Adrienne Rich
- U.S. poet, scholar, and critic.
- She was a student at Radcliffe College when her poems were chosen for publication in the Yale Younger Poets series; the resulting volume, A Change of World (1951), reflected her formal mastery.
- Her subsequent work traces a transformation from well-crafted but imitative poetry to a highly personal and powerful style.
- Her increasing commitment to the women's movement and a lesbian/feminist aesthetic influenced much of her work.
- Among her collections are Diving into the Wreck (1973, National Book Award) and The Dream of a Common Language (1978). She also wrote compelling books of nonfiction, including Of Woman Born(1976; National Book Award), On Lies, Secrets, and Silence (1979), and What Is Found There (1993).
Aunt Jennifer's TigersAunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green. They do not fear the men beneath the tree; They pace in sleek chivalric certainty. Aunt Jennifer's finger fluttering through her wool Find even the ivory needle hard to pull. The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by. The tigers in the panel that she made Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
Storm WarningsThe glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of grey unrest is moving across the land, I leave the book upon a pillowed chair And walk from window to closed window, watching Boughs strain against the sky And think again, as often when the air Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting, How with a single purpose time has traveled By secret currents of the undiscerned Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction. Between foreseeing and averting change Lies all the mastery of elements Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time, Nor shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise, We can only close the shutters. I draw the curtains as the sky goes black And set a match to candles sheathed in glass Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture. This is our sole defense against the season; These are the things we have learned to do Who live in troubled regions. |
The Uncle Speaks in the Drawing RoomI have seen the mob of late
Standing sullen in the square, Gazing with a sullen stare At window, balcony and gate. Some have talked in bitter tones, Some have held and fingered stones. These are follies that subside. Let us consider, none the less, Certain frailties of glass Which, it cannot be denied, Lead in times like these to fear For crystal vase and chandelier. Not that the missiles will be cast; None as yet dare lift an arm. But the scene recalls a storm When our grandsire stood aghast To see his antique ruby bowl Shivered in a thunder-roll. Let us only bear in mind How these treasures handed down From a calmer age passed on Are in the keeping of our kind. We stand between the dead glass-blowers And murmurings of missile throwers. |