SOME THOUGHTS ON WOMEN'S POETRY
I'm immensely proud of my contemporaries on the island of formal poetry by women. We are getting parity on the printed page with guys, the poetry by us is grand, and we have some superb books out there. I also love anthologies of women's poetry, and make no apologies for them, as they give me a chance to see a lot of our work in one place. And I'm especially proud to be included in the group on this thread, among both old and new friends.
Having said that, I'll add that I am somewhat ill at ease with the concept of “women's poetry” as a different entity from “men's poetry.” I've always adhered (even when it ceased to be the fashionable feminist viewpoint) to Coleridge's belief that “Great minds are androgynous.” I see little difference between estrogen-powered poetry and testosterone-powered poetry, except in the specialized areas of war (for men) and maternity (for women). Admittedly, maternity plays a larger role in poetry now than it did a century ago, when (as Carolyn Kizer put it) our geniuses were “old maids to a woman”.
But supposing a literature class was handed some poems they had never seen before, without the authors' names. Would they be able to tell that a woman wrote Emily Bronte's “No coward soul is mine”, or that a man wrote A.M. Juster's “The Secret Language of Women”?
In fact, I invite you to listen to an issue of Measure blindfolded and see how often you can guess the sex of the authors correctly.
Imaginative writing is about being able to put yourself in another person's place – to write about old age when you are young, or create believable males if you are female. Dorothy Sayres was once asked how she was able to write convincing dialogue for scenes in all-male settings, and she replied that it was no problem, since she thought of men as being as intelligent as women. One hopes that all writers today think the same.
So yes, I think the age of woman writing as “the feminine human being” has arrived. (I have just been re-reading Simone de Beauvoir, & have been reminded once again of her famous remark that “when women start acting like human beings, they are accused of trying to be men.” This too has passed, one does hope!)
I'll conclude these opening remarks by adding one of my favorite poems on this topic:
TUMPS (by Wendy Cope)
Don't ask him the time of day. He won't know it,
For he's the abstracted sort.
In fact, he's a typically useless male poet.
We'll call him a tump for short.
A tump isn't punctual or smart or efficient.
He probably can't drive a car
Or follow a map, though he's very proficient
At finding his way to the bar.
He may have great talent, and not just for writing --
For drawing, or playing the drums.
But don't let him loose on accounts – that's inviting
Disaster. A tump can't do sums.
He cannot get organized. Just watch him try it
And you'll see a frustrated man.
But some tumps (and these are the worst ones) deny it
And angrily tell you they can.
I used to be close to a tump who would bellow
“You think I can't add two and two!”
And get even crosser when, smiling and mellow,
I answered, “You're quite right. I do.”
Women poets are businesslike, able,
Good drivers, and right on the ball.
And some of us still know our seven times table.
We're not like the tumps. Not at all.
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