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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 'Suffrage Songs, In This Our World & Other Verses' is a powerful collection of poems reflecting the author's feminist beliefs and advocacy for women's rights. Written in a straightforward and accessible style, Gilman's words exude passion and a call to action, capturing the spirit of the suffrage movement of the early 20th century. Packed with social commentary and thought-provoking themes, this collection showcases Gilman's firm belief in equality and her determination to effect change through her poetry. The poems address various societal issues, including gender roles, class disparities, and the importance of women's voices in a male-dominated world. Gilman's work stands out for its relevance even in modern times, making it a timeless and essential read for those interested in feminist literature and social justice movements.
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SUFFRAGE SONGS, IN THIS OUR WORLD & OTHER VERSES
Published by
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Table of Contents
Then This
The news-stands bloom with magazines, They flame, they blaze indeed; So bright the cover-colors glow, So clear the startling stories show, So vivid their pictorial scenes, That he who runs may read.
Then This: It strives in prose and verse, Thought, fancy, fact and fun, To tell the things we ought to know, To point the way we ought to go,
Arrears
Our gratitude goes up in smoke, In incense smoke of prayer; We thank the Underlying Love, The Overarching Care— We do not thank the living men Who make our lives so fair.
For long insolvent centuries We have been clothed and fed, By the spared captive, spared for once, By inches slain instead; He gave his service and is gone; Unthanked, unpaid, and dead.
His labor built the world we love; Our highest flights to-day Rest on the service of the past, Which we can never pay; A long repudiated debt Blackens our upward way.
Our fingers owed his fathers dead— Disgrace beyond repair! No late remorse, no new-found shame Can save our honor there: But we can now begin to pay The starved and stunted heir!
We thank the Power above for all— Gladly we do, and should.
How Doth The Hat
How doth the hat loom large upon her head! Furred like a busby; plumed as hearses are; Armed with eye-spearing quills; bewebbed and hung With lacy, silky, downy draperies; With spread, wide-waggling feathers fronded high In bosky thickets of Cimmerian gloom.
How doth the hat with colors dare the eye! Arrest—attract—allure—affront—appall! Vivid and varied as are paroquets; Dove-dull; one mass of white; all solid red; Black with the blackness of a mourning world— Compounded type of "Chaos and Old Night"!
How doth the hat expand: wax wide, and swell! Such is its size that none can predicate Or hair, or head, or shoulders of the frame Below thIs bulk, this beauty-burying bulk; Trespassing rude on all who walk beside, Brutally blinding all who sit behind.
How doth the hat's mere mass more monstrous grow Into a riot of repugnant shapes! Shapes ignominious, extreme, bizarre, Bulbous, distorted, unsymmetrical— Of no relation to the human head— To beauty, comfort, dignity or grace.
Shape of a dishpan! Of a pail! A tub! Of an inverted wastebasket wherein The head finds lodgment most appropriate! Shape of a wide-spread wilted griddlecake! Shape of the body of an octopus Set sideways on a fireman's misplaced brim!
How doth the hat show callous cruelty In decoration costing countless deaths; Carrying corpses for its ornaments; Wreath of dead humming-birds, dismembered gulls, The mother heron's breastknot, stiffened wings; Torn fragments of a world of wasted life.
How doth the hat effect the minds of men? Patient bill-payers, chivalrously dumb!
Thanksgiving
I never thought much of the folks who pray The Lord to make them thankful for a meal Expecting Him to furnish all the food And then provide them with the gratitude They haven't grace to feel.
I never thought much of this yearly thanks, Either for what once happened long ago, Or for "our constant mercies." To my mind If we're to thank a Power that's daily kind, Our annual's too slow.
Suppose we spread Thanksgiving—hand it round—
