Poem containing the word 'birthright?'
November 7, 2006 7:44 PM   Subscribe

PoetryFilter: Help me find a specific poem by (I believe) a 20th-century female poet.

The poem was basically a meditation by a single or widowed woman, no longer youthful, who did not see herself ever finding romance (or, if she was a widow, finding it again). In the last stanza, she looks out her window at the bustling, implicitly sexual activity of the world outside, and comes to accept that that life is not for her. Somewhere in the poem she alludes to giving up her birthright, as well: I specifically remember the word 'birthright.' If anyone can help me find this poem, well, that would be pretty awesome. Thanks.
posted by notswedish to Media & Arts (7 answers total)
 
Christina Rosetti's "The Lowest Room"?
posted by AmbroseChapel at 8:04 PM on November 7, 2006


Response by poster: No, it wasn't that long. Thanks, anyways.
posted by notswedish at 9:24 PM on November 7, 2006


Could it be The Virgin Martyr by Ada Cambridge (search down the very long page for it)

Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather,
But a captive woman, made for love, no mate, no nest, has she.
In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together,
And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see.
Nature's sacramental feast for them--an empty board for me.

I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten--
I, like them, have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of nuptial rest,
Of the trembling life within me of my children unbegotten,
Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest,
Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast.

Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever-freshly aching,
Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white.
Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking;
Still I hear my son's voice calling "Mother" in the dead of night,
And am haunted by my girl's eyes that will never see the light.

O my children that I might have had! My children lost for ever!
O the goodly years that might have been, now desolate and bare!
O God, what have I lacked, what have I done, that I should never
Take my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear,
And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir.
posted by LobsterMitten at 12:11 AM on November 8, 2006 [1 favorite]


"We Who Were Born" by Eiluned Lewis

We who were born
In country places,
Far from cities
And shifting faces,
We have a birthright
No man can sell,
And a secret joy
No man can tell.

For we are kindred
To lordly things,
The wild duck's flight
And the white owl's wings;
To pike and salmon,
To bull and horse,
The curlew's cry
And the smell of gorse.

Pride of trees,
Swiftness of streams,
Magic of frost
Have shaped our dreams:
No baser vision
Their spirit fills
Who walk by right
On the naked hills.
posted by mattbucher at 8:12 AM on November 8, 2006


Response by poster: Hmm. It's not any of the ones above. I didn't realize 'birthright' was such a popular word in poetry. I thought it might have been an Elizabeth Bishop poem, but nothing turned up on google. ...
posted by notswedish at 8:55 AM on November 8, 2006


I'm almost certain it's Sharon Olds (my absolute favorite poet).

http://www.ontarioreviewpress.com/or_back_issues_pages/or_back_issue48_poetry2.html

Coming of Age 1966
Sharon Olds

When I came to sex in full, not sex
by fits and starts, but day and night,
when I lived with him, I thought I'd go crazy
with shock and awe. In Latin class
my jaw would drop when I would remember
the night, the morning, the in the out the
in, the long torso of the beloved
lowered lifted lowered. When he wasn't
there, when he worked 36 On,
8 Off, 36 On, 8 Off,
I'd sit myself down to memorize Latin
so as not to go mad--my brain felt like a
planet gone oval, wobbling out of
orbit, pulling toward a new ellipsis,
I learned a year of Latin in a month,
aced the test, made love, wept, when he was
working all night I'd believe that a burglar might
actually be climbing the wall outside my window,
palm to the stone rosette, toe on the
granite frond, like the prowler who'd scaled the first
storey next door, been peeled from the wall
and kicked in the head. And every time
I tried to write a love poem,
giving the lovers their flesh on the page,
the child with her clothes burned off by napalm
ran into the poem screaming. I was
a Wasp child of the suburbs, I felt
cheated by Lyndon Johnson, robbed of my
entrance into the erotic, my birthright
of ease and joy. I understood
almost nothing of the world, but I knew that I was
connected to the girl running, her arms
out to the sides, like a plucked heron, I was
responsible for her, and helpless to reach her,
like the man on the sidewalk, his arms up
around his head, and all I did
was memorize Latin, and make love, and sometimes
march, my heart aching with righteousness.
posted by KevinSkomsvold at 9:16 AM on November 8, 2006 [1 favorite]


Response by poster: Hmm, it's none of the ones above, althought I really do like the one you posted, KevinSkomsvold. I think I might have just remembered some more information about it, although I might be mixing this up with some other poem:

I believe the narrator (the woman) recounts either engaging in or eavesdropping on a tryst taking place in some bushes. If she was engaging in it, she soon threw her lover out, or he left, or something. If she was observing, then her observations led her to recall a similar incident in her own life, and the subsequent breakup. I'm sorry I can't be more specific.
posted by notswedish at 3:20 PM on November 8, 2006


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