“I am all that is and that was and that shall be,
and no mortal has lifted my veil.”
– inscription at the temple of Neith, Sais, Egypt –
Don’t You Recognize Me?
Muhsanah / Aurat
Don’t you recognize me?
Well you should,
As well you know me
By favored and faulted virtues,
But not by name,
But by the names of one essence:
Quintessence, everywhere the same.
As a little boy you knew me as the little girl you teased,
Then later as the tomboy you fought and appeased;
I’m your infant daughter whose birth you missed;
I’m your wife, waiting, like the first girl you kissed.
I’m the soldier beside you, your equal in harm’s way;
I’m the enemy before you that changes day by day.
I’m the supreme matriarch,
The fertile soil of earth,
The ingredients of the seas and nature’s promise in dearth.
I’m the ancient lands you occupy,
Your mission just as sown;
I’m the neo-peace you keep, however vain in tone.
I’m the supernatural forest,
The nymph, sylph, and fairy,
The nourishing purity of milk
From kindness, breast, and dairy.
I’m the gypsy, the soothsayer,
I know the palm of your hand;
My intuition knows the universe in a single grain of sand.
Yes, the omen, the foreboding,
The feeling in your gut;
I’m the quiet desperation secure in every rut.
Ultimately – originally – Pandora and Eve,
Indeed I bear the blame for all that I conceive.
I am when, now, and soon,
Pregnant yesterdays to come;
I’m time’s encapsulation subtracted from its sum.
I’m the Cradle of Civilization,
The cultivation that rocked it;
I’m the pantry of culture,
The inspiration that stocked it;
I’m the Renaissance, Classicism, Sumer of day one;
I’m the Diasporic yarns with which our flesh was spun.
The warp and weft in navigation,
My arms embrace the globe;
I’m polar pelts, wayward winds,
The Torrid Zone sans a robe.
I’m Mary,
The Madonna and Magdalene too,
A saint and a sinner you think born for you;
Hence, I’m feminism’s distortion by libertine excuses,
The soul of revolution self-corrupted with ruses;
But as well I’m the true idealist, the pragmatic free-liver,
Generous not to fault as taker or giver.
I’m the woman oppressed, resigned to my lot,
The beneficiary of chivalry, which leaves me to rot;
I’m the victim, raped, defiled, by all in one
While knowing each offender as my flesh, my son.
I’m a dowager, a princess, marquise, and queen,
The barefoot contessa from poverty’s seam.
I’m among “beautiful Russian women” promised in an ad,
Desperate at roulette – gentleman or cad?
I’m the femme fatale, the deep throat of porn,
The untamable shrew, the virago of scorn.
I’m a Playboy bunny, the pin-up in a locker,
I’m grandma and Joplin – two kinds of rocker.
Object of “male gaze,” you see me – you think,
But the constant only changes every time you blink.
I’m the angel of mercy who injected your booster,
The allegorical hen who pecks at the rooster,
And too an angel of death, a blood-sucking vamp,
The ingénue, the socialite – both vain with camp.
Give life and take it:
I’m the suicide bomber;
Birthing by nature makes dying much calmer.
I’m the high priestess in any era, self-made from self-esteem;
I’m the deported white slave, diseased, addicted, lean.
I’m the humanities humanified as one,
The moon in astrology counterbalancing the sun.
I’m the spirit of science, the space in time,
Music more than notes, poetry more than rhyme.
I’m the heroine of truth stranger than fiction,
Dames of film noir fashioned with diction.
I’m la Danse Orientale, the belly free of guile;
I’m history’s undulations,
Serpent of the Nile.
A sapphire, a beryl,
I’m every gem, raw and cut,
Pearl of the Orient and precious kola nut.
I’m the afternoon’s long shadows,
The melancholy in twilight,
The scintillation of evening,
The keen still of night.
I’m suggestions in watercolor,
The intensity of oils,
The powder of pastels:
Truth’s impressionistic foils.
I’m the clay before cast, softness to squeeze,
Unyielding natural dignity that no one else can seize.
I’m perfume, heady and alluring, a succubus by scent;
I’m the narcotic euphoria that only leaves you spent.
I’m the faith in religion that can suffer from creed;
I’m the svelte form of justice before scales weigh your deed;
I’m the seduction of mysticism that explores to explain,
I am the unexplainable, the irrational you disdain.
I’m Fortuna and kismet determining chance;
I’m the prima ballerina in life’s endless dance;
I’m purdah in derivative, a sexuality to confine;
Victoria bares her Secret while I secretly bear mine.
I’m Venus on the half shell rising from myth’s foam,
Waves at the horizon inspiring men to roam,
The mermaid, the Siren, the unfathomable deep,
The sepulcher of Eros devouring you to sleep.
I’m a ship in any fleet,
The spirit of any vessel;
In war and peace,
I’m symbolism’s trestle.
I’m the Amazon warrior,
Every species’ female,
With less plumage and pugnacity
But more deadly to assail.
I’m the traditional good cook,
Or else I can’t boil water;
More importantly I’m the food for harvest, thought, and slaughter.
I’m calico’s farm freshness,
Georgette’s flirtatious flutter,
Sophisticated velvet, leather soft as butter;
I’m the paratrooper’s nylon,
The dangerous slip of silk,
The dazzling glare of satin against skin as white as milk
Or as dark as ebony,
With every tone in-between;
I’m every beautiful woman that every man has ever seen –
And I’m the ugliest –
My hair a coif of snakes
With vast degrees of venom depending on the stakes.
I’m the sweetness of confection,
A rose from bud to bloom;
I’m the anima that warms you;
I’m the coldness of a tomb.
I’m blind emotion, invited or repressed;
I’m romanticism’s high
And the low when you’re depressed.
I’m your love of country, through birth or naturalization;
Indeed, I am your country by conceptualization,
And your duty felt as pride or pang;
I’m the torch song in the anthem you committedly sang;
Hence, I’m the torch in America’s hand,
I’m the statue that towers;
I’m the light of compassion in which villainy cowers
And the dead resurrect to allay living fears;
I’m necropolitan stone Graces preserving human tears.
Seven, ten, more veils but only one showing:
The material interface of idyllic knowing.
Widow in black, emblem to the dead,
One with life’s blood,
The lady in red.
– Mary Jo Magar –