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Nesting Instinct of Women (Free verse) by Dovina Inside the hive a virgin worker lies
bent head and folded wings
sealed within her quiet cell
until awakened from larval sleep
by caress and beating
of her sisters' wings
She fears to leave behind
the fixed prismatic form
hesitates at the void of space
the brilliant outdoor color
and shrinks from loneliness of light
Duty draws her from the nest
wind twists her from the course
but she knows she can return
to familiar smell of honeycomb
where her sisters work
and others wait to be born
Up the ladder:
Rub You Out
Down the ladder:
Pre Dance Jitters
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 4.6
Posted: May 3, 2005 2:29 PM PDT; Last modified: May 13, 2005 12:32 PM PDTWeighted score: 4.9523187 Overall Rank: 8962 Comments:
This is absurd. You're either talking without properly thinking again or you should build yourself a cardboard box and tape yourself inside.
You're going to say, I expected you to say that. Guess what? I expected you to say that. You're going to get me wrong, I'm sure, so listen: I'm ALL ABOUT writing about women existing without men, believe me. In 99% of the cases I can imagine, it'd be absurd and fascist to read something that gives men no influence and say, hey where're the men? But seriously, the construct in this poem is beyond belief. That said, yes, of course, the virgin is most likely sealed in her egg/pupal-thingy/honeycomb-cell by a woman, her mother; the metaphor carries through. And okay, the being wakened by sisters' wings is a little Showtimey/Amazonian, but I can dig. After that it just gets nuts. The thing she fears to leave the honeycomb/cell for (in the bee-image AND the metaphor for people) is the sexual encounter. With a man. Seriously. Even if she's a gay bee, leaving-the-nest fear is ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS at its root man-centered. The whole show, the mothers sealing their girls in the egg and everything, is made by and for the benefit of men. Yes, you could be saying that; but if you are, you're doing it in about the fruitest and least-useful way imaginable. Same with the "duty" she has to do. On both the nature AND human levels, the duty is to become impregnated and return home to rear children, probably by a sexual encounter that will be anything but pleasurable to her. Incidentally, that means the wind you're talking about that draws her from her course is exactly her duty, so what ARE you talking about? Now, let's backtrack a little. Maybe she's a particularly enlightened bee and the duty she's leaving the hive for is, I don't know, to become an executive, or travel the world seeking wisdom and well-being. Then she gets blown off course and runs smack into a manbee's ready cock and it's all over. Right? Do you think either of those are particularly enlightened ideas to write poems about? Yeah, if you live in the 19th century. In either event, you have a woman fearing (and by extension centering her existence around) sexual encounter with a man. Sure, that's a reality for the majority of women, but why write a poem about so uselessly euphemistic about it? And here's the kicker: she can return to the honeycomb when she wants. Hey, great! No, wait. That's EXACTLY what the fucking manbee wants when he's done with her, biologically and metaphorically. Again, yes it's true. But WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY write about it like this? Do you condone the whole scenario? No? It sounds like it. How about this one instead? Woman bee smacks into manbee's cock; copulation ensues; maybe it's not great for her; the SHE FLIES ON ABOUT HER BUSINESS. Wouldn't that be nice? PS-Scientifical accuracy alert.
PPS-
re: "leaving-the-nest fear is ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS at its root man-centered." Also, "[her] duty is to become impregnated and return home to rear children." It's going to be the easiest thing in the world for you to say something like, yeah you like to think so you mancentric pig. Let's make sure we're on the same page: No, of course I don't like to think so. It sucks. But I don't see any harm in keeping it as ONE way of looking at MOST human and animal interactions (as long as it's understood I mean "biologically or originally, as with bees and cavepeople, and only in a vestigial way with modern people, her duty is to..."). And I do see a lot of harm in avoiding it simply because it sounds kind of distasteful. Also, I'm not pulling this out of my ass. These are standard things held to be true by most feminist scholars, irrespective of gender. No, that doesn't mean you have to take their (or my) word for it. But where's your clearly-articulated and well-supported worldview, then? Why don't you try writing it down? I'm in the market for a new one.
I love it so much when you say, âI expect you to say . . .â It gives me the confidence to say anything and receive an âI told you so.â What we are dealing with here is what you call a âScientifical accuracy alert.â You see, worker bees are females who cannot have sex. They never seek âmanbeesâ or drones because they are built to be workers and have no sexual desires. That statement alone bunks most of your argument, especially that âIn either event, you have a woman fearing (and by extension centering her existence around) sexual encounter with a man,â and "leaving-the-nest fear is ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS at its root man-centered." "[her] duty is to become impregnated and return home to rear children."
I do enjoy reading what you think I mean by what I write. It usually centers on some attitude or worldview that you claim I have and proceeds to explain to me how it is uncool. It is comforting to know that your recent bout with encouragement and kindness has subsided and we are back on an even keel. Please take another look at th poem in this light and tell me what you think.
