Unfolded Out of the Folds, by Walt Whitman

Unfolded out of the folds of the woman, man comes unfolded,
       and is always to come unfolded;   
Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth, is to come the
       superbest man of the earth;   
Unfolded out of the friendliest woman, is to come the friendliest man;   
Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman, can a man be form'd
       of perfect body;   
Unfolded only out of the inimitable poem of the woman, can come the
       poems of man—(only thence have my poems come;)
Unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman I love, only thence can
       appear the strong and arrogant man I love;   
Unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman I love, only
       thence come the brawny embraces of the man;   
Unfolded out of the folds of the woman's brain, come all the folds of the
       man's brain, duly obedient;   
Unfolded out of the justice of the woman, all justice is unfolded;   
Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy:
A man is a great thing upon the earth, and through eternity—but
       every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman,   
First the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.
Advertisements

Dead Straight, by Olive Senior

I’m traveling back home to you but it’s an omen:
my road map’s creased and torn along dead straight lines.

The hill and gully ride is over now and I’m flat out
on the dead straight highway with a toll.

Not a glimmer of the coastline as I try to make it home
to you through a forest of hotels as thick as thieves.

For the sea, the coves and beaches once seen through
seaside shacks and palm trees have been sold.

And the rest of us are herded to the verge by this new
highway while over there our beauty is extolled,

bottled and sold. And gated. In this new paradise the only
palms are greased. And somebody’s beach umbrella

has replaced the shade tree we once sat under and the
towns and settlements molder as they are bypassed.

I can no longer witness on this highway with a toll that
makes us seem as modern as elsewhere. For elsewhere

is not where I’m meant to be. And a dead straight
highway leaves no scent, no monument to the past,

no scenic beauty for the curvature of my eye to take in.
And endless empty space is not inviting. But perhaps

there’s no social meaning to this tirade after all. I’m just
feeling lost without a map as I make it home to you

and pay the toll. You could see it simply as a love song.
To the curving of your cheekbones, to the mountains

of your thighs, the hill and gully passion of your eyes, and
your hair that is not dead straight but very much otherwise.