Peace

A gorgeous fat positive short poem, entitled Peace, from Anne Kaplan, from Fat Poets Speak 2 : Living and Loving Fatly (2014. Pearlsong Press).


Anne Kaplan

Peace

Dark room, open curtains,
bathing in light of full moon.
Without judgment or comment,
in our glorious roundness,
she and I simply, peacefully, be.

Ceres - Lesleigh Owen

I spoke before of the poems Lesleigh Owen and I had written which "fatted" colors and seasons - made them part of the tropes and extended metaimages of fat feelings, a happy fat country.

Lesleigh, who is an absolute master/mistress of fatting gloriously in her poems, wrote this one about autumn and fat, which was featured in Fat Poets Speak 1:  Voices of the Fat Poets' Society (Pearlsong Press. 2009) (co;pyright 2006, Lesleigh Owen).


Ceres                 Lesleigh Owen

Autumn’s smooth, puffy bronze cheeks,
 salty sweet chin
 Gently creaking sounds of awakening,
 Bones groaning like the cracking
 of a rusty cellar door,
 Autumn, with her dusty-wheat-scented breaths,
 whose round, curving, gently drooping body
 polishes the world into
 smooth, gray contours

 Her eyes,
 like newly-discovered amber
 with never-popped air bubbles,
 warm the room like vanilla-scented candlelight
 as she envelops the world in her
 spicy rolls of flesh

 Summer’s not the time for me:
 Sunlight that casts angular shadows in wide-open mouths
 No more feeling the scrape of sand
 sloughing over my dense curves,
 trying to whittle down my folds of flesh
 into smooth, plastic expanses of cookie cutter skin
 No more poppy-scented laughs
 that chime like dissonant dinner bells
 and abrade my delicate ears

 Bright white light
 Take away my sight
 Thin, hungry, sweaty bodies,
 arms shaking, smiles flaking, biceps quaking
 Frozen in flashes of sunlight on teeth
 False idols of perfection
 that die before they can ever
 live a full-bodied life

Autumn, that sweet, round, wise, dangerous old woman
 arrives slyly in her orange, Cinderella-like pumpkin –
 as round and majestic as people –
 tossing dried, crackling, russet leaves like confetti or candy:
“Throw me something, grandmother!”

Autumn: Happy, crisp, nutmeg, rounded season
 My mouth opens and closes in happy little O’s
 over words like “orange” and “clove,”
 circular, bouncing words,
 round, rich, and warm.
 Leaves bend and snap beneath my ponderous weight
 while the scent of earth weaves like cinnamon
 through my sinuses.

 Yawning, indolent light puffs gently through
 twisted branches and desiccated leaves,
 shining golden orange
 like heaps of buttered, cinnamon-scented, steaming mashed yams
 or lightly-oiled strings of spaghetti squash

 Walking this cooling, linear stretch of sidewalk,
 I am tempted to bite into the toothy, yellow winds
 that crease around my body like well-starched sheets,
 to jump high and far,
 passing through the low-hanging laundry
 snapping in the sky,
 jump miles away from all scents of limestone and exhaust,
 to throw my gray, woolen poncho over the clouds
 and roll in the decaying scent of leaves
 that stick to my face
 like allspice on a baker’s hands

 I can finally breathe beneath this nubby grayness
 that stretches like a fluffy headscarf
 over the dome of the sky.

 Seasonal bounty,
 Harvest time, time for rest
 Shelving our immature dreams
 And discovering reverence for plenty

 At night, I eat ginger carrot soup for supper
 and slurp pumpkin custard from heirloom dishes
 My squash-shaped body, –
 honored for its softness,
 its abundance,
 its life-affirming heaviness –
 snuggles into the scratchy red blanket
 crocheted for me by my mother
 while I bounce children and tradition
 on my plump, arthritic knees
 and sip cocoa and warm candlelight.

 Fatness and autumn:
 Round, pumpkiny, bountiful:
 A sensual feast

Fatness and autumn, –
lush and earth-scented as mounds of warm flesh –
dance together in gentle spirals
 like leaves in a windstorm

 Come evening time, Autumn and I sit
 like old friends,
cackling on the front porch,
 bellies bouncing together
 while heavy, purple mugs of chamomile tea
 warm our loving, generous,
 fleshy hands.'

Lesleigh Owen, written 10.9.6, copyright 2006

Petrichor

Petrichor

Earth breathes deep and long
after water. Trees whisper.
Names smell new, uncurl.

F.A.T.

F.A.T.                                  Frannie Zellman

for Eileen Rosensteel and Eileen Lipson


Imagine:
the word "fat" booms proud
from lips,
explodes in pure fricative pride
instead of popping
like some dessicated grain
from the lips of haters.


Imagine
the faces
of trolls who romped
and rolled the word
like sour shock,
hoping to crush
and shame
again.

Imagine:
fat people
say "fat is us,"
raise arms soft and thick
as pleasure,
carry signs:
three letters and periods.
F.A.T.-
Fat Acceptance Tribe.

Our word. Our signs.
Our hopes.

You got a problem with fat?

Not Yet a Separate Peace

 Not Yet a Separate Peace                       Frannie Zellman

For my mom

I am not yet ready

For you to float

That last peace

Into the final light.

Every system of belief states

That you will know peace,

And considering the trials

Your thin little body has known

In the past six months,

Perhaps I should just let go.

I know your energy will shine

In all its rich fight

As it seeks the next dimension

Or world.

But I grudge the next stage

Its new love

As I stand reluctant

To let your strong voice rest.

I cannot find it in me

To let sixty years’ worth

Of arguments and sad laughter

Leave light and easy.

We were never easy.

You said that I was like my dad,

And now I own that truth.

You didn’t like my strong big body

Or my shy polite smile.

I thought you set the women’s movement

Back sixty years just by walking.

But through the years I learned

To value your love served out in nervous care

And doubt for my safety

Through storms and bad boyfriends.

You began to understand.

Somewhere down the line

We meshed.

Now you lie flat or occasionally on your side,

Not able to move from the bed.

You gaze up at me,

Increasingly vague as the hours pass,

Or preparing to leave the leaden

Body and drift onward.

It is my selfishness, my stubborn memories

That still frame you in your strong testy voice

That called us home from street tag

That told me to forget boys

And honor homework.

What I honor today is your insistence

And your steady refusal

To leave well enough.

What I hold on to in spite of the grace

I am supposed to seek

Is another stubborn refusal

To say goodbye

To your fiery little life,

And let it find its next home.

“Mom, don’t go.”

The signs will advance

You will push to fly

As I know you must and will.

But I can’t ease you away yet.

I don’t know how to give you up

Or start missing you.