Two-Headed Woman by Lucille Clifton

 

Source of book: I own this. 

 

First, I should give credit to my friend J___ for introducing me to Clifton. Fortunately, a lovely hardback edition of most of Clifton’s poems came out in 2012, and I was able to get a copy. 

 

I’m not sure why I wasn’t particularly familiar with Clifton, as she did win some awards, and had a long career as a poet and educator. Perhaps it is related to my general lack of education about truly contemporary writers (I have discussed this in various places on the blog - the curriculum we used seemed to be in denial that the 20th century after World War Two happened. But also, while my parents were readers, they didn’t follow contemporary literature.) When I decided to start reading poetry more systematically after starting this blog, I had to go back and figure out who I should read from my own lifetime. 

 

I think another factor here, though, is that one particular name seems to have sucked up much of the poetic oxygen of the time, so to speak. And that would be Maya Angelou. Ask the average American to name a poet from the 1980s or 90s, and I bet most would name Angelou. I do not mean in any way to throw shade on Angelou here, just to point out few can name the current or past US poet laureates, but know her name. And, believe it or not, there were indeed other great poets who wrote during her lifetime. 

 

By the way, Joy Harjo is the current laureate - a worthy choice, and one of my favorite living poets. Past laureates that I think deserve more publicity than they get include Robert Pinksy and M. S. Merwin. 

 

Anyway, Clifton wrote from 1965 until her death in 2010 - an impressive 45 years of work. Her poems are generally written in free verse, often with no capitalization, although punctuation remains. The language is often described as direct or simple, but I think that understates her skill with words. Rather, I think her supposed simplicity belies a significant depth of thought, and nuance of metaphor. Language need not be flowery to be brilliant. 

 

Before getting into the poems themselves, it is worth mentioning as well that Clifton is a very physical poet, often focusing on bodies and embodiment. In particular, she wrote extensively about black bodies, and female bodies, and the ways that these are often offensive to cishet white males. Thus, there are tributes to her wide hips, and her tightly curled hair, and an utterly unapologetic frankness about female bodies as they age. 

 

One facet of this fierce pride in her own self is the references she makes to a peculiarity of her own body - and that of the women in her family. Polydactyly ran in the female genes of her family; she herself was born with six fingers on each hand, although the “extras” were amputated when she was a child. These “ghost” fingers come into many of her poems, as does an eye that eventually went blind. 

 

Related to this embodied view of reality was her belief in the soul of her mother, who she claimed to be able to communicate with regularly. This too comes up in her poems. 

 

I decided somewhat randomly to start with her collection, Two-Headed Woman, which won the Juniper Award in 1980. It contains an interesting variety of poems, broken down into several sections. I also read the three uncollected poems from 1975, which were adjacent in the book. Here are the ones that were highlights for me. 

 

The first is one of the uncollected ones. 

 

November 1, 1975

 

My mother is white bones

in a weed field

on her birthday.

She who would be sixty

has been sixteen years

absent at celebrations.

For sixteen years of minutes

she has been what is missing.

This is just to note

the arrogance of days

continuing to happen 

as if she were here. 

 

Simple, but…not simple. Such perfectly chosen words. So much contained in just a dozen lines. 

 

Next up is this one, mentioned briefly above, which you can hear Clifton recite here. She’s hilarious and snarky and delightful. (“I live in a culture where women are supposed to be eighteen to twenty, and I am not.”) Not all poets read their poems well, but Clifton is wonderful. 

 

homage to my hips

 

these hips are big hips

they need space to

move around in.

they don’t fit into little

petty places. these hips

are free hips.

they don’t like to be held back,

these hips have never been enslaved,

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are mighty hips.

these hips are magic hips.

i have known them

to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top!

 

The other poems in this collection about her body are equally delightful. Coming from a subculture in which bodies in general are distrusted, and female bodies in particular (and especially their sexuality) are seen as the source of evil, Clifton’s unashamed embrace of her humanity - we are all embodied - is so refreshing. Here is another one about embodiment that I loved. 

 

to the unborn and waiting children

 

i went into my mother as

some souls go into a church,

for the rest only. but there,

even there, from the belly of a

poor woman who could not save herself

i was pushed without my permission

into a tangle of birthdays.

listen, eavesdroppers, there is no such thing

as a bed without affliction;

the bodies all may open wide but

you enter at your own risk. 

