virago

Today's word is

virago

Totally one of my favorites!  One of the things I particularly like about it, besides its powerful musicality, is the duality of its definitions.  On the one hand, a virago is someone to be admired, someone to aspire to be.  On the other hand, she is something fearsome and unpleasant.  It all depends on who's doing the labeling, I guess.

It's kind of like that other word, the one that begins with "b."  A woman who fulfills the first definition of "virago" is often unfairly labeled with this other word when people who expect someone rather more demure are surprised by her assertiveness.

Oooh, I can't wait to sink my teeth -- fangs? -- into this one.  It will be late, though.  I have things to do in town.

Meanwhile, sorry for the late posting.  Massive headache.  Started last night.  (I blame the word "bruit.")  Boyfriend brought me french roast from the bistro down the street while I lounged late this morning, throbbing and dizzy, in a hot bath.  I began to -- forgive me -- perk up after only a few sips.

"You know," I told him, my voice full of wonder, "coffee is magical, magical juice."

"I know," he replied.  "I have known this for a long time.  I've noticed it's especially restorative for natives of the planet Sarcastria."

heh heh heh   I wonder why he mentioned that.

*****
2:25 p.m.
Late?  Ha!  I was totally wrong.  Thinking about today's word, all this just spilled out of my brain like so much ooze from a tightly bandaged wound.  And now my headache's gone, but I sure do feel wobbly.  I think I'm going to have to take a later train.

This is not at all what I expected I would write.  I never expected to get this personal here, either.  But, well, here it is:

Duality

On good days,
my mother was a virago,
a warrior queen so strong
she didn't know she was strong,
so brave,
she didn't know there was
reason in the world to be afraid.
She fought
boldly and tirelessly
on wrong sides
or for losing causes,
like that time she dumped
the pieces of our mailbox,
blown up by cherry bombs
placed by local kids
on the desk of our town's
postmaster and demanded
he do something,
or like that time she went
to my seventh grade
science teacher and demanded
to be shown all the sex
education movies he proposed
to show us
and sat with him,
grimly in the dark,
watching all of them
in a row,
making notes
and raising objections,
with the sole result being
that he showed all the films
to every class
but mine.

I was proud of her.
I was embarrassed by her.

On bad days,
my mother was a tender annual
at the onset of frost,
a being so weak she
couldn't remember strength,
so frightened,
she couldn't remember what
it had felt like to
be fearless,
to stride through life
sword in hand
tilting at windmills
and real dragons
with equal fervor.
She cowered
and wept, and talked to herself,
and sometimes this went on for days
and weeks, and often
she would talk about dying
and how she would go ahead and do it
if she weren't so stubborn.
She begged for sanctuary
and then shrugged it off resentfully
when the terms
-- like participating constructively
in building a loving household,
like at least trying
to act responsibly
every day --
were too harsh,
though she herself had once
demanded these same terms
of all others under her own roof.

I felt protective of her.
I felt embarrassed by her.
I often felt hurt by her choices.

In the end,
there were only bad days,
and yet I think she could
sometimes remember
being that virago, that warrior queen,
that caged-in mother lioness,
even though she couldn't muster
fury or direction
or even passionate misdirection
anymore.
Memories of her own boldness
must have felt far away
and long ago
and like they had happened
to someone else.

In the end,
I think she took her life
because she could not reconcile
her two sides.

But that is only one truth.

And you must understand:
I loved her both ways.

Comments

[moose]

Oh, there is so much beauty in the human heart! I feel honored that you shared this poem. It is an amazing portrait. Thank you, Sara.

[Billy The Blogging Poet]

Virago

The Viking princess smiled at me,
said, “Dear, why don’t you stay?
Please let me whisper in your ear
the games I want to play.”
But when I stepped within her reach
thinking, I’ll get some today,
she screamed a cry to curl your hair
then knocked me to the clay.

I ran as fast as I could go,
the virago chased me down,
pounding on me from behind
with anything she found.
And though it was so long ago
there’s one thing I still know,
steer clear of quarrelsome women,
fools and virago.

[leslee]

Wow, Sara. This is amazing.

I wonder how many writers became writers because of their mothers (and I don't mean in the 'oh honey, you're such a good writer' encouraging way).

[patry Francis]

It's amazing what a word, the right word, can unleash in us, what it can explain for us. Very powerful poem, Sara. The last two lines left me shaking because they were so earned. "You must understand" you say, and we do. I like the strength in those words. Not "please understand," but "you must."

[moose]

I wasn't virago enough
to write a poem for you
along with everything else
yesterday.