoes

Of our past have haunted us

Way too long and we reach

for one another, sisters

This exploration of our lives (is)

Quilted into us from

Our grandmothers’ stories:

We are born anew this morning

Standing under the rhythm

Of our own lives, bringing them

Into connection with one another

We stand persistent, ingenious

Love, woven pure

FIRST DRAFT

© Valerie Bridgeman

Women in Leadership Conference

March 23, 2012

Detroit, MI

Words provided by participants

Some Assembly Required

I hear you are a master puzzler,

able to put jigsaw pieces into place in record time.

I wonder, as I hand you the scraps of my heart,

whether you need thimble and needle instead.

Or if you can lock the pieces 
that have been blown asunder by life,

one by one, into their respective places—

or better yet, if you are an alchemist

who can mix new concoctions from old pain 
and turn it into wisdom

I trust you for no apparent reason except you stayed

for the end of a long story one night.

We sat in a cracked-leather booth in an old diner, dimly lit,

and reeking of bacon, which neither one of us eats.

You nodded in all the appropriate ways and places

while you rested your index finger on my palm.

I thought you were trying to read my lifeline.

Instead, you were throwing me one.

And my heart, unsteady as it was in that moment,

knew it was not a good time to skip a beat.

Music needs consistency. You proved to be a metronome.

And it sounds dramatic, I know, but you saved my life

between French fries and laughter

I sat cross-legged wrapped in a coat, with a scarf covering my head,

shielding myself from the cold and the general onslaught of truth.

I leaned into your every word

as your eyes did most of the talking.

Our knees, barely touching, spoke in tongues

making us believe we could decode languages from other worlds.

You measured your words like ingredients for a pound cake—carefully.

Then you dumped them slowly while you stirred with intensity

matched only by the roaring flames hungry

for the wood crackling underneath it.

And I know it sounds trite, but in that moment,

I could have believed anything.

Over spanakopita, coffee more sugar and cream than ground caffeine,

and music switching between Michael Jackson’s Man in the Mirror

and some 1950s tune without the words, I offer you my heart.

I say, be careful. Others have left dents and dings

where there should have been kisses. Lift the pieces gingerly,

or sew with abandon as you intone your incantations.

And it sounds like no small thing, I know, to be given a heart—

with some assembly required.

© Valerie Bridgeman

April 7, 2012