During our correspondence, Gail, you mentioned the poem, "Women" by Louise Bogan:
WOMEN
Women have no wilderness in them,
They are provident instead,
Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts
To eat dusty bread.
They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,
They do not hear
Snow water going down under culverts
Shallow and clear.
They wait, when they should turn to journeys,
They stiffen, when they should bend.
They use against themselves that benevolence
To which no man is friend.
They cannot think of so many crops to a field
Or of clean wood cleft by an axe.
Their love is an eager meaninglessness
Too tense or too lax.
They hear in any whisper that speaks to them
A shout and a cry.
As like as not, when they take life over their door-sill
They should let it go by.
--
1923. from Body of This Death.
Gail, what do you make of the poem? Does it offend intentionally, as perhaps, an exposé of stereotypes? Or is Bogan sick and tired of the women she's been encountering, and longing for the company of men? I'm not sure I understand what the last two lines mean. I'd love to know your thoughts on this.
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