Ive been writing a lot lately. for some reason, i’ve been reminiscing of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry. Perhaps its because she was a strong woman from NYC and I’m about as far away from there as possible right now.
Morocco is beautiful, but so strange for someone like me. All around me is a completely new kind of culture, a culture where women are treated with highest respect, and I am left unsure whether or not it offends me. My travel partner is a boy (the other bristol fellow- oh world wide adventurers unite!), and I wear a ring on my finger (because we are seen so much together, it might be assumed we are married, and it would be in our best interest, i think, not to deny that notion). And as much as I enjoy embracing new cultures, certain things will always rub me the wrong way. Like if I pay for dinner, the waiter returns the change to the man at the table, even if he saw that it was coming out of my wallet. Its expected that Jesse orders my food, and as we walk down the street, some men shout “take care of her!” and we smile and I look down because I dont want to give anyone any death stares, nor do I want to take count of how many people are staring at me with my freckled skin and western clothes.
Everyone wants to know what I think of the head scarf “issue” that seems to be plaguing places like france and turkey, but I’ll get into that in another entry when I have more time.
There’s so much wonder about this country that I absolutely adore, despite my feminist grumblings. Like sipping the best mint tea on the planet while listening to the call to prayer every afternoon. And the way the women here smile at each other knowingly and everyone seems much more light hearted than people in New York or Europe. The way outdoor spice markets smell, and the colors of the head scarves match the long flowing robes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me to be here.
Enough rambling. Here’s some poetry.
I fled to the desert, far from my love
To seek answers in solitary sands
To questions we were so unaware of
and to return warmth to my small cold hands.
His image lingers on my horizon
Like an unreachable sun-induced dream
So tempting to keep my lonely eyes on
And forget about fate’s bewitching scheme
I wish to return to my beloved soon
And long once more to gaze into his eyes
The song of him echoes over the dunes
And evokes from my breast a tearful cry
-Oh cruel fate, why should I even bother?
For that song he sings is for another!
Response to Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sor Joana Ines de la Cruz
They talk of the ways of a woman’s heart
As if it were a maze
That captures and tears a poor man apart
And leaves him in a foggy daze
But if she should feel for a man deeply
And get her heart broken
They’ll say she acted emotionally
For his love was never spoken
And so I am left hinking to myself
If I’m under a spell
Because what am I if not a woman
Who has loved both wisely and well?