I spend most of my commenting time grappling with this enormous fear that you're going to say something you've said before in one of our hundreds of similar discussions. All things considered, I don't think it's such an unreasonable fear.
In the new light, I'd say it's an interesting poem that has little to do with anything but female bee-drones. The little that it DOES have to do with anything else IS really interesting though. I don't think you mean what you write most of the time. I don't think you have the worldview your poems have most of the time. Comments like "Your not a feminist" notwithstanding, I think you're probably a pretty well-adjusted and openminded person who doesn't always pay very close attention to her writings' subtexts. Incidentally, I'd say the same thing about myself, minus the well-adjusted part. I think in many ways an unconscious closedmindedness is more sinister (or at least more common) than outright, say, bigotry. Sorry to be as banal as internet assholery. I'll try to work on it.
I must apologize for having instilled an enormous fear in you that Iâm going to say something Iâve said before in one of our hundreds of discussions - so great a fear that you spend most of your commenting time grappling with it - for that has not been my intent. Our views have usually been so diametrically opposed that the illusion of repetition has been created, I believe, on both sides. But I think itâs been repetition of underlying positions rather, for the most part, more than repetition of statements.
I wish you saw more in the poem than bees. Without the title, I can see how you would think that, but with the title as it is, the poem can hardly be about bees, except as a metaphor. I thank you for your third paragraph. There are two things I fear about myself. One is becoming a repetitive jerk. The other is the possibility of unconscious closedmindedness, which is more sinister than outright bigotry.
I see more than a poem about bees. But I don't know a lot of women whose lives are anything like all-female sexless bee drones. If you're trying to talk about women in general, it just doesn't compute. Sorry.
I thought I made it clear that drones are male bees. Worker bees are females (not sexless) but they do not mate and apparently have no desires for the drones. Now does it compute?
Not very well. Sorry again.
The first paragraph suggests to me that the female is a school girl at an all girls school.
the second that she fears, fears, fears to leave this state, but also wants to. The third that she can go back to the school What have i done wrong?
Youâve done nothing wrong. I had not thought of it that way, but itâs a possibility.
In what way is it a "possibility"? Give details of your modal semantics.
âModalâ is an ambiguous word to use in this way. I presume you are delirious to see how I will affirm the logical qualification in the proposition that makes it possible, necessary, contingent, etc. But the word could also show your concern over my mood or emotional tranquility, which tender thought is much appreciated.
The poem is more far-fetched, judging from the comments than I thought it was. I wanted to say that I was struck with a similarity between worker bees and some women I know who love the nest (house or hive) more than anything else it seems. Hallmark gives it another twist with the girls school (nest) and a girl who fears to leave its familiarity. Eventually she has to leave and go to work, but she wants most to return.
It isn't ambiguous at all: Stop waffling.
Let me put it another way. Would you... No, I'll just repeat the question. In what way is it a "possibility"? Give details of your modal semantics. For an example, cram this through your reasoning valve: http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/logic-
Of course thatâs what you would mean by such a question. My simple explanation of Hallmarkâs interpretation is not rigorous enough, is it? You want symbols applied to each element of the proposition, a truth table, and who know what all. And you state your desire as a professor would to a student, as if I have no choice but to comply. Iâm sorry, but Iâm already yawning, which we shall assign the letter Y. . . .
You really have no clue. MODAL LOGIC DOESN'T EVEN USE TRUTH TABLES.
Now. I don't give a fuck if you use symbols or not. If your shrivell'd brain is terrified by symbols and phrases like "modal semantics", I shall rephrase the question in a more kindly way. What does it mean for an interpretation of a poeme to be a "possibility"? Can you answer that without collapsing into a fit of women's hysteria? I do hope so.
No hysteria here. I love it when you try to be âmore kindly.â
âWhat does it mean for an interpretation of a poem to be a possibility?â Since the question makes little sense as worded, I assume you are picking at my words above, âitâs a possibility,â in referring to Hallmarkâs interpretation. Youâre probably asking how an interpretation can be a possible outcome in the real world. No, that doesnât make sense either. Alright, unless youâre quibbling over some link between the words âinterpretationâ and âpossibilityâ then I give up.
The question makes perfect sense as worded, at least to anyone operating on a cognitive level above that of a pea. Luckily you seem to be operating on a cognitive level similar to that of a sprout, as you have basically got the idea.
Ordinarily, when I say "It's a possibility", I mean something like, "There is a possible world in which it's true." Example: It's a possibility that I'm wearing brown jodhpurs <-> In some possible world, I'm wearing brown jodhpurs. Even though I know I'm not wearing brown jodhpurs, it's possible that I am in the sense that there's a possible world in which I am. However, this won't do for all cases. For example: "It's a possibility that Goldbach's conjecture is true." This simply means that I don't know whether it's true. If it happens to be false, then it is false in ALL possible worlds. What do you mean when you say that an interpretation is a possibility? Do you mean you simply don't know? Or do you mean there is a possible world where you, Dovina, wrote this poeme with that interpretation in mind? Or (this is my guess) do you mean it in the vague, wishy-washy sense that "anything's possible when it comes to interpreting poetry"? Or do you mean it in a temporal way: "That interpretation's not true now, but it may be true in the future." Are we strumming on the same fucking banjo yet?
