WE AIN'T SEEN NOTHING YET!
by Toi Derricotte
Page 3
I guess Emily must have experienced a little self-doubt, wouldn't you say? And, in honor of her self- doubt and my self-doubt, and in honor of the people I see writing poems and leaving them in notebooks, I am going to offer a poem I wrote in my notebook while sitting in the Seton Hall deli during the 1986 Emily Dickinson Centennial at which contemporary women poets read for two days in tribute to her. It is probably a poem that could have easily ended up in a drawer never shared with anyone, but I have decided to offer it here, not because it is a great poem, but in hope that our writing will not get buried in a drawer, but that we women will take our writing out of those drawers and read it to each other--not wait on history! So this is what I wrote, and I named it, "Sitting With Myself in the Seton Hall Deli, Twelve o'Clock Thursday":
SITTING WITH MYSELF IN THE SETON HALL DELI AT 12 O'CLOCK THURSDAY
BEFORE I READ WITH THE GREAT POETS
AT THE EMILY DICKINSON POETRY FESTIVAL1.
When I read with them, when I hear them,
I will know
I'm inferior.2.
I don't like myself snivelling,
but I need to sit with myself & keep my poor self company.
I pity myself, who has come here to adore the great poets,
who
hates my miserable leaky cup, who
cannot concentrate, looks from this one to that,
sits in the seat shrunken down, crying
with the beauty of their words.
So close, but so far away!3.
Self-pity, self-doubt, I acknowledge you.
I will not hate you.
You are part of me.
I will not push you away.
I will sit with you & keep you company.
I will have my hand on your heart.
I will not deny you.
I will not forget your grief.
You are my secret sister.
Are you afraid I will leave you in the dark?
Come with me into the room.
Whisper in my ear.
Put your tiny hand around my neck, those fat rosy fingers.
your body along my ribs, fit to me.
I can carry you monkey fashion,
your head a small cup on my neck.4.
for Ruth StoneIn order to love women
you have to come to the Emily Dickinson Centennial
& hear Maxine Kumin say: "Emily, you are
a poet, you were. And
you lasted."
In order to
last you must kiss the poet on the
back of her red head just as she
approaches the podium, weak, un-
believing. Un-
believable how confidence can come from
tasting the Parmesan placed as a gift
on top of the deli soup, the
final blessing.
Compare yourself with the
greats, the
dead, the Pulitzers, the
scholars, the housewifes.
It doesn't matter whether you came by
car or bus, whether you walk on a lame
ankle. It doesn't matter if you have not
been promoted or
if you must first
sit in the ladies' room with a blank
notebook and wonder if you should use the paper
to wipe the seat.
Emily waited to be famous
till all her friends were dead.
Good girl! I wish my friends
would do the same!5.
because she could not say
rape, i say rape
because she could not say
penis, i say penis
because she could not say
breast & mean that sexual rising
i say breast & mean
that sexual rising"Tell all the truth, but tell it slant."
We don't have time to slant. This morning
on the radio: "Invest in an IRA," Yes,
but will we be alive to collect?
We are her daughters.
But could she accept us?
Was her white
a put-down of the black?
Is she ready for
all these various voices?I wish we could hear all the writings from people's notebooks.
