THE REAL HIDDEN SCANDAL OF EMILY DICKINSON'S LIFE
by Marilyn Hacker
Page 3
This is a pantoum, a poem which was meant to be memorized, a Malaysian form written in quatrains in which the second and fourth line of each stanza become repeated as the first and third of the one following until it ends up with its tail in its mouth like the worm aruburus. And this one I wrote for my daughter Iva when she was younger and it's called "Iva's Pantoum".
IVA'S PANTOUMWe pace each other for a long time.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the baby on the mountain. I am
in a cold stream where I led you.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the woman sticking her tongue out
in a cold stream where I led you.
You are the woman with springwater palms.
You are the woman sticking her tongue out.
I am the woman who matches sounds.
You are the woman with springwater palms.
I am the woman who copies.
You are the woman who matches sounds.
You are the woman who makes up words.
You are the woman who copies
her cupped palm with her fist in clay.
I am the woman who makes up words.
You are the woman who shapes
a drinking bowl with her fist in clay.
I am the woman with rocks in her pockets.
I am the woman who shapes.
I was a baby who knew names.
You are the child with rocks in her pockets.
You are the girl in a plaid dress.
You are the woman who knows names.
You are the baby who could fly.
You are the girl in a plaid dress
upside down on the monkey bars.
You are the baby who could fly
over the moon from a swinging perch
upside down on the monkey bars.
You are the baby who eats meat.
Over the moon from a swinging perch
the feathery goblin calls her sister.
You are the baby who eats meat
the bitch wolf hunts and chews for you.
The feathery goblin calls her sister:
"You are braver than your mother.
The bitch wolf hunts and chews for you.
What are you whining about now?"
You are braver than your mother
and I am not a timid woman:
what are you whining about now?
My palms itch with slick anger,
and I'm not a timid woman.
You are the woman I can't mention;
my palms itch with slick anger.
You are the heiress of scraped knees.
You are the woman I can't mention
to a woman I want to love.
You are the heiress of scraped knees:
scrub them in mountain water.
To a woman, I want to love
women you could turn into
scrub them in mountain water,
stroke their astonishing faces.
Women you could turn into
the scare mask of Bad Mother
stroke their astonishing faces
in the silver-scratched sink mirror.
The scare mask of Bad Mother
crumbles to chunked, pinched clay,
sinks in the silver-scratched mirror.
You are the Little Robber Girl who
crumbles the clay chunks, pinches
her friend, gives her a sharp knife.
You are the Little Robber Girl who
was any witch's youngest daughter.
Our friend gives you a sharp knife,
shows how the useful blades open.
Was any witch's youngest daughter
golden and bold as you? You run and
show how the useful blades open.
You are the baby on the mountain. I am
golden and bold as you. You run and
we pace each other for a long time.