The question makes perfect nonsense as worded, at least to anyone operating on a cognitive level above that of mollusk. I personally think peas have it all over mollusks, particularly in remaining on this planet and not trying to wander all over various worlds, not realizing this is the only one we get.
Even while you mock the logical process with such ridiculum, I shall answer, hoping that for a change you will see the matter in earthly reality. An interpretation is a possibility when it is a possible meaning of the poem. Of course that makes almost any interpretation a possibility. Some make more sense than others, but Hallmarkâs is not so far out of reason that it in not as possible interpretation. Such a simple answer seems unworthy of saying.
1. Does your poeme have an actual (true) interpretation?
2. Do you know what it is? There is a great difference between saying "It's possible" when you mean "I don't know" and when you mean "There's a possible world in which it's so." You're implying you mean the latter. But as you say, that's more or less tautological; any interpretation that is not self-contradictory is possible of any given poeme. I think you mean the former, in the vague, wishy-washy sense that "Nobody, not even me, can say what my poemes mean for sure."
I have already given my interpretation of the poem. Either you did not read it or you consider in inadequate. In either case it is what I was thinking when I wrote it.
To say that nobody, not even me, can say for sure what my poems mean, is only partly true. I have a meaning in mind when I write them, sometimes two or more intentionally ambiguous meanings, but that does not prevent people from finding other meanings.
Christ, I'm glad that's resolved.
Is the following true? 1) -=Dark_Angel=-,P.I. believes there are a finite number of correct interpretations for a poem, i.e., the interpreter has gotten at an idea or meaning the author deliberately included. He probably thinks this because he's British. 2) Dovina believes there are a nearly infinite number of correct interpretations for a poem, as the author can have unwittingly (and/or through a practiced use of ambiguity) included a bunch of ideas which he or she wasn't aware of while writing. She probably thinks that because she lives in California. Not that any of this matters anyway, but it seems the conversation's stuck in that bog for at least one of you.
In the several days youâve been wandering in the wilderness, as the scorched desert used to be called, like some 40-day fast, Iâve missed these convoluted questions, worded not so much to draw answers as to aggravate some angst.
1) Let -=Dark_Angel=-,P.I. answer. 2) Anybody can interpret anything he/she wants. If I want to liken the crap-filled raven in someoneâs poem to a preacher and take off with it, I shall.
At what point does a number become so large that it is 'nearly infinite'? Anything more than a killion, I'd say.
Of course it should be 'infinite', only. I was thinking that even Dovina would balk at someone interpreting her poems as "the horrific squelchings of a thoroughly misguided", making the number of possible correct interpretations infinity-minus-one. I see now how wrong I was.
Why should I balk when you say I am misguided or not guided? Am I not better off than a sheep? And if I could achieve horrific squelching more often, that would be nice too.
Misguided doesn't mean "not guided", it means "guided in the wrong way". So I didn't say you were "not guided"; you did. And maybe I meant a "a thoroughly misguided pen, guided wrongly by you".
If it doesn't make any more sense that way it's because I was really trying not to insult you or your writing. I was speaking hypothetically; and notice I said "someone", not "I".
Oh, good. I'd not know how to handle a compliment.
"Virtue"
- Cynthia Huntington All the houses are white; all the yards have yellow flowers attended by bees. If you must be born female try coming as an insect - they have the edge. Bees spoil their little brothers just so long and then they're through. The queen has a hundred lovers, her daughters, none. A nation of sisters lives forever: wasps and ants. Here in New England you'll come across old family plots - farmers with two or three wives set down in a row; prayers and faint praise for the good woman, wife, mother: modest and weary, homely as a shoe. How she stirred and kneaded, baked, sewed, scrubbed, and bore down. I let the ants come in my kitchen and carry off bread crumbs. Girl soldiers, all discipline and grit. Flies buzz the heads of stupefied cows, up to their knees in yarrow, hissing: "wake up, wake up!" Their teats swell, heavy with milk, long after their done being anyone's mother. In the corner of the garage a spider devours her mate, wraps up what she can't finish and hangs it to dry. Mosquitos murmur for blood in the high grasses. A car door slams down the street. Milk and honey, butter and jam, what virtue in living as a slave? In the kitchen I unpack groceries: sweet peas, cider, wild honey, pears burst from the flowering branch. (copied without permission from Poetry Daily, www.poems.com)
Good poem. Strange she says, "long after their done" not "they're."
I probably said that, actually. I was in a hurry typing.
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Nice imagines.
Indeed, a stiff breeze must be hell for the little ones.