 

That one bears a number of re-readings for full appreciation. The layers peel back. 

 

As I read the collection, I posted a few individual poems on facebook, and it turned out that a lot of friends liked them. At least two added Clifton to their lists, which makes me happy indeed. One of the good things about social media (sure, there are downsides) is the ability to share the joys of poetry and music and a well-turned phrase without having to get people together from all around the world. 

 

I have mentioned many times that I am a sucker for a good nature poem, and even more for a good nature poem with a well-crafted metaphor for life. This triad of poems may be my favorite from the book. Two years ago, we visited Saguaro National Park, so the setting is familiar, and the images perfection. 

 

sonora desert poem

for lois and richard shelton

 

1.

 

the ones who live in the desert,

if you knew them

you would understand everything.

they see it all and 

never judge any

just drink the water when

they get the chance.

if i could grow arms on my scars

like them,

if i could learn

the patience they know

i wouldn’t apologize for my thorns either

just stand in the desert

and witness.

 

2. directions for watching the sun set in the desert

 

come to the landscape that was hidden under the sea.

look in the opposite direction.

reach for the mountain.

the sun will fall on your back.

the landscape will fade away.

you will think you’re alone until a flash

of green incredible light.

 

3. directions for leaving the desert

 

push the bones back

under your skin.

finish the water.

they will notice your thorns and

ask you to testify.

turn toward the shade.

smile. 

say nothing at all.

 

“If I could grow arms on my scars…I wouldn’t apologize for my thorns.” Damn. Such beautiful imagery and brilliant insights. 

 

Here is another one that I quoted, and could read and re-read a hundred times. Like many of the poems, this one has no actual title. 

 

the mystery that surely is present

as the underside of a leaf

turning to stare at you quietly

from your hand

that is the mystery you have not

looked for, and it turns

with a silent shattering of your life

for who knows ever after

the proper position of things

or what is waiting to turn from us

even now?

 

This is also one of the poems that resonated with my own spiritual journey over the last decade. The insights you don’t look for, but which appear unbidden and shatter your life are the ones that turn out to have been the most important moments of your life. Here is another poem on that theme that I loved (and quoted.) 

 

the light that came to lucille clifton

came in a shift of knowing

when even her fondest sureties

faded away. it was summer

she understood that she had not understood

and was not mistress even

of her own off eye. then 

the man escaped throwing away his tie and

the children grew legs and started walking and

she could see the peril of an 

unexamined life.

she closed her eyes, afraid to look for her

authenticity 

but the light insists on itself in the world;

a voice from the nondead past started talking,

she closed her ears and it spelled out in her hand

“you might as well answer the door, my child,

the truth is furiously knocking.”

 

And one more:

 

God waits for the wandering world.

he expects us when we enter,

late or soon.

he will not mind my coming after hours.

his patience is his promise.

 

After reading these, I had to wonder to myself that I had not discovered Clifton’s genius until my 40s. I would have loved these in my teens, twenties, and thirties too. But, better late than never - in keeping with the above poem. 

 

I went back and forth on whether to quote any of the poems from a cycle about the nativity. I intend to quote one in my annual Christmas poems post (stay tuned…) The cycle puts a fascinating spin on the Christmas story, reading from a female-centric viewpoint; yet along with rejecting the male-centric paradigm, it also rejects the ableist point of view, seeing the blind and lame as not inherently broken, and “healing” in a way as an ambivalent blessing. Anyway, I decided to quote this one here, and a different one in my Christmas post. The whole cycle is excellent, and I recommend the collection for that alone - but read the whole thing too. 

 

mary’s dream

 

winged woman was saying 

“full of grace” and like.

was light beyond sun and words

of a name and a blessing.

winged woman to only i. 

i joined them, whispering

yes. 

 

I’ll end with this one, another brilliant meditation, which ends the collection.  

 

testament 

 

in the beginning

was the word.

 

the year of our lord,

amen. i

lucille clifton

hereby testify

that in that room

there was a light

and in that light

there was a voice

and in that voice 

there was a sigh

and in that sigh

there was a world.

a world a sigh a voice a light and

i 

alone

in a room. 

 

With such a long career, I have a lot more of her poems left to read, and I am looking forward to it.